The Commander (Dominion Hall #3)

Chapter 1

1

ANNA

C harleston was alive in a way that wrapped around you.

The air hummed with the lazy murmur of conversation, the clink of crystal, the deep, melodic chime of a distant church bell marking the hour. Heat filled the air, lingering long after the sun had dipped below the horizon, carrying the scent of salt, magnolias, and something richer—jasmine, maybe.

I inhaled, steadying my breath as my fingers glided over the strings, coaxing the first delicate notes of “Clair de Lune” into the warm Charleston night.

Music was my language, my anchor. No matter where I played, no matter how foreign a place felt, my fingers always knew the way home.

The event was elegant, even by Charleston’s impossibly high standards. Garrison Green, one of the city’s most coveted venues, was a masterpiece of old-world charm and modern refinement—a hidden courtyard tucked behind wrought iron gates, where ivy crept up stucco walls and lanterns flickered beneath towering palmettos. The space had been transformed for tonight’s private dinner, tables draped in linen and adorned with gold-rimmed glassware, flickering candlelight casting long shadows across polished stone.

I was the entertainment.

Alone at the edge of the courtyard, perched on the velvet bench of my harp, I let the music unfurl, curling into the warm, summer-thick night. It was a somewhat strange feeling—playing solo instead of with an orchestra, but I didn’t mind. The intimacy of it, the way each note stretched into the evening air, made the world feel smaller, more connected.

Even if I still wasn’t used to this heat.

Boston summers could be humid, but Charleston was something else entirely. The warmth was relentless, sinking into my skin, clinging to the delicate silk of my white dress. I resisted the urge to fan myself, maintaining perfect posture as my fingers glided over the strings. It was part of the job—graceful, effortless composure, even when sweat threatened to bead along my spine.

A challenge, but one I met with a smile.

Because if there was one thing my mother had taught me, it was this: always look for beauty, even in discomfort.

The thought made my fingers falter, just slightly.

I exhaled and refocused. No distractions.

I had only been in Charleston for two weeks, part of a temporary artist-in-residence program with the Charleston Philharmonic. A few months in the South, a new city, new audiences—it was exactly the kind of opportunity my parents had dreamed of when we left Russia all those years ago. The symphony had provided housing, rehearsal space, and a packed schedule of performances, including private events like this one. But the real highlight?

I had arrived at the perfect time—right before Spoleto Festival season.

The world-renowned arts festival would soon take over the city, filling theaters, parks, and historic venues with music, dance, and opera. It was an honor to be invited to perform, a chance to be part of something bigger, something brilliant. And if I played well enough, if the right people were listening, maybe it would open even more doors.

Charleston was temporary. But what I built here? That could last.

I let my fingers glide effortlessly over the strings, weaving a melody that drifted through the night like moonlight on water—soft, shimmering, full of quiet longing. The notes swelled and faded in delicate waves, each one a whisper of something just out of reach, something ethereal and infinite.

It felt almost heavenly to make music like this, my hands a conduit for something sacred. Something that transcended time and space. I was definitely in my happy place.

Then I saw him.

It was instinct, the way my gaze flicked up. And there he was, standing near the edge of the crowd, half in shadow, watching.

A man who didn’t belong at an event like this, yet somehow owned the space around him.

My hands nearly slipped on the strings.

He was impossibly tall. A broad, hulking figure poured into a tuxedo that somehow didn’t soften him. If anything, it made him more severe. Like dressing a beast in silk. The deep navy of his jacket stretched over muscle, the crisp white of his shirt a stark contrast to the dark, neatly trimmed brown beard shadowing his jaw.

And his eyes—rich, unreadable, piercing even in the dim glow of candlelight.

I didn’t realize I had slowed the tempo of my playing until the shift in music made me blink. I forced my focus back to the harp, adjusting, smoothing the transition as if I hadn’t just lost my rhythm over a stranger.

Because that’s what he was. A stranger.

And yet, something about him made me feel like he wasn’t just another guest at this dinner party. He didn’t mingle, didn’t chat or sip champagne like the others. He simply watched, his presence too heavy, too deliberate to be casual.

There was something remarkable about him. I could feel it.

Maybe I’d ask one of my colleagues at the symphony if he was someone I should know. Charleston had its share of powerful men who moved in shadows rather than spotlights.

