Chapter 27
27
ANNA
B runch at Dominion Hall wasn’t a meal. It was an event.
The long oak dining table—more suited to war councils or clandestine strategy meetings—had been transformed into something warmer. Less battlefield, more Southern bounty. Sunlight couldn’t quite pierce through the storm clouds pressing against the tall windows, but the soft glow of the chandelier overhead gave everything below it a golden cast.
We were already halfway through the kind of meal my Boston palate still wasn’t entirely prepared for. But God, was I trying.
I cut into a thick slice of sweet potato hash layered with caramelized onions, smoked pork belly, and roasted red peppers, all crowned with a perfectly poached egg that spilled its golden yolk like silk across the plate. Beside it, a square of cornbread so buttery it nearly melted before it hit my tongue. There were fried green tomatoes—crisp and tart beneath a creamy remoulade—and biscuits the size of my fist slathered in honey butter, still warm from the oven.
A pitcher of sweet tea sweated on the sideboard like a Southern baptism, while fresh-squeezed orange juice shimmered in tall glass tumblers. And at the far end of the table, a Dutch oven of shrimp and grits—yes, again—simmered with smoked andouille, garlic, and peppery oil that made my eyes water in the best way.
Chef Delphine had stopped by earlier in a cloud of flour and confidence, notebook in hand, asking if we had any preferences or dietary needs. That was two hours ago. And now?
Now we were eating like royalty in the eye of a storm.
“This,” Papa said, gesturing with his fork, “is not breakfast. This is an edible symphony.”
“I’m stealing that line,” I murmured, reaching for another slice of grilled peach. “But you’re right.”
“It’s like every dish has history,” Mama added, tearing off a piece of biscuit with a kind of reverence. “Nothing rushed. Everything balanced.”
“That’s the thing about Lowcountry food,” I said, smiling. “It takes its time. Everything’s slow-cooked or marinated or passed down from someone’s grandmother. It’s less about calories and more about storytelling.”
Papa raised a brow. “So not like Boston, then.”
I laughed. “Boston brunch is avocado toast and existential dread.”
He grunted his agreement. “Here, it’s the kind of food you survive a hurricane with.”
All three of us glanced toward the TV mounted discreetly in the far corner of the room. The local news was playing on mute, captions rolling across the screen:
HURRICANE ARDEN CONTINUES TO GAIN STRENGTH… LANDFALL NOW PROJECTED WITHIN HOURS… EVACUATION ORDERS ISSUED FOR COASTAL ZONES… A HISTORIC JUNE STORM WITH THE POWER OF A LATE-SEPTEMBER MONSTER…
The radar map looked like a bad omen—swirls of color tightening into a spiral that wanted to eat the coast whole.
We’d been watching earlier, talking absently about storm shutters and backup power and which part of the house was safest. Somewhere in there, breakfast had become brunch. No one moved. No one wanted to.
Footsteps echoed down the hall.
I glanced up—and felt something inside me steady just a little.
Claire entered first. Tall, striking, somehow both cool and warm at once. She wore joggers and a cropped tee, her blonde hair pulled into a braid that belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.
Beside her was Isabel. Petite, raven-haired, eyes like polished steel and a mouth that looked permanently on the verge of a smirk. She wore black leggings, combat boots, and a zip hoodie that read FEMINISM IS NOT A PHASE in cracked white lettering.
Two women. Zero apologies.
“Knock knock,” Claire said with a smile, already heading for the coffee carafe. “Hope we’re not crashing.”
I smiled. “Not at all.”
As she poured herself a cup, I caught the edges of her voice, sharp and unmistakable. A New York accent, but not the uptown kind. This was Brooklyn through and through, smoothened a little by time or maybe proximity to Marcus, but still there. Still strong.
“You’re from the city,” I said, recognizing the cadence. “Brooklyn?”
Claire raised a brow, impressed. “Bay Ridge.”
I smiled. “Figured. I’m from Cambridge—Massachusetts. Different city, but same coast.”
“Ah, a fellow Northeasterner,” she said, sliding into a chair. “That explains the calm-in-a-crisis thing. And the coffee addiction.”
“Indeed.”
Her grin widened as she joined me at the table. “I keep telling Marcus I need proper bagels. He thinks pimento cheese can solve everything.”
We shared a look—one of those immediate, wordless exchanges born of shared geography and a mutual understanding of how much personality the East Coast packs into every syllable.
Papa and Mama smiled with me. I gestured between them. “These are my parents. Irina and Alexey Peters.”
Claire smiled and reached to shake hands. “Claire Dixon. Or Claire Dane, soon. Marcus makes it sound like a title.”
Papa smiled faintly as he took her hand. “A pleasure.”
Isabel gave a little wave. “Isabel. But friends call me Izzy.”
“I’m Anna.”
“I know,” Izzy said, her tone softening. “I’ve heard your voice. It’s good to finally put a face to it.”
“You, too.” I felt it as I said it—that tug in my chest. A thread weaving itself between us. Invisible. Familiar.
Izzy slid into the seat beside me like she’d always belonged there. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
Claire smirked over the rim of her mug. “The one we had at first. Shellshock meets whiplash meets … I don’t even know.”
I blinked, surprised into laughter.
“You get used to it,” Izzy added. “Sort of.”
“They take over your world,” Claire said. “Then make it safer than you’ve ever known. Then they teach you how to fight back when it isn’t.”
My throat tightened.
