Saintess's Worthless Husband Turned Dragon Commander novel Chapter 7

The address Seraphine had given him led to the old industrial district, where streetlights flickered like dying fireflies and shadows pooled thick between abandoned warehouses. Marcus Steel walked with purpose, his newly awakened dragon senses alert to every whisper of movement in the darkness.

He’d barely turned down a narrow alley when they struck.

Four figures emerged from the shadows like wraiths—professional killers dressed in black tactical gear, their faces masked, their movements coordinated. The lead assassin raised a silenced pistol without hesitation.

Marcus moved.

His body flowed with superhuman grace, dragon power flooding his muscles. He sidestepped the first shot with impossible speed, the bullet sparking off brick where his head had been a heartbeat before. The second assassin lunged with a combat knife, but Marcus caught his wrist mid-strike, twisted, and the crack of breaking bone echoed through the alley.

“Who sent you?” Marcus demanded, but they didn’t answer—professionals never did.

The third assassin came at him with a tactical baton. Marcus ducked under the swing, drove his fist into the man’s solar plexus with dragon-enhanced strength. Ribs cracked. The assassin flew backward ten feet, crashing into a dumpster hard enough to dent the metal.

The fourth tried to flee.

Marcus was faster. He caught the man by the collar, slammed him against the brick wall hard enough to crack mortar. “Last chance. Who. Sent. You?”

“J-Jasper Grant,” the assassin gasped, blood trickling from his mouth. “Alexander Grant’s brother. Said… said you were a threat. Had to be eliminated before—”

Marcus dropped him. The assassin crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Alexander’s brother. So the Grant family was already moving against him. How predictable.

Marcus continued to the address Seraphine had given him—a nondescript building with a sign reading “Copper Phoenix Lounge.” The kind of place that looked ordinary but hummed with barely concealed power. He pushed through the doors into a world of polished mahogany, leather booths, and the subtle scent of expensive cigars.

A man intercepted him immediately—tall, broad-shouldered, with the controlled violence of a predator wearing human skin. His eyes widened with recognition that went beyond mere sight.

“Mr. Steel,” the man breathed, voice tight with tension and barely contained joy. “My name is Aaron Jackson. Please, come to my office. We have much to discuss.”

The office was luxurious—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, furniture that cost more than most people’s cars. Aaron closed the door carefully, his hands shaking slightly.

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