Page 4 of Fated by Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #1)

Chapter 4

C aleb

Who the hell was that?

I stand in the hallway, my hands clenched at my sides, watching her walk away hastily. Jessica Mercer—her back is ramrod straight, but her hips sway gently as she heads off down the quiet corridor. Softly rounded hips that lead to long legs and toned calves. My dragon stirs in my chest, a low growl rumbling in my throat, and I force it down with a sharp exhale.

She shouldn’t have been here, and I have every reason to be pissed off right now. So why does the image of her wide gray eyes linger in my mind like a stubborn ember?

I replay the encounter in my head: the way she stood her ground, the faint tremor in her voice that she tried to mask, the way she tilted her chin up as if daring me to challenge her. The anxious way she fussed with a thick curl of dark hair even as her eyes defied me.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It doesn’t matter.

But it does, and that’s the problem.

Reaching for my phone, I type out a message to Sloane, asking for more information on the woman. Then I answer a tug in my gut that I can’t seem to ignore; I need to see the stone. I turn on my heel and head for the high-security elevator, my footsteps steady. I’ve traveled this path so many times that it’s etched into my brain. The doors slide open, and I step inside, pressing the button for the lower-level basement. The descent seems slow today, the muted hum of the machinery doing little to calm the restlessness clawing at my chest.

The vault is two floors down, carved into the bedrock beneath the tower. When the doors open, the cold air hits me first, carrying the faint scent of something ancient. Magic.

I move toward the center of the room, where the Heartstone sits encased in a glass containment field on a pedestal. It’s smaller than it appears at first, no bigger than my fist, but its power is unmistakable. Tonight, though, something’s off.

The stone pulses erratically, its glow flickering like a faulty bulb. I press my palm against the glass, feeling the faint vibrations through the barrier.

“What’s wrong with you?” I mutter, more to myself than to the stone.

My father’s voice echoes in my mind, low and gravelly, as if he’s standing right beside me. “The stone binds us. Protect it, or we become the monsters they fear.”

I clench my jaw as I stare into the fluctuating light. The Heartstone has been stable for years—decades, even. Its restlessness now can’t be a coincidence. Something has changed, and I don’t like not knowing what it is.

After a moment, I pull my hand back and turn away, the stone’s erratic pulse fading into the background. The elevator ride back to my office is uneventful, but the restlessness in my chest hasn’t eased.

When I step into my office, Sloane’s left a file on my desk. Jessica Mercer’s name is printed neatly on the tab. I sit down, flipping it open.

Her file is clean—too clean. Basic information: name, age, background. No red flags, but nothing substantial, either. There’s a photo clipped to the inside cover, and I can’t help but stare at it.

Those silvery gray eyes meet the camera with a quiet intensity, her expression neutral but somehow compelling. My dragon stirs again, a growl vibrating up my throat before I can stop it. I sink back in my chair, trying to shake the strange pull I feel, but it’s no use.

I flip through the folder again, pursing my lips as I scan the information. No records before five years ago. As if someone scrubbed her past.

Scrubbed her past? Get a grip, Craven.

I’m being paranoid. The records show an uneventful job history—three years as a junior analyst at a tech firm. A couple of years before that, temping for a recruitment agency. The only real blank spaces are the gap years she took after college. Thailand. Malaysia. Pretty typical, really. Half the population has probably jetted off to lie on a beach for a few months after finishing their studies.

Except you. You were chained to a desk before your graduation cap landed.

I flip the folder shut smartly. My life is irrelevant right now. I was groomed for this world, and I revel in it. How many others get to live the life I do? Fast cars, private jets, a house on every continent. I can literally have anything—or anyone—I want.

When you’re not chained to a desk…

The thought echoes, and I shove it away. I don’t have time for this shit right now.

The intercom buzzes, and I press the button. “What is it, Sloane?”

“Dorian’s here,” she says, her tone clipped.

Fuck. What now?

“Send him in.”

The door swings open before I can finish the sentence, and my twin saunters in. He’s dressed more for a nightclub than a boardroom, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to be obnoxious. A tendril of ink peeks out.

“You look terrible,” he says, dropping into the chair across from my desk.

“Thanks,” I deadpan, raising an eyebrow when he lifts a foot as if to prop it on the surface. He sets it back on the floor.

“Is it about the chewing-out Malakai gave you this morning?”

I grimace. Yet another clan meeting spiraled into another of Malakai Steele’s rants about the old ways and how I was failing our fathers. The man just won’t let it lie.

