Page 30 of Born in Fire
My mind keeps drifting back to 5 a.m., when I hit the street outside Juno’s apartment. Seattle’s morning chill had slapped me in the face—a welcome distraction from the hurricane in my head.
What the fuck had happened in there?
Even now, hours later, I can still feel the phantom sensation of her skin burning on my fingertips. I’d walked for blocks, trying to clear my head before returning to my car. One foot in front of the other. Simple mechanics. Unlike whatever complicated bullshit was happening in my chest.
I push back from the table and pace toward the windows of my warehouse apartment. The Seattle skyline stretches before me, but I’m not seeing it. I’m seeing her face, feeling her body trembling against mine.
I’ve never—never—spent the night just holding someone. Never carried anyone to bed without following them in. Never felt this bizarre, unsettling protectiveness that made me want to hunt down whoever left those flowers and tear his throat out.
This is what happens when you don’t get laid properly. Your brain goes haywire.
That had been my first thought this morning. The simplest explanation: I just need to get her out of my system.
Except that’s not it, and I know it. When she had that panic attack, something broke in me. Seeing her like that—gasping for air, eyes wide with terror—triggered a response I didn’t know I had. An overwhelming need to shelter, to protect.
Dragons don’t do vulnerable, Dorian. Get your shit together.
I check my phone for the third time in ten minutes. No messages from Juno. Should I text her? What would I even say?‘Hey, hope you’re doing better after your panic attack. By the way, I can’t stop thinking about how you felt against me.’
Jesus. I sound like a teenager.
I return to the papers, forcing myself to focus on the NyxCorp data. Something still feels off about their Heritage Assets subsidiary. Lydia was right to flag their unusual purchasing patterns—all that weird-assed historical shit…
What the hell are they up to?
I make notes in the margins, circling suspicious expenditures. But my mind keeps drifting to Juno’s apartment, to the scent of lilies that triggered her panic, to the man who sent them.
Ex-boyfriend, she’d said. The kind who doesn’t understand when something’s over. Well, he’s going to learn the hard way if I have anything to do with it. The hard, painful way.
I’m halfway through drafting an email to our research team when my phone rings. Sloane’s name flashes on the screen. I suppress a groan. If Caleb is chasing me through his assistant, I must be seriously late for something.
“If this is about the quarterly projections, tell my brother I’ll—”
“Dorian,” Sloane’s crisp voice cuts me off. “There’s been a security breach at Craven Towers. Your brother needs you here immediately.”
My spine straightens instinctively. Sloane doesn’t use that tone unless something’s genuinely wrong.
“What kind of breach?”
“He’ll tell you more when you get here. But he’s… agitated.”
Caleb? Agitated?
My brother’s emotional range typically spans from stoic to slightly less stoic.
“I’m on my way.”
I grab my keys and jacket, my mind already shifting gears. Security breach could mean corporate espionage, competitor aggression, or—worst case—something to do with the Heartstone.
As I swing onto my motorcycle, Juno’s face flickers through my mind. Just for a second. Then I’m racing through traffic, weaving between cars with the precision that comes from reflexes honed over centuries.
Whatever’s happening, it’s bad. I can feel it in my bones.
I make the trip in record time, engine roaring as I pull up at the towering office block. The underground parking at Craven Towers is unusually active when I arrive. Security personnel move with purpose, speaking quietly into radios. I catch fragments—“vault,” “midnight,” “no visuals”—that spike my concern.
The elevator ride to the executive floor gives me thirty seconds to prepare. I loosen my shoulders, slip on the mask of casualindifference I’ve perfected over centuries. Whatever fire Caleb’s battling, he doesn’t need my panic added to it.
As the doors open, I catch the tail end of a heated exchange. A woman with electric blue hair is gesticulating wildly at Sloane, her voice carrying down the corridor. I recognize her from a bar we went to a few days back. When my uptight brother had acted totally out of character and joined in a lame-assed game of Truth or Dare and then kissed a girl. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.
