Page 100 of Dalla's Royal Guards
Debra blinked.
She looked at her computer screen. The screen was empty. Just her login prompt staring back.
She reached for the folders.
The papers inside them were gone.
She stood abruptly, her pulse hammering.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Cosmos Raines,” she muttered.
A slow smile tugged at her lips.
“I guess if I’m part of the team, I should introduce myself.”
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Kramer O’Toole sat in the high-backed chair near the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out over the glittering expanse of Dubai. The city lights pulsed and shimmered against the night, a vibrant, restless creature. In the reflection of the glass, his own image looked ghostly pale.
Next to him, a thick folder lay on the side table. The latest report of his collapsing financial empire and, almost cruelly neat in its placement, Doris’s letter of resignation. A faint ring of moisture spread across the crisp paper, marking where his untouched glass of scotch had sweated in the heat of his hand.
He lifted the glass again, absently swirling the amber liquid. He didn’t drink. His mind was too busy clawing for answers.
Four months.
That’s all it had taken. Four months to raze everything he had built over two decades to ash.
His accounts were seized, his businesses gutted, and his allies silent.
Contacts he once counted as friends now avoided him like the plague.
Kramer thought of all those who were shunning him now. One day, vengeance would be his.
He needed Dalla Bogadottir.
Her immortality. Her power.
With it, he could rebuild.
His jaw clenched. He would find her. He would make her give him the secret to her immortality.
He was so lost in his tangle of desperation and fury that he didn’t realize at first that he was no longer alone.
A ripple of awareness crawled down his spine.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the reflection in the glass.
A man stood behind him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark skin like polished obsidian. Dressed in a black shirt and slacks that seemed to absorb the faint light. Hands resting casually in his pockets.
But it was the man’s eyes—calm, unblinking, ancient—that sent a chill through Kramer’s bones.
“I’d offer you a seat,” Kramer said dryly, voice rough, “but there isn’t one.” He’d always made his guests stand. Recently he’d doubted whether he would ever have a guest again.
The man didn’t respond. He simply stepped forward to stand beside Kramer, gazing out over the city as if he had all the time in the world.
Kramer studied him, instinct whispering warnings he tried to ignore. “Who are you?” he asked finally, forcing his voice to stay steady.
