Page 2 of Fated by Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #1)

Chapter 2

C aleb

The view from my window is spectacular—it should be, considering my penthouse office has unobstructed lines of sight across the whole of Seattle. But I’m not interested in the view today. To be honest, I rarely am. There’s always something more important to do than stare out of the window.

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking softly under my weight, and stare at the stack of documents spread across the walnut desk. My fingers trace the scorch marks ingrained in the wood—a permanent reminder of the last time I let my temper slip.

Control, I remind myself. Always control.

The NyxCorp hostile takeover sits at the top of the stack. On paper, it’s a win. Craven Industries now owns 51% of their shares, and the board’s thrilled. But something about it feels wrong. Too clean. Too easy. NyxCorp barely fought back. It’s as if they wanted to get caught.

I flip through the files again, my left palm scalding the pages. A wisp of smoke curls from my cuff, and I grimace, shoving the file away.

“Morning sunshine,” a voice drawls from the doorway.

I don’t have to look up to know it’s Dorian. My brother’s too-casual tone grates on my nerves, but I keep my expression neutral as he saunters into the room, a tumbler of whiskey already in hand.

“It’s 6:30,” I say flatly.

“And yet, here we are.” He leans against the doorframe, swirling the amber liquid. “You know, most CEOs sleep occasionally. Might do wonders for your personality.”

“Funny, coming from you.” I glance at the security feeds muted on the wall screen. “Where were you yesterday?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

He smirks. “Mourning your charisma at the Viper Room. Just got back, actually.” He angles his wrist to glance at his Rolex. “Might be time for bed.”

For fuck’s sake.

I grit my teeth. Dorian’s been dodging me for weeks, and it’s getting harder to ignore the gossip about his all-night partying sessions and wild behavior.

“We need to talk,” I say.

“We’re talking now.”

“About NyxCorp.”

His smirk falters for a fraction of a second, and I catch the fleeting flare of gold in his pupils.

“What about them?” he asks too casually. He’s the one who put the damn deal together. If it’s a bust, it’s on him.

“You tell me.” I hold his gaze. “They barely fought back. It’s like they wanted this.”

“Maybe they’re just not as smart as you give them credit for.”

“Or maybe it’s a diversion,” I say, leaning forward. “Distract us with a shiny acquisition while the Syndicate moves something bigger under our noses.”

Dorian takes a slow sip of his whiskey, his expression unreadable.

Before I can press him further, my PA strides in, not a hair out of place, as usual. At 45, she’s the only human who’s survived working for me for more than a year—mostly because she never flinches, even when my scales start to show.

“Morning, Dorian,” she says, not breaking stride as she sets a fresh stack of files on my desk.

“Sloane,” he nods, raising his glass.

“We need to finalize the hires,” she says, her tone brisk. “HR’s interviewing the junior archivist this morning.”

“Fine,” I say, waving a hand. “Let them handle it.”

“They need approval for the budget.”

“Then ask Dorian.”

My brother raises an eyebrow. “Me?”

“You’re the one who’s been MIA,” I snap. “Might as well make yourself useful.”

He shrugs, draining the last of his whiskey. “Sure. I’ll play babysitter.”

Sloane hesitates, then nods. “I’ll let them know.”

As she leaves, I turn back to Dorian. “We’re not done here.”

“Aren’t we?” He sets the tumbler down with a clink. “You’ve got your theories; I’ve got my whiskey. Let’s call it even.”

I watch him go, the tension in my shoulders tightening. Something’s going on with him, and I don’t like not knowing what it is.

I push the thought aside and focus on the files in front of me. NyxCorp’s financials are a mess, but there’s a pattern if you look hard enough. Payments funneled to shell companies, offshore accounts, and one name that keeps popping up: Blackthorn Consulting.

“Blackthorn,” I mutter, flipping through the pages. “Who the hell are you?”

Sloane returns with a fresh pot of coffee, setting it on the desk without a word.

“Anything on Blackthorn?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not yet. They’re a ghost—no physical address, no records, nothing.”

“Keep digging.”

“On it.”

I rub the back of my neck, the weight of the day already settling in. The board will want an update, and I’m not looking forward to telling them I’m not happy with this new deal. How do I explain that I’m troubled by the merger simply because there’s nothing wrong with it?

The phone on my desk buzzes, and I press the intercom button. “Sloane?” I ask.

“Just a reminder that you need to be in the boardroom in five,” she says.

“Got it,” I say, though I don’t really need a reminder. It’s been on my mind since I arrived at 5 am.

I push myself to my feet and head for the elevator, mentally chewing over the events of the day. My reflection in the mirror at the back gives no hint of the roiling in my mind—amber-eyed, dark-haired, rough-hewn—I look the same as usual. Although the stubble should go; Dorian is right. I could use some sleep.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step into the stark, glass-walled boardroom. The view from here is just as impressive as my office—Seattle’s skyline stretched out like a shimmering map—but, again, I barely glance at it. The room is already half-full, the usual suspects milling about with their tablets and lattes.

