Chapter 6
JACOB
T he bungalow’s sheets were still warm when I woke, tangled in the scent of whiskey, salt, and her.
Camille.
She’d been true to her word, slipping out before dawn like a shadow, leaving me alone in her bed with nothing but the memory of her body under mine.
My head throbbed, a dull hammer behind my eyes, the hangover clawing for attention.
Part of me wanted to hunt down a greasy diner, choke down eggs and bacon, and drown myself in water and coffee until the haze lifted.
But the clock on my phone read 0530, and Dominion Hall was waiting. I had to move.
I rolled out of bed, my muscles stiff from the night’s exertion—her nails on my skin, her thighs around my waist, the way she’d demanded harder like it was a mission I couldn’t fail.
My cock twitched at the thought, and I cursed under my breath, pulling on my clothes.
Jeans, boots, a black T-shirt that smelled faintly of the ocean.
I splashed water on my face in her bathroom, the mirror showing a man who looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a ghost and lost. My jaw was shadowed with stubble, a nick from a hasty shave yesterday still raw. I didn’t have time to care.
I grabbed my keys, locked her door behind me, and jogged—then stopped short at the curb, remembering my Jeep was still sleeping it off at the bar.
I called a cab, then watched the bungalow’s porch light wink out behind me like it wanted me back.
Ten quiet minutes later the driver rolled into the gravel lot at Salty Mike’s, tires crunching.
My Jeep sat where I’d left her, unbothered.
I paid cash, jogged across the stones, climbed in, and turned the key. Time to move.
Charleston was still half-asleep, the streets quiet except for the hum of early delivery trucks and the distant clatter of crab traps being stacked on the docks.
The air was thick, heavy with the promise of heat, and my head pounded with every turn of the wheel.
I pushed the Jeep hard, weaving through the cobblestone streets, the harbor glinting in my peripheral vision.
Dominion Hall loomed in my mind, a fortress of questions I didn’t have answers for. Meachum’s voice echoed— well-connected, do your job —and I gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing the memory of Camille’s mouth out of my head. Focus, Dane.
I pulled up to the property at 0558, the black iron gates of Dominion Hall already swinging open, silent and smooth, like they’d been expecting me.
I parked under a live oak, its Spanish moss dripping like a warning, and stepped out, sprinklers tick-tick-ticking as they doused the manicured grass.
The mansion sprawled before me, stone and glass catching the first light of dawn, its reflection on the harbor sharp.
My pulse steadied, training kicking in. I was here to learn, to map the terrain, to figure out what the hell these people wanted with a Marine like me. I straightened, face impassive, and walked toward the portico.
The door opened before I reached it, a man in a tailored suit nodding once, his eyes scanning me with precision. I stepped inside, the cool air hitting my skin like a command to stand down. Then I saw her.
Camille. Standing under the portico, her dark hair pulled back, a skirt clinging to her legs like she’d just walked out of the sea.
What the hell was she doing here?
My jaw tightened, but I kept my face blank, years of staring down bad guys teaching me to bury surprise.
She looked at me, her eyes catching mine for a split second—recognition, heat, something unspoken—before she turned away, speaking low to a woman in a Navy uniform.
My chest tightened, the memory of her gasping under me flashing unbidden.
I forced it down, but not before I caught the eyes of two men nearby.
They were the real deal. Hardened, not by posturing but by the kind of life that left scars you didn’t show.
One was broad, coiled, moving like a scout who’d seen too many ambushes to trust a clear path.
The other was massive, a bearded mountain of a man whose stillness felt like a storm waiting to break.
Their faces were placid, stern but gracious, like hosts who knew how to welcome you while measuring how fast they could take you apart.
They’d seen the recognition between me and Camille.
No question. Their eyes didn’t linger, but I felt the weight of their assessment, like a scope on my back.
Camille stepped past me, her gaze cutting sideways. “Try not to drown today,” she said, her voice light but edged, like she was tossing a grenade and walking away.
I let my mouth curve, just enough to match her. “Breathe,” I said, low, almost under my breath. “You’re better when you do.”
Her lips twitched, a lean little smile, and then she was gone, moving toward her SUV with a stride that said she owned the ground under her feet. The Navy woman jogged after her, handing her a folder, their voices fading into the morning.
I didn’t watch her go. I didn’t need to. The memory of her was already burned into me, her taste still lingering on my tongue.
The man in the suit gestured me forward. “This way, Captain.”
I followed, my steps echoing on the polished floor of the foyer.
The space was massive, chandeliers glinting like they cost more than ten of my entire careers, oil paintings lining the walls—storms and ships, all framed in heavy wood that screamed money.
The air smelled of cedar and polish, with a faint undercurrent of salt from the harbor outside.
Two men stepped out from a side corridor, the same ones I’d clocked outside.
“Ryker,” the scout said, his voice low, clipped, like he didn’t waste words. He wore a dark shirt, worn but tailored, the kind of fabric that said money but didn’t shout it. His eyes were sharp, scanning me like he was mapping my edges.
“Atlas,” the big one said, his voice deep, resonating like a bass note.
His beard was neat, his clothes—dark pants, a henley—looked lived-in but expensive, the kind of gear that could take a beating and still cost a month’s pay.
He offered a hand, his grip firm but not crushing, a test I passed by not flinching.
“Jacob,” I said, keeping it simple. “Got coffee?”
Ryker’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “This way.”