And judging by the way this man carried himself—like he owned the space without needing to prove it—he was one of them. I got the idea that men like him didn’t simply watch for the sake of entertainment. And he was watching me.

The awareness of it made my skin prickle.

I tore my gaze away, fixing my attention on the delicate gold filigree of the harp, on the soft flicker of candlelight. But I felt him.

A thought slipped in, unbidden, wicked.

That beard—coarse and trimmed just enough to tease. I imagined how it would feel against the softest parts of me, the rasp of it dragging over my skin as he kissed his way lower, between my thighs. A shiver curled down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly before I could stop it.

Delicious.

The melody shifted under my fingers, something unintentional weaving into the music. Darker. Deeper.

I needed to get through this song without making a fool of myself. I straightened my posture, pushing away the unease moving through my body.

Focus. You are a professional, Anya Petrov. You do not let handsome, brooding strangers throw you off.

I plucked a final, lingering note and let it fade into the night. The murmurs of conversation rose again, a few polite claps rippling through the courtyard.

I smiled, nodding in thanks.

And then I stood.

Too fast.

My heel caught on the edge of the bench, and— oh, no .

My stomach lurched as the world tilted. My vision blurred, the ground rushing up to meet me. But before I could make impact, something unyielding caught me.

Not something. Someone.

A firm grip closed around my waist, steadying me as easily as if I weighed nothing. Heat seared through the fabric of my dress where his hands rested—broad, strong hands that didn’t belong at a dinner party.

I sucked in a breath. Cedar and whiskey.

I tilted my chin up, heart hammering against my ribs.

He was too close. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the faint furrow between his brows. Close enough that I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his jacket.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling thing that seemed to vibrate through my skin.

I swallowed, my fingers wrapping instinctively around his forearm. His muscles tensed under my touch—like granite, solid and unmoving.

“I, um—” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

His eyes flicked down, tracing the lingering tremor in my fingers before lifting back to mine. “Are you always this … unsteady on your feet after a performance?”

There was no bite to the words, only observation.

Heat prickled at my cheeks. “Only when large, terrifying men appear out of nowhere and throw me off my game.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression. Amusement? Maybe.

His hands stayed on my waist for a second too long.

Or maybe I just wanted to believe that.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped back. My body instantly missed his warmth, the steadiness of him.

“You play it slower than most,” he said, his voice low. “More delicate.”

I blinked, thrown off by the observation. “What?”

“‘Clair de Lune,’” he clarified, his eyes steady on mine. “Most rush the phrasing. You let it breathe.”

Surprise flickered through me. It wasn’t just that he recognized the piece—plenty of people knew “Clair de Lune”—but the way he spoke about it, like he actually understood it. Like he had listened.

“You know Debussy?” I asked, tilting my head.

“I know classical music.”

That shouldn’t have intrigued me as much as it did. But it did.

We watched each other for a moment, a warm mutual admiration blossoming.

“Enjoy your evening,” he said, his voice quieter now. And then, just as effortlessly as he’d caught me, he turned to go.

“Wait,” I said before I could think better of it, reaching out as if I could physically stop him. “You saved me from complete humiliation. At least let me introduce myself before you disappear into the night.”

His steps slowed, and he turned back, watching me with that same steady, unreadable expression.

“Anna Peters,” I offered, smoothing my dress as I met his gaze. “I’m from Boston.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Atlas.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just Atlas?”

His lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “The last name isn’t important.”

I tilted my head, intrigued. “It is if you want me to find you again.”

Something played in his smile, a challenge, an amusement he didn’t bother voicing. “Do you always assume people want to be found?”

“Only when they look at me like you do,” I teased, arching a brow as I moved my long, wavy dark hair over one shoulder. Why was I flirting?

That almost-smile deepened, the briefest flash of teeth. “Enjoy your evening, Anna Peters from Boston.”

And then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, pulse fluttering like the final note of a song hanging in the air.

I exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to my racing heart.

Charleston was supposed to be a temporary chapter. A season of music, of opportunity, of keeping my heart firmly out of reach.

But as I watched Atlas’s broad, imposing figure disappear into the crowd, a new thought settled deep in my chest, unshakable.

Some mistakes weren’t meant to be avoided.

Some were meant to be made.