Malakai Steele, the oldest and loudest of the clan elders, is holding court in the corner. He’s seen every Craven CEO since before my grandfather’s days, and he’s never let me forget it.

“…reckless leadership,” he’s saying, his voice carrying across the room. “Back in my day, we didn’t buy out our enemies. We burned them.”

A ripple of laughter follows, and I grit my teeth, shoving my temper down as I take my seat at the head of the table. Sloane slides a fresh cup of coffee in front of me, her expression impassive.

“All present,” she says, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Shall we begin?”

The room quiets as everyone takes their seats. Malakai crosses the room with a rolling gait caused by the prosthetic leg he hides with bespoke tailored suits.

“NyxCorp,” I say, launching straight into it. “We’ve secured majority ownership, and the investors are pleased.”

“As they should be,” interjects Malakai. “Though I’m sure your father would’ve handled it differently.”

The jab lands, as it always does, but I don’t rise to it. “NyxCorp barely put up a fight. That concerns me.”

“Concerns you?” he huffs. “We’ve expanded our reach. What’s there to concern you?”

“The Syndicate,” I say, my voice sharpening. “They could be involved somehow.”

Malakai huffs a breath. “You’re looking for problems, Craven. You can’t assume they’re involved in everything we touch.”

“Why not?” I ask. “They’ve plagued us for decades. There’s no reason to think they won’t be involved in this.”

“You’ve said that about the last two deals, and you were wrong.” He cocks his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were deliberately trying to slow down company growth.”

“It’s not that,” I counter. “There are just too many variables. NyxCorp’s financials are a mess. Payments funneled to shell companies, offshore accounts—”

“That’s precisely how we were able to undercut them,” he interrupts. “Poor financials. Bad planning. Their tax problems crippled them.”

“I know that. It just seems too convenient,” I respond. “Also, there’s a company called Blackthorn Consulting that keeps cropping up, and we can’t trace them.”

“Blackthorn?” another elder, Lydia, asks. Her sharp eyes narrow.

“A ghost company,” I say. “No records, no address. Sloane’s investigating, but I’m not convinced this takeover was as clean as it seems.”

“You’re overthinking it,” Malakai says, waving a hand. “The Syndicate’s cautious; they’re not bold enough to move against us directly. Not anymore.”

“And if they are?” I counter. “We need to be prepared.”

The room falls silent, the weight of the Syndicate’s shadow settling over us.

“Fine,” Lydia says finally. “What’s your plan?”

“Double security on all assets,” I say. “Monitor NyxCorp’s operations closely.”

“Waste of time and money,” Malakai says, rolling his eyes. “Your father would have razed NyxCorp to ash, not bought their stock.”

“We’re not warlords anymore. Burn a rival, and the Syndicate uses it as propaganda,” I say coolly.

“There’s no such thing as bad press,” he replies. “That arms deal was a case in point.”

I snort. “I still have the SEC breathing down my neck over that, Steele. If we’re going to operate on the Stock Exchange, we have to keep our noses clean.” I wish I wasn’t the only one who seemed aware of that.

“Bullshit.” He snorts. “We don’t need that. We have more wealth stored than anyone could spend in a thousand years. I don’t know why we persist in playing these human games.”

There’s a hiss from one of the clan members at the table. We may know what we are, but it’s never spoken out loud. I don’t respond. Instead, I turn to Sloane. “Anything else?”

“Staff updates,” she says. “HR’s onboarding the new team members we discussed earlier. Dorian’s handling it.”

I nod, glancing at my brother, who’s been silent until now. “You happy with the placements?”

“All good,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I met them all. Seem to fit the bill. Got a firecracker in archives with legs up to—”

“Quit it,” I stop him. “I didn’t send you there to check out their legs. Are their details in order?”

“Hundred percent,” he says. “Gwen did her job.”

“Good,” I say, turning to Sloane. “Send out a memo to the relevant departments to make sure the introductions are done.

The meeting drags on, the elders picking apart every detail of the NyxCorp deal. By the time it’s over, my coffee’s gone cold, and my patience is wearing thinner than ever.

At last, I shove my chair back, looking around at the others. “I think we need to keep an eye on this. At least for the next few days.”

There’s a murmur from around the long table. Malakai looks pissed, but the others seem to agree. I gather my folders and leave the boardroom, feeling a dozen eyes burning between my shoulder blades.

I head back to my office, rolling my neck to loosen the tension there. It doesn’t work. The stack of files on my desk hasn’t miraculously shrunk, and the string of emails in my inbox is growing as I look at it. I heave a sigh and pick up a pen. It’s barely 9 am, and I can’t shake the feeling that this day is only going to get worse.