Page 18 of Fated By Fire

“It couldn’t be Caleb,” I murmur. “He wouldn’t have been much more than a teenager when she went missing.”

I stop pacing, my gaze drawn to the corkboard on the wall. Mom’s Polaroid stares back at me, her eyes shadowed by something I couldn’t understand as a child. Was she hidingsomething? Was something going on that she couldn’t tell me about?

The rain picks up outside, pelting the windows like a warning. I sit back down at the desk and pull up the Craven Industries database on my laptop. I swiped Greg’s access details a couple of days ago, giving me carte blanche, and I start digging deeper, searching for anything that might connect the company—or Caleb—to Mom.

Hours pass, and the collection of coffee cups on my desk grows. I’m knee-deep in corporate reports, financial statements, and cryptic emails when I finally find something. It’s buried deep in a sub-folder marked “Archives—Restricted Access,” but Mara’s hacking skills have opened doors I shouldn’t be able to walk through.

The file is a collection of old photographs and documents, some dating back over a century. One image catches my eye: a group of men standing in front of an old stone mansion, their expressions stern, their postures rigid. They’re all huge, muscular, and glowering. Dangerous-looking despite the tailored suits and careful grooming. The caption reads:Craven Clan Board Members, 1874.

Again, I’m struck by the history surrounding the company. I lean closer to the screen, squinting at the sepia-tone image to get a better look. The details are faded but the longer I look, the more I start to make out.

And then I stop short as I spot a woman standing slightly apart from the group. She’s dressed in a long, flowing dark dress, her dark hair pinned up into a neat roll, leaving the long line of her neck bare. Her face is turned slightly away, but I’d recognize that profile anywhere.

Mom.

My hands tremble as I zoom in, trying to make the photograph bigger. It pixelated and blurs, but there’s no mistaking it—it’s her.

Holy fucking shit!

But how? This photo is over a hundred years old. I stare at it, my mind reeling.

It’s not possible. It can’t be. And the more I stare at it, the harder I look, the more certain I am that it’s her. And there’s only one possible explanation.

I’ve lost my goddamned mind.

Chapter 7

Caleb

Why the hell did you go back into that bar?

The whiskey in my glass swirls in agitated circles as I stare out the window of my penthouse office, the city lights below blurring into a smudge of gold and blue. My thoughts are a mess, tangled like a ball of yarn I can’t seem to unravel.

I raise the glass to my lips, the liquor hitting my tongue like a lit match, but its fiery trail doesn’t settle the storm in my head. The room is a vacuum, thick with a silence that presses against my ears, punctuated only by the distant mechanical hum of the city, muffled through layers of glass and steel. Suddenly, it feels like more than just a window. It’s the barrier I put up between the rest of the world and the isolation that has become my life.

That kiss.

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

And yet, it does.

Jessica Mercer—a simple data archivist—shouldn’t have that kind of effect on me. No woman does. I don’t have time for distractions, especially not ones that could jeopardize everything I’ve worked for. But the memory of her lips against mine lingers, a spark I can’t seem to extinguish. I clench my jaw, my grip tightening around the glass. She’s a problem. A complication. And I don’t do complications.

I set the glass down with a sharp clink, the sound echoing in the empty room. My dragon stirs restlessly beneath my skin, my lungs rattling with the vibrations of a low growl. It’s been restless ever since the Heartstone started acting up, and now, thanks to Jessica, it’s practically demanding I do something. I can feel its impatience, its rage, like a second heartbeat thrumming beneath my skin. It wants answers. It wants action. But what the hell am I supposed to do?

Get over it!

I’d be thinking more clearly if I wasn’t distracted by the thought of plump, lush lips against mine. The scent of her in my nostrils.

This woman is a goddamn problem.

I shouldn’t have gone back into that damn bar. What the fuck was I thinking? I’m never so impulsive. I wouldn’t have gone at all if Dorian hadn’t goaded me with reminders of our father’s fate. I’m not that man. I won’t end up that way.

Is that why I went back? To prove to myself that there’s more to me?

I glance at the folder on my desk, the one Sloane left earlier. Jessica’s file is still open, her photo staring up at me with those sharp, gray eyes. She’s hiding something; that much is obvious. The question is, what? And why does it feel like she’s the key to everything? I slam the folder shut, the sound sharp in the silence. I don’t like this. I don’t like her. And I don’t like the way she’s burrowed under my skin like a goddamn splinter.

The intercom buzzes, and I press the button, my voice sharp in the silence. “What is it, Sloane?”

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