“I’m fine. I’m used to it.” I shrug.

“You shouldn’t have to be,” Dorian growls. “You are not single-handedly responsible for the downfall of the Craven Clan. We’ve always had shit to deal with. We always will.”

“I know,” I say, my eyes drawn back to the photo clipped to the folder.

“Seriously, Caleb. You’re sitting here brooding like a moody teenager. Let’s get a drink—you look like you need one.”

“I don’t have time for this.” I gesture to the teetering piles of folders. The overflowing in-tray. “I have to wrap this up.”

He leans forward, his grin sharp. “You’re turning into Dad. Trust me, it’s not a good look.”

I glare at him, but he’s right, and we both know it. My father spent his life behind his desk. Craven Industries was his entire world until—

I push myself to my feet abruptly, grabbing my jacket off the back of my chair. “Fine. But make it quick.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re at a bar a few blocks from the Towers. It’s one of Dorian’s usual spots—dark, moody, and packed with people who don’t care who we are as long as we’re buying drinks.

I sit at the bar, nursing a whiskey while Dorian flirts shamelessly with the bartender.

“Give us a couple of tequilas,” he says, making my head snap up. “Some of the good stuff. That anejo bottle.” He points to the display.

“No. No fucking way, Dorian,” I say firmly. But there’s already a shot glass sliding down the counter toward me.

“Come on, bro.” Dorian slaps my shoulder. “Live a little.”

“I live enough,” I mutter, glaring down at the small, clear glass that’s brimming with liquid—and potential disaster.

“Do it. Just one.” He won’t let up. He’s holding his own glass between thumb and forefinger. “Don’t be a pussy.”

If I don’t do it, he’s going to hound me until I leave.

“Fuck it.” I grab the glass and knock it down, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Dorian is watching me. “Happy now?” I ask him.

“I wasn’t asking you to finish it in one go, asshole. We sip this shit nowadays. Where do you live? In a cave?”

“Yes. The one at the top of Craven Towers.” I tip my glass upside down on the surface of the bar, watching him lift his glass to his lips and barely wet them with the liquor. “Who’s the pussy now?”

“Get him another,” he tells the bartender.

“No,” I say.

“Shut up,” he retorts. “And loosen your tie, for fuck’s sake.” He’s reaching for my shirt collar. I smack his hands away. “You look like you’re going to a fucking funeral.”

Exhaling an annoyed breath, I unfasten my top button with one hand while reaching for the shot glass with the other. I empty the glass and sit back on my bar stool.

“I said sip it, dickhead. Like this.” He touches his lips with his glass again. “It’s supposed to last while you savor it.”

“That is the most ridiculous shit I ever heard. Nobody savors tequila. It’s the Devil’s brew; you put it behind you like a bad memory. Besides, I already have a drink.” I reach for the tumbler of whiskey I’d set on the counter. I take a sip. Together with the two shots, the amber liquid is giving me a pleasant buzz. I definitely need to leave after this.

Two women approach us, drawn by my brother’s charm. The guy’s a walking chick magnet. They’re beautiful, their laughter light and infectious, but I can’t bring myself to care.

“Hey,” one of them says, nodding at the seat beside him. “Mind if we join you?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d like better.” His smile is easy. Mine is not. They give me a wary glance before focusing back on Dorian.

“Don’t mind my brother. He’s a bit uptight. Probably because he’s the richest guy in Seattle,” he tells them. Two pairs of eyes swivel back toward me. “Even God wishes he had this guy’s bank balance.”

Fucking great.

Dorian’s in his element, but I’m left cold, my thoughts drifting back to Jessica. It’s those goddamn eyes—they’re all-consuming, and I don’t understand why.

“So… Caleb, is it?” the blonde one is saying, her eyes roving over me in a predatory way. “Come here often?”

Jesus, do people still say that?

“Never.” I finish my drink and set the glass down, pushing myself to my feet. Dorian glances up, his brow raised.

“Leaving already?”

“I’ve got work to do,” I say, throwing a few bills on the bar.

He smirks. “You’re no fun anymore.” He waves a hand. “Scrap that. You never were.”

I don’t bother responding. I’m already halfway to the door. I don’t think he cares because one of the girls just draped an arm over his shoulder. The other is whispering into his ear.

Fuck that shit.

My brother might be happy living this way, but I have things to do. And I can’t shake the feeling that I need to be on my guard for some reason.

Something’s coming, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.