Page 15 of Forged in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #5)

R iven

The phone buzzes against the rough wooden table, vibration traveling through the grain.

Status report. Target neutralized?

My hand hovers near the Sig at my belt. Three steps away, Iris lies restrained where I positioned her on the couch.

Her hair catches the amber lamplight, throws shifting shadows across pale skin that looks almost luminous in the dim cabin.

Those impossible eyes watch me—no fear radiating from her now. Just cold calculation.

Strategic awareness. Unexpected in someone who walked into an obvious trap just hours ago.

The phone buzzes again, the sound sharp against the crackling of logs in the fireplace.

Confirm elimination.

A lifetime with the Guild. Never missed a target. Never failed to complete an assignment. Perfect record, until tonight. Until her.

The device buzzes again. A call this time. I reject it without conscious thought.

The screen flares bright blue, then dies.

Silence.

Iris studies me, chin raised in defiance despite her restraints. “So. We doing this or not?”

I turn toward the window, needing the distance.

“Hey.” Her voice is sharp. Demanding. “Is this some kind of sick game?”

If only it were that simple.

Outside, pine boughs sway in the mountain wind, their movement creating shifting patterns of black against the deeper black of the moonless sky. The cold glass fogs under my breath.

“We need sleep,” I say. “Morning will be clearer.”

“That’s not an answer.”

No. It’s a delay while I process variables I don’t understand.

Crossing the room, I settle into the worn leather chair, feeling it give under my weight. Close enough to intercept any escape attempts. Far enough to avoid the full impact of her scent, something wild and clean that makes dragon fire burn through my veins in ways I refuse to analyze.

She tests the restraints again. Enchanted metal scrapes against itself, the sound setting my teeth on edge.

“You can’t avoid this forever.”

“I can avoid it tonight.”

She rolls her eyes, and the small motion shouldn’t register as attractive. Shouldn’t make me wonder what she looks like when she laughs.

I’m compromised. Tactically. Professionally. Completely.

Fucked.

The Guild device buzzes again, persistent as a wasp. I shut it off completely, fingers steady despite the tremor running up my arm.

Silence returns, broken only by the pop and hiss of burning wood. I lean back in the chair, close my eyes, try to regulate my breathing like the Guild taught me decades ago.

There will be consequences for this choice. Variables to assess. Damage to minimize. Releasing her isn’t an option—she’s seen my face, knows me, could identify me to any number of hostile parties. Handing her over to the Guild would be a death sentence.

I need time to think. To plan.

Except thinking requires clarity. And she’s fucked that up completely.

Goddammit.

Time passes. The cabin dims as the fire dies to embers, orange light fading to deep red. Iris watches me from the bed—her eyes reflecting the dying flames, silent, assessing. I sink deeper into the worn leather chair, drop my head back against the headrest.

Meditation. Focus. Standard Guild protocols learned in freezing facilities and reinforced through years of high-stress operations—inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for eight, let the tension bleed away with each controlled breath.

It’s not working.

My pulse stays elevated, scales shifting under my skin.

All the training. Discipline under pressure that’s saved my life more times than I can count. This woman is systematically destroying every defense I’ve built.

My own damned fault for letting her get to me.

Hours crawl past with agonizing slowness.

I pretend to rest while she pretends to sleep, both of us hyperaware of every breath, every micro-movement, every shift in the creaking cabin around us.

The space between us feels electrified, charged with tension that has nothing to do with professional protocols and everything to do with the way her scent keeps drifting across the room despite my attempts to ignore it.

By 2 AM, I’ve abandoned any hope of sleep. Accepted the reality that my mind won’t quiet while she’s this close. The approaching crisis suffocates rational thought. Something has to give.

It does.

Shortly after 2 AM, the perimeter alarm activates with a shrill electronic whine that cuts through the mountain silence. I’m on my feet in an instant, eyes on the monitors.

Multiple contacts approaching fast from the south. Four distinct thermal signatures visible on my tablet—armed, organized, maintaining standard military spacing as they advance through the tree line.

Not social callers. Not lost hikers. Professionals.

Guild cleanup protocol. When operatives go dark without explanation, they dispatch assets to eliminate all complications and witnesses.

All complications.

I’ve always known about the contingencies, read the protocols in classified briefings. Never expected immediate activation. Never imagined they’d deploy them against me. Certainly not so fast.

My choices in this matter just became irrelevant.

“What is that?” Iris’s voice is sharp with alertness despite having feigned sleep for hours.

“Company.” I kill the alarm, grab weapons from the cache. Rifle. Blade. Sidearms. My tactical bag.

The motion sensors trip with soft electronic chirps. They’re closer now, maybe five hundred feet out and closing fast. Two minutes to contact, maximum.

I cross to her position in three strides. She tenses as I approach, shadows coiling around her like snakes.

“Stay still.”

“What are you doing?” Her eyes go wide as I reach for the ankle restraint. She kicks reflexively, but my grip holds firm.

“Getting us out of here.”

The lock on her ankle cuffs clicks open smoothly. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t attack. Just sits there watching me warily as I unlock her wrist cuffs. Without a word of warning, I pull her upright sharply, the contact sending heat up my arm.

