Page 3 of Fated by Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #1)

Chapter 3

E lena

Holy crap, I’m bored. It’s been a week since I started at Craven Industries, and I’m still not used to the way the building hums with quiet, efficient energy. I’m not cut out for corporate life, energetic or not.

I stretch my legs beneath my desk, trying to get blood flow to my feet. The archives office is small and cramped, filled with rows of dusty file boxes and a glass case that holds an ornate dagger. A lot of the decor in the place is strangely old-world. I guess it’s because the company is so established. The offices may be set in a high-tech high-rise, but there’s still a sense of history about the place.

Meanwhile, I’ve spent the past five days organizing paperwork, filing documents, and trying to ignore the gnawing suspicion that I’m being watched while finding opportunities to snoop around.

“How you doing there, Jessica?” Brenda pops her head over the partition between our desks. “Getting the hang of it?”

I glance up with a smile. “Slowly,” I say. “I had no idea how far back these records went.” I brush dust from a thick ledger. “I just digitized a set of records from 1856.” I have to admit, as surveillance jobs go, this one has been different.

“I know, right?” Brenda bobs her chin up and down, an arm dangling over the partition. “But that’s lucky for us because we’ll have jobs for the next decade.”

God help me.

“Tell me about it.” I grin, leaning back and stretching. Brenda gives me a pointed look. My pencil skirt has ridden up my thighs, and I tug it down to cover my knees.

Crap. I’m just not made for this office-wear bullshit.

“I’m going down to the coffee shop for a latte,” she says. “Want one?”

I shake my head. “Can’t do caffeine after noon, or I bounce off the walls.”

Brenda giggles. “You do that anyway, Jess.” She slides away from the partition. I hear her shuffling things around on her desk. “Be back in a bit,” she calls as she heads out the door.

I give a vague reply and hunch over my desk, one eye on the door. As her footsteps recede down the hall, I rise and move to the mainframe along the one wall. Everything about this company is stored on that massive machine, and luckily for me, I got the access code. That gut instinct of mine told me it was Greg's anniversary date, and I turned out to be right.

Smart cookie, Lennie.

I punch it in now, glancing over my shoulder occasionally as I scroll through some of the hundreds of folders. I can access these files from my own machine, but that would leave a digital footprint, and I don’t want anything pointing to me. Although, it would be a whole lot easier to find what I’m looking for if I actually knew what it was. I settle half my buttcheek onto the chair and lean toward the screen.

The trill of my phone gives me such a fright that I squawk and knock the mouse on the floor.

“Breaker, breaker, come in, Red Rover,” the voice on the line says as I answer.

“Jesus, Mara! You scared me half to death,” I mutter, shooting a furtive glance around the room.

“That’s because you probably had your phone tucked in your bra again. Did I jiggle your tits, babe?”

“Cut it out. What do you want?” I keep scrolling down the screen.

“Just checking in. Has the eagle landed yet? Is the fox in the hole?”

“You don’t have to talk in code, you dork. No one can hear you.” I open a file marked “Confidential.” Turns out to be someone’s latest HR report.

“Okay. So you found anything interesting?” asks my bestie.

“Yeah. Carl in Accounts got caught browsing porn.”

“Spicy,” says Mara. “If it’s interesting stuff, maybe you could get me his number. Nothing with kids or dogs, though. I don’t do sickos.”

“Carl’s five feet tall and weighs about three hundred pounds, Mara. Anyhow, I thought you were into girls now.”

“That was last week. So what you got?”

“Nothing,” I say, then pause. “Or maybe I do and don’t know it yet.” I huff a breath. “I wish I knew what they wanted.”

“Send them Carl’s search history.”

“Leave Carl out of it.” I scowl at the screen which is yielding no results. “Don’t you have work to do or something?”

“My page is up to date,” she says. “Got a reel that went viral this morning. Two point five million views on my lizard men feature.”

“Good to know,” I mumble, skimming through a report on some sort of land deal. “Seriously though, what do you want?”

“Thought I’d see what you’re into for dinner. Yasong’s running a two-for-one special on noodles today.”

“Sounds good.” I know I sound distracted, but the last thing on my mind right now is food. I can hear footsteps coming down the hall again.

Brenda. Shit.

“Good. I’ll put it on your tab then?”

I’m at my desk as the door starts to open. “Why mine?” I ask. “I thought your lizard men just went viral.”

“Yeah, but there’s no money in it, you big fool. I do this as a public service.”

“Great. Save us from the aliens, and do it for no remuneration,” I mutter. “I can’t wait till you get out of your ‘freegan’ phase.”

“I can’t ‘stick it to the Man’ if I’m wallowing in his capitalist honeypot, Elena.”

“Fine. Put it on my tab,” I say as I smile at Brenda, who’s mouthing something at me as she walks past to her desk. “I’ll see you later,” I say to Mara.

“Great. Love-you-bye,” she says.

“Love-you-bye.” I end the call, looking over at Brenda.

She drains her coffee cup and sets it down. “I just got a call from Lukie’s school.” She pulls a face. “They need me to pick him up now. I gotta duck out a little early. Can you hold the fort?”

“Sure,” I say. “No problem at all.” In my mind’s eye, I get a sudden flash of Brenda with friends having a glass of wine. I’d put money on her playing hooky this afternoon instead of picking up her kid. But I’m not going to call her on it. It suits me just fine if she’s out. The more time I spend alone here, the better. My mysterious clients are growing impatient. Every night, I send them an email with snippets of information— company policies, financial reports, staff rosters—but it’s never enough. Their last message was terse:

We need something substantive. Dig deeper.

