Page 7 of Born in Fire

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity.” The woman from the charity gala slides into my booth, uninvited. Up close, I can see her eyes are different colors—one blue, one green. “Or so they say.”

“I passed insanity a century ago.” I offer her my glass. “Care for a taste?”

She chuckles, probably at my reference to a century of insanity, not realizing the truth in the words. She takes the glass, her lipstick leaving a crimson mark on the rim.

“Drinking alone doesn’t seem like your style, Dorian Craven.”

So she remembers my name. I should be flattered.

“And what is my style, exactly?”

“Surrounded by admirers. Center of attention.” She hands back the glass. “The charming black sheep of the Craven dynasty.”

I study her face, trying to place her beyond the gala. “Have we met properly?”

“Twice. You asked for my number both times.” She smiles, no malice in it. “I said no both times.”

That gets my attention. “Now I’m definitely intrigued.”

“I’m sure.” She glances at my phone as it lights up with another text from Caleb. “But it seems like you’ve got bigger problems tonight.”

I turn the phone face-down. “Just my brother being his usual controlling self.”

“The famous Caleb Craven.” She nods. “I’ve heard he’s brilliant. Intimidating.”

“A brilliant pain in my ass.” I signal for another whiskey. “Let’s talk about something more interesting. Like why you said no. Twice, apparently.”

She laughs, that same genuine sound I remembered. “Because you weren’t actually interested in me. You were going through the motions.”

“That’s presumptuous.”

“That’s observant.” She leans forward, her mismatched eyes direct. “You flirt like someone following a script. Very good script, don’t get me wrong. But your heart’s not in it, is it?”

The hostess arrives with my second whiskey, glancing between us with poorly concealed curiosity.

“Will your friend be joining you for a drink?” she asks.

Before I can answer, the woman stands. “No, I was just leaving.” She looks down at me with a small smile. “For what it’s worth, Dorian, there’s more to you than your reputation. Maybe figure out what that is.”

She walks away before I can respond, rejoining her friends, who immediately lean in for details. I watch her laugh, shake her head. Whatever she’s telling them, it’s not the story they expected.

I stare at my fresh whiskey, the amber liquid the exact shade of Caleb’s eyes. Of my eyes. Dragon eyes, our father called them.

Predator’s eyes.

The music pounds, the crowd writhes, and suddenly, I feel utterly disconnected from all of it. The game—the endless cycle of drinks and conquest and temporary pleasure—suddenly seems exhausting.

My phone lights up again.

Did you see the revised language?

I pocket the phone without answering, leave cash on the table, and head for the exit. The night air hits me like clarity after the club’s stuffy heat. Seattle stretches before me, the Space Needle illuminated against the night sky. I loosen my collar further, breathing in the scent of salt water from the distant harbor.

When the valet spots me, he immediately jumps to attention, but I wave him away.

“I’m taking a walk,” I tell him as I head down the sidewalk. I need to clear my mind.

What the hell is wrong with me lately? I’ve played my part for centuries—the charming rebel, the counterpoint to Caleb’s rigid control. It fit me like a second skin. Or I thought it did.

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