Page 10 of Fated By Fire
“Jessica Mercer,” I say, the fake name slipping automatically from my lips. “Junior archivist. I started last week.”
His gaze sharpens, and I try not to hold my breath. Instead, I find myself fussing with my hair, stray tendrils falling from the classic chignon I’ve been trying to wear while working here. It’s totally not me.
Act natural, dammit!
“You’re the new hire,” he says, his tone softening slightly.
“Yes,” I acknowledge. “We met at the induction, remember?”
“This office is off limits,” he says, stepping closer. I catch a whiff of his scent: rich, crisp, heady. Inexplicably, my nostrils flare. “Now, tell me what you’re really doing here.”
I don’t answer. My mind is spinning, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the charming, easygoing Dorian I’d met before. This man is different—harder, colder, more dangerous.
And then it hits me.
This isn’t Dorian.
“You’re…Caleb Craven,” I say quietly. Fuck. They’re twins. How did that get past me?
He doesn’t deny it. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—something hot and bright that sets my nerves on fire. And God help me, but my nipples tighten.
Seriously, Lennie?
“Who sent you?” he asks, his voice low and dangerously calm.
“I told you… Greg,” I say, my heart racing. “Honestly, I’m just doing my job.”
“Your job doesn’t involve snooping in restricted areas,” he snaps.
I don’t have an answer to that. I can feel the weight of his gaze, the heat of his presence, and it’s all I can do to stand my ground.
“Get out,” he says finally.
I don’t need to be told twice. I grab the folders and bolt for the door, my heart pounding in my chest.
As I step into the hallway, I glance back over my shoulder. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes…
His eyes burn like fire.
Chapter 4
Caleb
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. Itdoesn’tmatter.
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.
