Page 8 of Forged in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #5)

R iven

Dust and concrete. That’s what this mountainside compound tastes like when the wind shifts and carries the scent up to my position. I’ve been watching this shithole for so many hours I could navigate it blindfolded.

Twelve heat signatures bleed through the main building’s walls, pinpointing the location of its occupants. Two clustered near what appears to be a research station. The others move in patterns loose enough to tell me whoever’s running security thinks altitude equals protection.

Amateurs. Or they want people to think they’re amateurs.

My thermal scanner picks up the details that matter: which guard pisses behind the generator shed at 0300, which one smokes on the north perimeter at shift change, which doorway gets skipped during the third-hour sweep. Three days of reconnaissance burned those patterns into my skull.

The staging area spreads below my position like a terrorist’s wet dream.

Equipment crates stacked in neat rows, each one sporting shipping labels that would make customs agents reach for their sidearms. I know what’s inside them, and it’s not research equipment.

Military-grade hardware disguised as archaeological supplies.

Chemical compounds that don’t exist on any legitimate manifest.

Standard Syndicate front operation. Nothing I haven’t seen before.

Except tonight, something feels off.

Heat crawls up my forearms, pools in my chest where dragon blood runs thick and restless. Not the controlled burn I use for precision kills; this is different. Hungrier. Like my dragon is responding to something in the air that my conscious mind can’t identify.

Something calls to the beast in me. Something I should recognize but don’t.

Bullshit. Get a fucking grip.

I shake my head, refocus on the mission. I spent a week following breadcrumbs through Cluj-Napoca’s underworld, bribing information brokers, running surveillance on Syndicate contacts who thought they were smarter than the Guild’s intelligence network.

Wrong.

Through my scope, I confirm the heat signature I’ve been hunting.

Gotcha.

Within the building, the target moves with the relaxed motion of someone who has no idea he’s being watched. I don’t need to see him in person to spot him. Even as just a heat signature, I recognize his bearing: above average height, solid build, loose-limbed gait.

Perfect match for the profile in my jacket pocket. The file I’ve memorized down to the last detail about eye color and preferred weapon configurations, along with everything I’ve learned about him while watching this place.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

I stay motionless, debating the wisdom of moving positions.

I’d rather not take the action in there, but I can’t spend all night waiting to find out if he’s going to emerge from that building anytime soon.

I also don’t want to delay this assignment any longer.

There’s no guarantee he’s going to be here much longer.

I gather myself, preparing to rise. Then stop.

There’s another signature slipping through the compound. Brighter. Hotter. Wrong in ways that make my teeth grind together.

What the fuck?

This is someone I don’t recognize, although something about their energy prickles at my senses.

Female. Has to be from the way she moves—fluid, careful, different pattern than the guards. The heat she radiates cuts through my enhanced vision like liquid gold, demanding attention I don’t want to give.

What is she doing here?

My dragon blood responds before rational thought kicks in.

Something deep in my chest twists, sends sharp pulses through my nervous system until sweat beads between my shoulder blades despite the mountain cold.

The sensation builds with each breath, like recognition crawling up from genetic memory I didn’t know I possessed.

Bullshit. Just environmental factors.

These mountains are saturated with ancient magic—centuries of supernatural conflicts, old bloodlines, power that seeps into stone and soil. I’m reacting to ambient energy. Nothing more.

Still, the compulsion gnaws at me. Makes my rifle sight shake when it should be steady. Makes my breathing irregular when control is the difference between clean kills and messy complications.

Focus on the job, Barlowe.

Track the target. Complete the contract.

Simple.

I adjust position, use cover that took hours to map during yesterday’s reconnaissance.

Every boulder, every tree line, every depression in the terrain that provides concealment without compromising sight lines.

Patience and precision—the qualities that keep me breathing when less disciplined operators end up feeding worms.

The compound’s perimeter security relies more on technology than manpower. Motion sensors at predictable intervals, cameras sweeping arcs that leave gaps for anyone patient enough to study the patterns. Electromagnetic barriers designed to detect standard surveillance equipment.

My gear isn’t standard.

Through the scope, I track the heat signatures moving through the main building. The target remains stationary in what appears to be a central building. The woman moves differently—restless energy, tense body language.

What the fuck is she doing here?

The burning in my chest cranks up to molten. I bite the inside of my cheek, taste blood, force my breathing to regulate. Whatever’s affecting me, I can’t let it compromise the mission. Can’t let unexplained reactions get in the way of what I’m here for.

Besides, I never have unexplained reactions.

