Page 6 of Born in Fire

Except he’s my twin brother and I love him beyond reason. The bond between us is so tangible, I can often share his thoughts, feel what he’s feeling. Right now, it’s frustration.

I exhale slowly and stop walking, releasing the pent-up tension that’s building.

This is bullshit.

“I’m sorry, bro. Let’s get breakfast,” I say, extending an olive branch despite myself. “The Grind & Bean, 7 a.m—your favorite time of day.” I grin winningly. “We can catch up without all…” I wave an arm at his desk. “This.”

There’s an extended pause; for a moment, I’m certain he’s going to turn me down.

Then he nods once. “Fine.”

As conciliatory gestures go, this is as good as it gets.

“See you then.” I leave without another word, taking the elevator down forty-eight floors, loosening my collar as I descend. The tension from our conversation still crawls under my skin like fire ants. Typical fucking Caleb—always has to have the last word, always has to be the responsible one.

But I guess I can’t blame him. It’s not just this latest deal. He’s been antsy about the Heartstone acting up lately. Our family heirloom hasn’t acted up in decades, but now it’s setting him off with its freakish energy surges. Crystals aren’t supposed to do that, but then again, this one is different. A shiny stone that controls our entire fucking bloodline. And Caleb has to guard it, or everything goes to shit.

No pressure.

By the time I hit the lobby, I’ve unbuttoned my cuffs and rolled up my sleeves, the dragon scale tattoos on my forearms visible again. I flex my fingers, feeling the relief of shedding these corporate constraints.

The security guard nods at me; he’s used to seeing the CEO’s wild twin emerge from the suits they try to stuff me into. My armor coming off while Caleb’s stays firmly in place.

That’s always been our dynamic—him locked in his perfect posture and pressed suits, me breaking free the moment I’m out of the stainless-steel cage.

I have to get out of this place before it smothers me.

Heading to the executive parking bay, I pick out my red Jaguar and slide into the driver’s seat. The engine purrs to life as I start it up and reverse out of the bay at a speed that’s just a hair shy of reckless.

The night is calling. And with it, the nightlife.

Time to get my freak on… and I know exactly where to do it.

The bass at Obsidian hits me like a wave as I push through the doors. Bodies press together on the dance floor, a mass of perfume, sweat, and desperation. My kind of place—or it used to be.

I make my way to the VIP section, nodding to the bouncer, who recognizes me instantly. No waiting in line when you’ve dropped enough cash to buy his car several times over.

“Mr. Craven.” The hostess appears, all legs and practiced smile. “Your usual table?”

“Why break tradition?” I flash her the grin that’s opened more doors than my black Amex. She leads me to the corner booth with the best view of both the dance floor and the entrance—old habits from centuries of watching for threats.

“Bottle service?” she asks, leaning close enough to brush her tits up against me.

“Macallan 25.” I settle into the leather booth. “Just one glass.”

Her smile falters for a second—Dorian Craven drinking alone is apparently newsworthy—but she recovers quickly. “Right away.”

The whiskey arrives as three women at the adjacent table notice me. I recognize one from a charity gala last month. Can’t remember her name, but I remember the way she laughed—genuine, not the manufactured trill most society women perfect. She catches my eye and whispers to her friends.

My phone buzzes. Caleb, of course.

Language still needs fixing. Sending revised draft.

I drop the phone on the table without responding. The screen lights up again immediately.

And wear a tie tomorrow.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, downing half my whiskey in one swallow. The burn is comforting. Unlike the hollow feeling that’s been growing in my chest for… months? Years? Hard to mark time when you’ve lived as long as I have.

---