They led me through the maze of Dominion Hall, corridors branching off like arteries, each one lined with details I cataloged: cameras tucked into corners, their lenses discreet but active; a heavy oak door with a biometric lock; a window overlooking a courtyard where a groundskeeper trimmed hedges with surgical precision.
My head throbbed, but I kept my face impassive, my stride steady. Recon was recon, hungover or not.
I noted a glass enclosure in one alcove, a black viper coiled inside, its scales glinting like oil under the light. Obsidian , a plaque read. A pet or a warning, I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.
The hall opened into the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen—stainless steel counters stretching like runways, a massive island in the center, burners that looked like they could melt steel.
Copper pots hung from a rack, polished to a gleam, and a Sub-Zero fridge hummed quietly in the corner.
The windows faced the harbor, dawn painting the water gold, and I caught the faint scent of fresh bread, like someone had been baking before the sun came up.
Ryker moved to a coffee station, pouring a mug from a French press, the dark roast’s aroma cutting through the fog in my head. He slid it across the island, and I took it, the heat scalding my palm.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. It was strong, bitter, exactly what I needed.
Ryker leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
“Navy’s in hot water with the environmental folks,” he said, his tone dry, like he was stating a fact he didn’t particularly care about.
“With us as liaisons, they’re supposed to do everything they can to appease the formidable Dr. Camille Allard.
” He paused, his eyes locking on mine. “But you already know that.”
I didn’t react, just took another gulp of coffee, the burn grounding me. The image of Camille’s head tilted back, my cock halfway down her throat, flashed through my mind.
I shoved it down. Hard. I didn’t do that—didn’t let women unravel me, didn’t let desire cloud the mission. Being an elite operator, a leader of Marines, left no room for free-range sex, no matter how much I loved the raw, messy beauty of a woman’s body.
Last night had been an exception, a lapse, and I wasn’t about to confess it to these men. They didn’t need to know.
“Is that why I’m here?” I asked, keeping my voice even. “To help the Navy?”
Ryker and Atlas exchanged a look, quick but loaded, like they were passing a silent message.
Atlas spoke, his voice calm but heavy, and in fluent French he said something about my reputation as a joint special forces leader preceding me, that they were possibly in the hunt for a man like me to help with a delicate task.
I wanted to slam my mug down, demand answers. They’d torn me from a mission—real stakes, national security implications, lives on the line—for what? A recruitment pitch? A fucking getaway?
My jaw tightened, but I kept it locked, my face a mask. I was here to learn, not to burn bridges before I knew what they were building.
Atlas smiled, faint, like he’d read my thoughts. Then, in fluent Mandarin, he said, “You’ll spend some time with our brother Marcus. He’ll give you the full dog-and-pony show.”
My brows lifted slightly—Mandarin wasn’t a language I advertised, but I spoke it, picked up from ops in places where it paid to listen. I didn’t let on that I understood, just nodded.
What else did they know about me?
Ryker chimed in, his tone dry. “Keep an eye on your wallet, though. It’s Marcus.”
Atlas chuckled, a low rumble. “He’s not wrong.”
They led me out of the kitchen, back through the maze of corridors, and toward the harbor side of the compound.
I noted more details: a framed map of the Eastern Seaboard, old but precise, hanging in a hallway; a faint hum of electronics from behind a closed door; the way the floors gleamed, not a speck of dust, like someone swept them hourly.
My head throbbed, but the coffee helped, sharpening my senses. The viper’s enclosure caught my eye again as we passed —its tongue flicked, tasting the air, its eyes unblinking. I filed it away, another piece of the puzzle.
We stepped outside, the morning air hitting me like a slap, humid but cooler by the water.
The harbor stretched before us, gold and gray under the rising sun, and a massive yacht was pulling up to the private dock, its hull sleek and black, cutting through the water like a knife.
A man stood at the railing, blonde hair catching the light, a wetsuit clinging to a frame that looked like it belonged in a surf magazine.
He waved at us, a big, kid-like grin splitting his face, like he was greeting old friends at a barbecue.
Atlas nodded toward him. “That’s Marcus. Listen to Ryker. Keep your valuables hidden.”
I studied the man—Marcus—his energy bright but not careless, his movements fluid as he helped tie off the yacht.
My mind churned with questions. Who were these men? What was Dominion Hall? Why me? Why now?
The Navy thing didn’t add up—Camille’s fight was real, but I wasn’t here to play eco-warrior.
There was something bigger, something they weren’t saying.
My training screamed to demand answers, to map the threat, but I kept my mouth shut.
Recon meant watching, listening, waiting for the pieces to fall into place.
Marcus vaulted over the railing, landing lightly on the dock, and jogged toward us, his grin unwavering. Up close, he was younger than I’d thought, maybe early thirties, with eyes that sparkled like he knew a secret and couldn’t wait to spill it.
“You must be Jacob,” he called, voice carrying over the water. “Ready for the grand tour?”
I nodded, keeping my face neutral. “Lead the way.”
Ryker and Atlas fell back, their presence still heavy, like shadows you couldn’t shake. Marcus gestured toward the yacht, his energy infectious but not enough to crack my guard.
My head was a storm of questions—Camille, the Navy, this place, these men—but for now, I’d go along. I’d watch. I’d learn. And when the time came, I’d decide what to do with the answers.
The yacht’s engine purred, the dock creaking under our steps. The harbor shimmered, and somewhere out there, Camille was fighting her war. I didn’t know where I fit in hers, or in this place, but I’d find out. One way or another.