Digging deeper is easier said than done. Craven Industries is a fortress, and I’m just a junior archivist. Still, I’ve started to piece together bits of the puzzle. I just wish it was more interesting.

Brenda has gathered her things and is waving goodbye over her shoulder. I wave back, then return my attention to my workstation. For the next hour, I alternate between actual work and trying to scrape together something new for my client.

I need to look somewhere else.

I lift my arms overhead and yawn. The urge to get out of here is motivated by more than a need to find more information. I have to stretch my legs before I go out of my freaking mind. And I can think of a great place to stretch them.

Downstairs.

I’ve been hearing about a vault in the basement; it’s off-limits to everyone except senior staff, and even they don’t go near it unless absolutely necessary.

The vault is my target.

I glance at the clock. It’s 4:45 pm, and most of the office has already left for the day. Gwen, the HR director, is in a meeting, and my supervisor, a mild-mannered man named Greg, is off sick. And with Brenda out of the office, I’m completely alone. This is my chance.

I grab a stack of file folders and head for the elevator.

The basement is cold and sterile, with flickering fluorescent lights and a faint smell of overheated metal. I follow the signs for the archives annex, glancing around to make sure I’m still alone.

The vault is nowhere in sight, but there’s a second elevator that catches my attention as I walk past it. I’m aware of a faint hum of electricity when I pause near it. At least, that’s what I think it is. The little hairs on my arms prickle up, and my skin tingles. Static, maybe?

That has to be it. It’s a massive steel door set into the wall, flanked by security cameras and a biometric scanner. A sign on the door reads: Security Vault. Authorized Personnel Only. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.

Great. I’ll never get in there.

I hesitate. The vault itself is out of reach, but the adjoining office might have something useful. I slip inside, my heart pounding.

The office is small and cluttered, with a desk piled high with papers and a computer that’s still running. I set the folders down and start rifling through the desk drawers. There’s nothing incriminating—just receipts, memos, and a half-empty packet of gum—but then I notice a notebook lying open on the desk.

It’s filled with scribbled notes, most of them incomprehensible, but one phrase jumps out at me: Blackthorn Consulting—Priority.

Blackthorn? They know about my client?

Before I can read more, I hear footsteps in the hallway. My stomach drops. I shove the notebook back onto the desk and grab the folders, trying to look busy.

The door swings open, and I freeze.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice is low and cold, with an edge of menace that makes my skin prickle. I turn around, forcing a smile.

“Sorry, I was just—” The words die in my throat.

It’s him. The man from my first day at Craven Industries. I’d met him in passing during onboarding—Dorian Craven, the Chief Operations Officer. He’d been charming and flirtatious, with a lazy smile and a glint in his amber eyes. But this man isn’t smiling.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair streaked with silver at the temples and eyes that burn like molten gold. He’s dressed in a tailored gray suit that somehow makes him look more dangerous, not less, and his expression is ice cold.

“This area is restricted,” he says, his voice sharp as a knife.

“I—I was just delivering these files,” I stammer, holding up the folders like a shield.

“Files?” He steps closer, his gaze narrowing. “To an empty office?”

“I thought…” My mind races. “Greg asked me to drop them off. He’s off sick.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His eyes flick to the desk, and I see the moment he notices the notebook lying open.

“You’re lying,” he says softly.

I suck in a breath at his blunt accusation and take a step back, my pulse roaring in my ears. There’s something about him—something watchful and territorial. It’s not just the way he’s looking at me, like he can see straight through my carefully constructed facade. It’s the way he feels … as if he’s ready to strike.

“Who are you?” he demands.

“Jessica Mercer,” I say, the fake name slipping automatically from my lips. “Junior archivist. I started last week.”

His gaze sharpens, and I try not to hold my breath. Instead, I find myself fussing with my hair, stray tendrils falling from the classic chignon I’ve been trying to wear while working here. It’s totally not me.

Act natural, dammit!

“You’re the new hire,” he says, his tone softening slightly.

“Yes,” I acknowledge. “We met at the induction, remember?”

“This office is off limits,” he says, stepping closer. I catch a whiff of his scent: rich, crisp, heady. Inexplicably, my nostrils flare. “Now, tell me what you’re really doing here.”

I don’t answer. My mind is spinning, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the charming, easygoing Dorian I’d met before. This man is different—harder, colder, more dangerous.

And then it hits me.

This isn’t Dorian.

“You’re…Caleb Craven,” I say quietly. Fuck. They’re twins. How did that get past me?

He doesn’t deny it. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—something hot and bright that sets my nerves on fire. And God help me, but my nipples tighten.

Seriously, Lennie?

“Who sent you?” he asks, his voice low and dangerously calm.

“I told you… Greg,” I say, my heart racing. “Honestly, I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job doesn’t involve snooping in restricted areas,” he snaps.

I don’t have an answer to that. I can feel the weight of his gaze, the heat of his presence, and it’s all I can do to stand my ground.

“Get out,” he says finally.

I don’t need to be told twice. I grab the folders and bolt for the door, my heart pounding in my chest.

As I step into the hallway, I glance back over my shoulder. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes…

His eyes burn like fire.