Quinn Hartford's eyes fluttered open, her vision blurry and unfocused. Pain throbbed behind her temples—a side effect of whatever drug they'd used to keep her unconscious during transport. She tried to move and immediately felt the bite of restraints around her wrists, binding her to an ornate wooden chair.The room came into focus slowly. Expensive hardwood floors. Crystal chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking manicured gardens. This wasn't some dingy warehouse or abandoned building—this was luxury. The kind of place that screamed wealth and power.Hibiscus Mansion. She'd heard of it—the most exclusive villa compound in Grayson City, where only the ultra-wealthy could afford to breathe the air."Finally awake, sleeping beauty?"Quinn's blood turned to ice. She knew that voice.Jaxon Brand stepped into view, a champagne flute in one hand, his expression twisted with smug satisfaction. He wore an expensive silk robe over designer slacks, looking every inch the spoiled heir

The BMW's door swung open, and Marcus Steel stepped out into the wreckage of Jaxon Brand's sanctuary. Shattered glass crunched beneath his feet. His eyes—glowing with golden-red fire that made the air shimmer—scanned the room with predatory precision.He saw Quinn bound to the chair, blood on her face, terror barely suppressed beneath her cold mask.And something inside Marcus broke.Dragon aura exploded from his body in a visible shockwave, a crimson-gold tsunami of ancient power that cracked the marble floors and sent furniture skidding backward. The chandeliers above swayed violently, crystals tinkling like funeral bells.Jaxon Brand stumbled, falling on his backside, his face a mask of pure terror. "Wait—wait, we can talk about this—""You touched my wife," Marcus said quietly, each word resonating with inhuman fury. "There's nothing to talk about."Outside, Cash Lawson's voice cut through the chaos: "All units, open fire! Take him down! NOW!"Forty armed bodyguards converged on t

The Moscow Style Hotel stood in Grayson City's business district, a towering monument to excess with its faux-Russian architecture and overpriced rooms. On the seventh floor, in a suite filled with sophisticated surveillance equipment and encrypted communication devices, Dmitri Volkov—known in the underworld as Iron Hoof—reclined in a leather chair, sipping vodka and monitoring data streams across three monitors.At forty-five, Iron Hoof had built a reputation as one of the Shadow Warriors' most reliable intelligence brokers. Stocky and barrel-chested with a shaved head and cold gray eyes, he'd traded information that toppled governments, destroyed corporations, and ended lives—all without breaking a sweat.Tonight was supposed to be another easy payday. A simple kidnapping job, barely worth his attention except for the generous commission.His encrypted phone buzzed. Video call. He glanced at the caller ID—Frank Morrison, captain of the Crimson Gorge mercenary squad under the Red Can

At Hibiscus Mansion, surrounded by the corpses of forty bodyguards and the ruins of Jaxon Brand's empire, Marcus Steel stood perfectly still, his dragon aura finally receding to a manageable simmer. Quinn was safe in the BMW with Dominic Martinez. The immediate threat was neutralized.But the architect of her kidnapping was still breathing.Aaron Jackson approached, holding Cash Lawson's blood-smeared phone. "Elder brother, I've got a lock on Iron Hoof's location. The moment he answered that call, our tracking software pinpointed him—Moscow Style Hotel, downtown Grayson City."Marcus's eyes—still faintly glowing with golden-red fire—turned toward his brother. "How long ago?""Three minutes. He might already be running.""Then we make sure he has nowhere to run to." Marcus's voice was utterly calm, the kind of calm that preceded absolute devastation. "Deploy everyone. I want the hotel surrounded. I want the docks monitored. I want every airport, train station, and highway out of Grayso

The tactical knife gleamed as Iron Hoof lunged forward, aiming for the manager's exposed throat. The blade moved with professional precision—a killing stroke that had ended dozens of lives across three continents.The manager's scream died before it could form.Iron Hoof's blade pierced flesh, and the older man crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. The intelligence broker stood over the corpse, breathing hard, his mind already calculating next moves.Disposal. Clean the scene. Maintain cover for forty-eight hours. Escape via cargo ship.He turned toward the storage room door, blade still dripping crimson—And froze.A figure stood in the doorway. Average height, unremarkable features, wearing casual clothes that wouldn't draw attention. But something about his presence made every instinct in Iron Hoof's body scream danger."You're Iron Hoof," the man said quietly. Not a question. A statement of fact.Iron Hoof's grip tightened on his blade. "I don't know what you're talkin