Page 13 of Forged in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #5)

R iven

The woman weighs nothing. Dead weight in my arms, but her heat burns through my jacket like I’m carrying live coals. Copper hair spills over my forearm, silk threads catching on sweat-dampened skin. Each strand feels electric against my fingers when I shift my grip.

My cabin materializes from the darkness ahead. Windows black. Gravel grinding under boots. Off-grid. Secure. So hidden beneath the pines that satellites would see nothing but canopy.

Perfect for what I’ve done.

Dragon fire simmers under my skin. Has been since I touched her. Since those shadows of hers wrapped around me like they knew me. Like they were welcoming me home.

Fuck.

The key sticks—metal contracted in the cold. I work it with steady pressure until the lock gives. Inside smells like gun oil and dead ash from the hearth. Home sweet home.

I lower her onto the couch. Step back. Assess.

Chest rising, falling. Steady. Color good. Clean pressure point strike—no bruising around the delicate column of her throat. No trauma visible.

Professional work.

Unprofessional circumstances.

This is a fucking mess.

My hands shake as I activate the perimeter. Motion sensors. Thermal dampeners. Comms jammer. The routine should steady me. Instead, my heart rate is shooting through the roof.

Dragon-forged restraints wait in my equipment case. Materials designed to hold supernatural strength without cutting circulation. I’ve used them on targets before.

She wasn’t a target.

She was never supposed to be there.

The metal feels molten in my hands. Each lock mechanism clicks shut with finality that echoes in my bones. Her skin is fever-warm under my fingers. Soft. Oddly human, despite the fact that she clearly is not.

I step back, studying the restraints. Effective. Secure.

Completely fucked.

What the hell have I done?

My hands shake again. I clench them into fists, willing the tremor to stop. Professional assassins don’t get the shakes. Don’t kidnap civilians. Don’t abandon missions because of a pretty face and mysterious power.

Don’t feel their dragon fire surge every time they’re near someone.

I need order. Routine. Something to anchor me while my world goes mad.

I run through another security check, logging each step. Each task completed mechanically, muscle memory from a thousand operations.

It doesn’t help.

My pulse is still pounding. Fire still simmers under my skin like molten metal waiting to break free. Every breath tastes like adrenaline and electricity, like the aftermath of lightning strikes.

Like her.

Do something, Riven.

Anything… Anything except stand here like a fool, staring at her.

I move to the weapons cache. Strip and clean my rifle. Action smooth, familiar. The ritual should steady me. Should give my mind something concrete to process besides the magnitude of what I’ve just done.

Still nothing.

I check ammunition stores. Inventory medical supplies. Test backup communications. All of it pointless busywork, desperate attempts to feel normal when everything has shifted off its axis.

When I’ve run out of tasks, I find myself standing beside the couch.

Looking at her.

Really looking.

Jesus Christ.

She’s beautiful. Not the artificial perfection of the women who usually cross my path—escorts and socialites with surgically enhanced features and calculated smiles. This is something different. Something real.

High cheekbones that seem too pale right now. Full lips slightly parted in unconsciousness. Long lashes dark against pale skin. That impossible burnished hair spread across the couch cushions like liquid flame.

And those eyes, hidden now but burned into my memory. Eyes that looked at me and saw straight through every defense I’ve built.

My chest tightens. Fire pulses under my skin in rhythm with her breathing.

This is insane.

I’m a professional killer. I’ve eliminated targets without a second thought, completed contracts that would give normal people nightmares for decades. I don’t kidnap random bystanders. Don’t get emotionally compromised by beautiful women.

Don’t feel like my world just shifted on its foundations because of one accidental encounter.

A vibration from nearby catches my attention. The secure phone on the nearby table is pulsing to life.

The call I’ve been dreading.

Time to face the music.

“This is Barlowe.” My voice carries no hint of the turmoil inside me.

“Mission status.” Veyra’s voice is curt. No social niceties. Just flat demand for information that could end my career.

Or my life.

“Primary target escaped,” I force the words out. “Complications during execution.”

Silence stretches across the connection. I count my heartbeats. Seven. Eight. Nine.

I swear I hear a muffled curse.

“Explain.”

“Target wasn’t alone. There was a civilian on scene—she walked into a trap. I had to intervene or watch her die.”