“Why—?”

The window explodes inward.

Glass fragments pepper the room like shrapnel. A sniper round punches through the space she occupied two seconds prior, embeds in the far wall with a dull thunk.

“Move. Now.”

She’s rolling before the echo fades. Left, finding cover behind the couch.

Good instincts.

I reach for her again.

“Stay with me.” I haul her upright. No time for explanations. Only survival.

Her heat burns through my jacket. The electric sensation races up my arm, settles in my chest. I should release contact, focus on the immediate priorities.

Instead, I pull her closer.

“Back exit. Run.”

Automatic weapons fire erupts outside. Rounds chew through the cabin walls and splinters rain down around us as we navigate between furniture. She stays low, follows my lead without question.

Thank fuck.

The hidden exit is concealed behind a false kitchen panel. Thank God the cabin’s rigged for shit like this. I trigger the release mechanism. Cold mountain air rushes in, carrying the scent of pine needles and cordite.

“Where does this lead?”

“Away from here.”

More rounds penetrate the main room. Systematic. Thorough. They’re not planning to take prisoners.

She slips through the opening first. I follow, sealing the panel behind us. The passage was carved from living rock—an escape route installed by someone who understood operational security.

We emerge a hundred feet from the cabin into dense forest cover. Behind us, muzzle flashes strobe through the windows like deadly lightning. The Guild cleanup crew is thorough. And motivated.

But that’s okay, because so am I. Moving quickly, I find a small cluster of shrubs and drop down behind them, pulling her with me.

I shoulder my rifle, using a forked branch to stabilize the barrel as I stare down the sights.

It doesn’t take me long to get into position.

I can probably pick off a couple of them and even out the playing field.

And then I see them. The giant, unmistakable form of Garrus. Flanked by Luther.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Why? Why would she send them after me? Of everyone in the Guild, they’re probably the closest to friends I have. Family.

Which is exactly why she’d do it.

I can’t kill them. She knows I can’t.

Lowering my weapon, I silently shuffle backward.

“What are you doing?” Iris whispers urgently.

“Change of plan. This way.” I grip her wrist and haul us both up, pull her deeper into the pines, away from the lights now sweeping the cabin’s surroundings.

She jerks against my hold. Not fighting exactly, but testing. Calculating.

Her skin burns under my fingers. Hot despite the mountain cold. The contact sends tingles up my arm. Dragon fire responding in ways I don’t fully understand.

“Bad idea,” I tell her as scales begin to ripple across her flesh. She’s planning to shift. “They’re equipped for aerial targets.”

“You mean…?” She glances toward the sound of gunfire.

“Take flight and they’ll drop you. Those rounds will pierce armor.”

“Shit. No dragon.” The scales fade slowly. She’s figuring out what we’re facing.

We move through the forest in relative silence. Her footfalls are surprisingly quiet on the frozen ground. I can feel her tension, the contained rage simmering beneath her controlled exterior. She studies landmarks every few steps, memorizing terrain.

Planning escape routes.

She tugs against my grip periodically. Testing the chain length. She’s definitely planning to run.

The realization should irritate me. Instead, I find myself respecting the practical thinking. She doesn’t trust me.

She shouldn’t.

One mile out, we pause to listen.

She uses the break to create distance between us. Two feet. Minimal, but the intention is clear. Her eyes scan the forest, assessing potential escape routes.

The loss of contact leaves my fingers cold. Empty. I curl them into fists to suppress the urge to reach out to her.

What the fuck is wrong with you, man?

Shouts echo through the trees. Military commands barked out. They’ve found the tunnel.

I check my equipment. Four magazines for the rifle. Two for the Sig. Blade. Limited supplies. Enough for maybe twelve hours if we’re careful.

If we’re lucky.

“They’ll track us,” she says. No hysteria. No demands for information.

“Yes.”

She processes this, studies the terrain.

“So what’s the plan?”

The real question: am I still her captor, or have I become a temporary ally?

It’s a good question. One I can’t answer. I’ve severed my ties with the Guild. Chosen her survival over a lifetime of loyalty. She doesn’t know this. Has no reason to trust it.

“We run. We survive. We assess our options if we make it out.”

Distant gunfire punctuates the night. They’re still clearing the cabin, buying us precious minutes.

She looks at me, and something shifts in those astonishing eyes. Not trust, exactly. Acknowledgment. The kind of calculation that says she’ll cooperate as long as it serves her survival.

The moment those odds change, she’ll bolt.

“Lead the way.” Her voice remains level, but she falls into position behind me instead of beside me. Maintaining distance. Maintaining options.

We disappear into the darkness. Behind us, the cabin burns. Ahead lies nothing but mountain wilderness and the uncertain promise of dawn.

Her scent follows me through the trees—something wild and clean that cuts through the pine sap and cordite smoke. It shouldn’t matter. Shouldn’t distract me from keeping us alive.

It does anyway.

I’ve made my choice.

Now we manage the consequences. Including the growing certainty that she’ll vanish the moment she knows she can survive without me.

I don’t know why that bothers me.