Professional distance. Planning. That’s how I’ve survived decades in a profession where personal feelings become weapons other people use against you.

Through the scope, I watch as the female form slips silently through the compound. She’s stealthy, I’ll give her that much. Slipping past guards who seem completely oblivious to her presence. One walks close enough to touch, and yet doesn’t pause as he passes her.

Interesting.

Why didn’t he spot her?

I keep my scope trained on her form, using a combination of infrared sights and my own enhanced vision to keep an eye on her. She waits for a guard to pass and then glides toward the central structure. She hesitates there, then she’s moving again.

Picked the locks. Got past the wards.

Even more interesting.

Not human?

Shouldn’t surprise me, considering this is Syndicate turf. I wouldn’t expect the place to be infiltrated by anyone without supernatural powers.

Still… Who the hell is she? I’ve been here for days and haven’t seen her. Yet she’s moving with a purpose that tells me she knows exactly where she’s heading. Like something is drawing her.

Right toward my target.

I change the angle of my scope, picking up his heat reading again. He’s standing at the far end of the structure.

And she’s moving toward him. My goddamn target. On the night I’ve lined up everything precisely. She’s going to screw it all up.

She stops when she reaches him, and now they appear to be talking.

No, goddammit!

This is a fuck-up. A complete shitstorm of a fuck-up.

I lower my rifle for a second, swiping the back of my wrist over my eyes, where sweat burns.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

I roll my shoulders and raise my rifle again, focusing down the sights.

Movement in the building draws my attention back to business. Both signatures shifting toward what looks like an exit. I track them through thermal imaging, adjust position to maintain optimal firing angle.

The door opens.

My target emerges first—exactly matching the profile I’ve committed to memory.

Perfect. Clean shot. Eight hundred meters, well within my effective range.

My finger finds the trigger. Breath control kicks in automatically. Steady heartbeat. Professional calm settling over my nervous system like armor.

Then she steps into the moonlight.

Auburn hair catches the light like copper wire, flowing past her shoulders in waves that seem to generate a minor heat wave. She moves with unconscious grace—cautious though. As if unsure of where she’s headed.

The compulsion in my chest doesn’t just intensify—it explodes. I suck in a sharp breath and force myself not to jerk to my feet.

Raw emotion tears through my ribcage, demanding action I don’t understand. My dragon heritage recognizes something my conscious mind refuses to process. Something that makes every instinct I’ve spent decades suppressing roar to life.

What the actual fuck?

Shock waves ripple through my nervous system. I have to force my breathing to steady as my pulse skyrockets.

She’s something different.

Dragon.

Not just dragon-touched like me—pure bloodline. The genetic apex that commands automatic loyalty from lesser dragons. Which is basically what I am, if I’m honest with myself.

That must explain the compulsion. The way my hands shake. The reason my professional detachment is cracking like ice under pressure.

Through the scope, I watch the target gesture toward the equipment staging area. She follows, but something in her posture suggests wariness. She doesn’t move like a prisoner. But she’s wary.

Although she’s not seeing the bigger picture like I am.

Additional heat signatures moving into position around the staging area. Six armed contacts taking positions that would allow them to converge on the open space where the target’s leading her.

Classic trap formation.

She’s walking into an ambush, and she doesn’t know it.

Not your problem, Barlowe.

My contract specifies elimination of one target. No additional parameters. No restrictions about collateral damage, though my personal code doesn’t allow civilian casualties.

The smart play: wait for the trap to spring, eliminate the target during the confusion, extract before anyone identifies the shooter. Clean. Efficient. Exactly what the Guild expects from someone with my reputation.

That leaves her to whatever fate the Syndicate has waiting.

I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right.

Jesus, man, this is fucking ridiculous!

It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t like. I don’t allow personal feelings to compromise professional judgment. Don’t believe in strange compulsions or any other bullshit that gets people killed.

Yet watching her through my scope, seeing her standing among those crates while armed operatives move into position around her, I can’t shake the certainty that everything hinges on what I do in the next sixty seconds.

Like Fate. Like my destiny is calling.

Still more bullshit.

Through the scope, I see my target’s head dip slightly. Signal for the ambush to begin. They burst out of hiding.

In moments, she’s surrounded. Shock radiates from her like visible waves.

Fuck!

They’ve got her, and she never expected it for a second.

My rifle sight shifts from the primary target to the closest flanking operative. The weight feels different now—not just a tool for assassination, but protection for something that I don’t understand but can’t let these fuckers destroy.

Time to make some tough decisions.