Page 3 of Red Fury (The Dragon Tributes #8)

F ury

The humidity hits me like a wall as I step out of the black SUV onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Why couldn’t this assignment have taken place during winter? I suppose I shouldn’t complain since this is the kind of weather I’m used to on the island. I may not have survived snowstorms and black ice.

Sweat starts to form under my black suit jacket. I adjust my gray tie and button my jacket, trying to look like I belong in this world.

As if.

“Ready, Marsh?” For a second, I don’t react – I’m Marsh, dammit – but then quickly fall into character.

I turn to face Laurence Webb, Head of Operations for Sentinel Security Solutions.

He’s a stocky man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of confidence that comes from years of protecting high-profile clients.

His navy suit is perfectly tailored, not a wrinkle in sight despite the oppressive heat.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, falling into step beside him as we approach the imposing entrance to the U.S.

Department of Homeland Security headquarters.

I have a visitor’s badge clipped to my lapel.

Laurence has an ID on a lanyard around his neck.

I’ll get my own later, once I complete the induction training.

My dragon stirs. Three days on the Mainland, and I still haven’t adjusted to keeping my beast locked down this tight. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to shift, to stretch my wings, to breathe fire. Instead, I’m wearing a monkey suit and pretending to be human.

Soon. We’ll find somewhere to shift soon.

I tell him, and he settles. Thankfully, I have a tight handle on my beast, unlike the Draiger on Mainland soil, which worries me. I need to find this male as a matter of urgency.

“You need to remember that Secretary Harrison is old school. He appreciates directness but not insubordination,” Webb tells me. “You’re there to protect him and not to be his friend.”

“Of course,” I say.

The guards wave us through the metal detectors. The guard on the other side scrutinizes my ID tag before nodding once. I’m Damien Marsh, former Army Ranger turned private security specialist. The identity Steel’s team created for me is solid.

The elevator ride to the seventh floor is silent. Webb checks his watch, then straightens his already perfect tie. This meeting is important to him, too. Sentinel Security landed this contract after the previous firm had what Webb called “an incident.” I didn’t ask for details.

“Here we go,” Webb murmurs as the elevator doors slide open.

The hallway is all shiny floors and government-issued artwork. American flags stand at attention outside important-looking doors. That must be where we are going.

We stop outside a door marked with a brass nameplate: Secretary of Homeland Security James Harrison. Webb straightens his shoulders and knocks twice.

“Come in,” calls a voice from within.

“Please go right in. He’s ready for you,” a lady behind the desk tells us. She has short black hair and the most beautiful green eyes. She’s gorgeous, with bronzed skin and high cheekbones. I have to force myself to look away as I follow Webb.

We go inside, and the Secretary’s office is exactly what I expected, the walls lined with photographs of Harrison shaking hands with presidents and foreign dignitaries. The man himself is in his early sixties, with silver hair and a wide smile.

“Laurence, it’s good to see you again,” Harrison says, rising from his chair. “And this must be Damien Marsh, our new close protection officer.”

“Yes, sir.” I step forward, extending my hand. His grip is firm, testing. “It’s an honor to meet you, Secretary Harrison.”

“Laurence tells me you have an impressive service record.”

“I’ve been fortunate to serve my country in various capacities, sir.”

Harrison nods approvingly. “That’s the kind of attitude I like to hear.” He gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”

We do, and Harrison launches into what sounds like a well-rehearsed speech about the importance of discretion and vigilance in his line of work.

“I specifically requested that all new security personnel on my team meet with me personally,” he says. “I need to know that the people protecting me understand what’s at stake.”

“Absolutely, sir. Your safety is my top priority.”

“Good.” Harrison checks his gold watch. “Now, I know Webb has probably covered most of the technical details with you, but I want to be clear about expectations. You’ll be working closely with my existing security detail, but you’ll also have access to—”

His cellphone rings, cutting him off mid-sentence. He glances at the caller ID and frowns.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I need to take this call.

Webb can fill you in, Damien. I need you to see my PA on your way out.

She has some paperwork for you to sign. It’s good to meet you.

Welcome on board.” He’s already reaching for the phone.

“Laurence, I’ll speak with you later about the revised protocols we discussed. ”

It’s clearly a dismissal. Webb nods and gestures toward the door.

We leave the Secretary’s office, and his PA is waiting for us, a manila folder in her hands.

“Mr. Marsh,” she says, “I have some documents that require your signature before you officially begin tomorrow.”

Webb checks his watch. “I’ll wait for you both to finish up, then escort you to HR for the rest of your induction process.”

“This won’t take long,” she assures him, then gestures to a small seating area near her desk. “Mr. Marsh, if you could just have a seat here?”

The seating area consists of two leather chairs facing each other, with a small coffee table between them.

I sit in one chair while she takes the other, crossing those impossibly long legs encased in sheer stockings.

I may not have been on the Mainland very long, but this is the first time I’ve seen legs like this since leaving the island. Toned and—

I force myself to take my head out of my ass and to focus on the paperwork.

“It’s just a standard nondisclosure agreement,” she explains, opening the folder. “Given your proximity to Secretary Harrison and his family, you’ll inevitably be privy to sensitive information. This simply ensures that information remains confidential.”

“I understand,” I say, taking the document from her.

She reaches for a pen from the folder when it slips from her fingers and clatters to the floor between us.

“Oh, damn,” she mutters, immediately leaning forward to retrieve it.

I react on instinct, dropping into a crouch beside her chair just as she bends down to retrieve the pen. We both reach for it at the same time, and suddenly we’re face to face, close enough that I can see how long and thick her lashes are. How they frame her green eyes perfectly.

Close enough that I can scent her…really fucking scent her.

My nostrils flare involuntarily, and shock hits me like a wave. That distinctive scent – the one that marks her as one of my kind.

She’s a shifter. No question about it.

This is my mark. My reason for being here. It’s the Draiger.

Her eyes widen. “I’m so sorry.” She glances over my shoulder before straightening up with the pen clutched in her hand.

“No problem.”

She clears her throat and hands me the pen. “If you could just sign on the marked lines…”

I flip through the NDA quickly, scanning the legal jargon without really reading it.

I found her.

And she’s not at all what I expected.

Firstly, she’s a she and not a he . And then, she’s beautiful…that and dangerous. So fucking dangerous because she’s positioned perfectly to have access to every piece of information that crosses Harrison’s desk.

This is worse than I ever imagined.

Fuuuuuck!

I initial the applicable areas and then sign the document with a flourish and hand it back to her. “All set.”

“Perfect.” She files the papers away. “You’re scheduled to start tomorrow morning at seven. Welcome on board.” She looks down at the document. “Damien…is it?

“That’s right.” I stand, straightening my jacket. “And you are…?” My voice is hesitant.

“Claire Douglas.”

“I…”

Webb approaches, pocketing his phone. “All done?”

“Yep,” I say

Claire Douglas. Yeah, right, and I’m Santa-fucking-Claus. I wonder what her real name is.

More importantly, I wonder what the hell she’s doing here and what kind of information she’s been feeding back to Draig Island. The thought of a Draiger having that level of access to Homeland Security intel makes my dragon snarl.

Did she recognize me? Does she know I’m a shifter too?

It doesn’t matter, either way. I need more intel on her, and then I need to confront her. I’ll decide where to go from there. Only one thing is for certain: I can’t trust her. Not one bit.