Page 11 of Fated By Fire
I move toward the center of the room, where the Heartstone sits encased in a glass containment field on a pedestal. It’s smaller than it appears at first, no bigger than my fist, but its power is unmistakable. Tonight, though, something’s off.
The stone pulses erratically, its glow flickering like a faulty bulb. I press my palm against the glass, feeling the faint vibrations through the barrier.
“What’s wrong with you?” I mutter, more to myself than to the stone.
My father’s voice echoes in my mind, low and gravelly, as if he’s standing right beside me.“The stone binds us. Protect it, or we become the monsters they fear.”
I clench my jaw as I stare into the fluctuating light. The Heartstone has been stable for years—decades, even. Its restlessness now can’t be a coincidence. Something has changed, and I don’t like not knowing what it is.
After a moment, I pull my hand back and turn away, the stone’s erratic pulse fading into the background. The elevator ride back to my office is uneventful, but the restlessness in my chest hasn’t eased.
When I step into my office, Sloane’s left a file on my desk. Jessica Mercer’s name is printed neatly on the tab. I sit down, flipping it open.
Her file is clean—too clean. Basic information: name, age, background. No red flags, but nothing substantial, either. There’s a photo clipped to the inside cover, and I can’t help but stare at it.
Those silvery gray eyes meet the camera with a quiet intensity, her expression neutral but somehow compelling. My dragon stirs again, a growl vibrating up my throat before I can stop it. I sink back in my chair, trying to shake the strange pull I feel, but it’s no use.
I flip through the folder again, pursing my lips as I scan the information. No records before five years ago. As if someone scrubbed her past.
Scrubbed her past? Get a grip, Craven.
I’m being paranoid. The records show an uneventful job history—three years as a junior analyst at a tech firm. A couple of years before that, temping for a recruitment agency. The only real blank spaces are the gap years she took after college. Thailand. Malaysia. Pretty typical, really. Half the population has probably jetted off to lie on a beach for a few months after finishing their studies.
Except you. You were chained to a desk before your graduation cap landed.
I flip the folder shut smartly. My life is irrelevant right now. I was groomed for this world, and I revel in it. How many others get to live the life I do? Fast cars, private jets, a house on every continent. I can literally have anything—or anyone—I want.
When you’re not chained to a desk…
The thought echoes, and I shove it away. I don’t have time for this shit right now.
The intercom buzzes, and I press the button. “What is it, Sloane?”
“Dorian’s here,” she says, her tone clipped.
Fuck. What now?
“Send him in.”
The door swings open before I can finish the sentence, and my twin saunters in. He’s dressed more for a nightclub than a boardroom, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to be obnoxious. A tendril of ink peeks out.
“You look terrible,” he says, dropping into the chair across from my desk.
“Thanks,” I deadpan, raising an eyebrow when he lifts a foot as if to prop it on the surface. He sets it back on the floor.
“Is it about the chewing-out Malakai gave you this morning?”
I grimace. Yet another clan meeting spiraled into another of Malakai Steele’s rants about the old ways and how I was failing our fathers. The man just won’t let it lie.
“I’m fine. I’m used to it.” I shrug.
“You shouldn’t have to be,” Dorian growls. “You are not single-handedly responsible for the downfall of the Craven Clan. We’ve always had shit to deal with. We always will.”
“I know,” I say, my eyes drawn back to the photo clipped to the folder.
“Seriously, Caleb. You’re sitting here brooding like a moody teenager. Let’s get a drink—you look like you need one.”
“I don’t have time for this.” I gesture to the teetering piles of folders. The overflowing in-tray. “I have to wrap this up.”