“You intervened.” Not a question. Statement heavy with implications.

“Affirmative.”

“Instead of completing your primary objective.” Each syllable is a nail in my professional coffin.

“The target escaped during civilian extraction. The situation became untenable.” The lie burns my throat. “I made a judgment call.”

More silence. Typing in the background. Data being accessed. Cross-referenced.

“Civilian identity?”

“Iris. No surname confirmed yet.” Though I have my suspicions. I don’t share them.

“Hold.”

The line goes quiet except for electronic hiss. I stare at the woman—at Iris—and try to figure out how I’m going to explain this. How I’m going to justify throwing away everything I’ve built for someone I just met.

Someone whose shadows wrapped around me like they belonged there.

“Barlowe.” Veyra’s back. Voice different. Sharper. Colder. “Your civilian is Iris Asguard. Target’s twin sister.”

Fuck.

A twin… just as I’d feared. Not merely related—connected by blood and bone and shared genetics. Connected by the kind of bond that makes people do stupid things. Dangerous things.

Things like walking into ambushes to save each other.

No wonder she put herself in the path of a bullet for him. No wonder she wouldn’t give up on him, even though it was clear he had no such qualms about her.

“That confirms my assessment,” I say, my voice curt.

“It creates massive complications, is what it does,” Veyra corrects. “The target escaped because of family interference. The client will be extremely displeased.”

Displeased. Guild euphemism for bullets and consequences. For retirement that comes with a pine box and a shallow grave.

“The sister was a witness to the operation. She’s seen your face, knows your methods. She represents an unacceptable security risk.”

I feel myself go cold. “Orders?”

“Fix the problem, Barlowe. All of it. Sister first—she’s the immediate threat. Then complete the original contract.” The connection quality shifts. More distant. “Your standing with the Guild depends on completing the resolution.”

My standing. Not reputation. Not next contract. Standing. Which means fuck this up and face permanent retirement.

The kind that comes with a bullet.

“Timeline?”

“Immediate. Every hour she’s alive increases exposure risk.” Electronic distortion creeps into the signal. “This conversation never happened. You’re dark until completion. I’ll be in touch.”

The line dies. Static fills the silence before the phone shuts down completely, severing all electronic connection to the Guild. Standard protocol for operations requiring plausible deniability.

I’m alone with impossible orders and a woman who shouldn’t be here.

Fix the problem.

The words echo in the empty cabin like a death sentence. Not hers—mine. Because there’s no universe where I can follow that order. Not after what I felt when her shadows touched me. Not after something in my chest caught fire and wouldn’t let me walk away.

Not after my dragon fire recognized hers.

I look at Iris again. Unconscious. Helpless. Beautiful in the dim cabin light, hair spilling across dark fabric like blood on stone.

Veyra wants me to eliminate her. The Guild expects it. The client demands it.

And I can’t.

Won’t.

The realization hits me hard, almost doubling me over with its implications. If I don’t do this, I’ve just signed my own death warrant. Thrown away decades of careful reputation building. Burned every bridge I have with the only organization that’s ever given my life meaning.

For a woman I met hours ago.

A woman whose power calls to mine like a missing piece of my soul.

Dragon fire burns under my skin, responding to emotions I’m trying to keep controlled. Heat builds in my chest, spreads down my arms until my hands glow with barely contained flame.

The supernatural compulsion gnaws at me like hunger. Like thirst. Like need that goes beyond professional judgment or personal choice. Protecting her feels necessary in a way that transcends logic.

Which makes me compromised. Dangerous. Exactly the kind of liability the Guild eliminates without ceremony.

Outside, the wind moves through the pines with a sound like distant wailing. Inside, silence presses against my eardrums until I can hear my own heartbeat.

The enormity of what I’m contemplating is almost mind-numbing.

If I do this, I’ve chosen her over everything. Over my career, my world, my life. Over the only family I’ve known for most of my life.

And she doesn’t even know it yet.

If I do this, this is just the beginning of the end.

I can feel it in the way my fire responds to her presence despite her unconsciousness. In the certainty that whatever’s happening here is bigger than Guild orders or professional obligations or the simple mechanics of elimination contracts.

We’re balanced on the edge of something that will destroy us both.

I have to make a choice.