Page 5 of Born in Fire

I sit up, dropping the bored act. “It’s the same language we’ve used in our last eight acquisitions.”

“And it’s been wrong eight times.” He makes a note with his ridiculously expensive fountain pen. “Fix it.”

The old familiar heat crawls up my neck. I force it down, keeping my voice light. “You know what your problem is, Caleb? You’ve forgotten how to delegate.”

“And you’ve forgotten that details matter.”

“I got the dirt on the shell company, didn’t I?” I lean forward. “While you were reorganizing your color-coded folders, I was having drinks with their CFO, who got just drunk enough to mention Blackthorn’s off-book transactions.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow. “And how many martinis did that intelligence cost the company?”

“Three. Plus, I had to listen to him drone about his boat for an hour.” I lean back again. “You’re welcome.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile. Then it’s gone, replaced by his default expression: constipated professionalism.

“The language still needs fixing.” He taps his pen against the report.

I throw up my hands. “Jesus Christ, Caleb. This is why Dad gave you seventy percent of the voting shares and me thirty. You’re exactly like him—micromanaging every goddamn comma.”

Any hint of humor in his expression evaporates.

Shit. I went too far.

Caleb sets down his pen with deliberate care. “Dad gave me seventy percent because I understand responsibility.”

“No, Dad gave you seventy percent because you were born five minutes before me, and he was obsessed with primogeniture like it’s still the fucking Middle Ages.”

“Primogeniture?” he scoffs. “When did you swallow a dictionary?”

I puff out a breath. “Okay… It means he was anal about keeping his first-born in power. Happy? It was still just five fucking minutes.”

“Five minutes was enough time to develop a work ethic, apparently.”

I stand, my chair rolling backward and hitting the wall. “A work ethic? I closed this deal. I found the shell company. I’ve doubled our tech portfolio in three years.”

“While sleeping with half of Seattle.” Caleb steeples his fingers beneath his chin, looking smug.

Bastard.

“At least I sleep.” I gesture to the security feeds on his wall screen. “When’s the last time you weren’t here until midnight? You’re turning into him, you know. Going to die right there at that desk, probably mid-email.”

His face goes blank—the look that means I’ve scored a direct hit. Our father died of a heart attack in this very office. For dragons, it was an embarrassment. No glorious battle, no legendary last stand. Just an old man with high cholesterol who worked himself to death.

Caleb literally can’t say it out loud.

My brother straightens his already straight tie. “Some of us take our clan responsibilities seriously.” His voice is low.

“The clan responsibility of correcting punctuation? Very heroic.” I snort.

“I have to maintain standards.” His voice is as crisp as his pressed shirt. Classic Caleb—hiding behind protocol when emotions get too messy. He probably irons his socks, too.

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Standards? Is that what we’re calling it now? Christ, you’re more obsessed with semicolons than you are with the fact that the Syndicate is breathing down our necks. If those fuckers are planning another clan heist, all they have to do is wait for your next grammar lesson.”

“You think I’m not on top of that too?” he snaps. “Someone has to keep an eye on the ball.”

“And someone has to actually live, Caleb.” I turn toward the door, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. “The acquisitioncloses tomorrow. The language stays as is. If you want to change it, do it yourself.”

He watches me, amber eyes unreadable. We have the same eyes, same height, same dark hair. Genetics playing its cruelest joke—making us mirrors of each other while programming us to be fundamentally incompatible.

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