“They’re not easy men,” Claire finished. “But they’re the kind that make space for your harp before you ask. That matters.”
Izzy met my gaze. “It means you’re one of us now.”
Mama asked gently, “Will the brothers be joining us for brunch?”
Claire shook her head. “They’re still in the ops room. Whatever’s unfolding behind the scenes, it’s moving fast.”
Izzy gave a small shrug. “Ryker surfaced to steal coffee and vanished again. Delphine will take them a plate.”
“And Marcus?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
Claire gave a wry smile. “Brooding in front of a tactical map like he can force the storm to reroute by sheer intimidation.”
Everyone laughed, my parents included.
The conversation mellowed into something more casual. Outside, the sky had dipped from gray to charcoal. The wind pressed harder against the glass in brief, angry gusts, rattling the panes with promise.
“I guess we’ll be stuck indoors for a while,” I said, glancing toward the dark clouds.
“Hours,” Izzy confirmed. “Maybe longer.”
“We should make a plan,” Mama said. “Activities. Something to pass the time.”
“We’ve got books,” Claire offered. “Games. A frankly alarming amount of blankets. And reliable backup power—Dominion has its own generator system and a water cache. Military-grade.”
“Of course, it does,” Papa murmured, glancing around as if reappraising the fortress.
His expression sobered slightly. “Is this area under evacuation?”
Izzy gestured to the TV. “Let’s check.”
Claire grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. The screen flicked to a reporter standing in front of a giant digital map of the South Carolina coastline.
“... as Hurricane Arden continues its approach, evacuation orders remain in place for Zones A and B,” the anchor was saying. “Charleston County has identified the following flood-prone areas under mandatory notice …”
The map lit up—color-coded zones stretched across the region like veins. A, B, C, D.
I leaned forward instinctively.
“Dominion’s in Zone B,” Claire said, pointing. “So technically, it’s under evacuation. But this place was built to withstand worse. We’re better protected here than out in traffic.”
Papa nodded slowly, but I could see his mind still working behind his eyes, calculating every possibility.
“Still,” he said, tone measured. “Men like the Danes—surely they have contingencies. Private planes. Alternative routes. Isn’t there a way out if it comes to that?”
Claire exchanged a glance with Izzy.
“There’s always a way out,” Izzy said. “But it’s not public. And it’s not casual. If the Danes decide to move, it means something bigger than this storm is coming.”
Papa absorbed that, his jaw tightening faintly.
“So, we stay,” Mama said softly, a quiet resolve in her voice.
Claire smiled faintly. “We stay. We’re safe here. Safer than anywhere else in Charleston.”
Izzy sipped her coffee and looked at me. “Ryker said they built this place to hold under siege. It’s not just a home—it’s a line in the sand.”
Still, the knot in my chest didn’t ease. Not really.
Because safe or not, Atlas was still out there. Somewhere in the spiral. And no radar model could predict that.
I must’ve gone quiet. My gaze locked on the screen even after the anchor had moved on to talking about wind speeds and projected power outages.
Izzy’s voice cut through the static. “Hey.”
I turned. She was watching me.
“It’s okay to be scared,” she said softly.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Claire reached across the table, laid her hand gently over mine. “They’re built for storms like this. Atlas knows how to vanish. How to surface when it matters.”
“They’re shadows with bones,” Izzy added. “They always come back.”
The warmth of their hands. Their voices. Their steadiness—it all pulled at something inside me I hadn’t even realized had frayed.
I gave a shaky breath. “I just … I want to know he’s dry. Warm. Alive.”
Izzy nodded. “You will.”
“And until then,” Claire said, her smile gentle, “we’ll wait with you.”
We finished brunch slowly, the way people do when there’s nothing to rush toward but bad weather and worse headlines. At least this time, it was the weather making headlines—not me.
My parents lingered long enough to help clear a few plates, then stood with quiet grace.
“We’ll leave you ladies to your morning,” Mama said, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. “Give you time to get to know each other.”
Papa nodded, offering his hand to Claire and Izzy again. “Thank you for making us feel welcome.”
Claire smiled. “You’re family now.”
They thanked Chef Delphine with a kind of reverence that made her blush, then excused themselves down the hall toward the East Wing.
Once the door closed behind them, the energy in the room shifted.
Lighter. Looser.
Claire stretched, then gestured toward the living area just beyond the dining room—a sprawling space lined with deep sofas, velvet throws, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the angry harbor. A flat screen the size of a movie theater hung on one wall, already tuned to the weather channel.
We moved like we’d done this a dozen times. Like we’d known each other longer than the half hour it had actually been.
I sank into the plush corner of a velvety sofa. Izzy curled up beside me, legs tucked under her, mug still in hand. Claire took the other side, one long arm slung over the backrest like she owned the space—and maybe she did.
The windows shook again, a gust hammering the glass hard enough to make us all glance up.
“Think it’s time to close the storm shutters?” I asked.
Izzy’s eyes flicked toward the far wall. “Already done on the back side of the house. Ryker had someone on it earlier.”
Claire gave a small snort. “Marcus stood in front of the south wing windows for an hour this morning like he was daring the wind to make the first move.”
“Classic,” Izzy said. “Intimidating the weather into submission.”
I smiled, but my thoughts were already spiraling. Because no matter how secure Dominion Hall was, Atlas wasn’t here.
And the storm wasn’t waiting.
Claire leaned forward, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to her chest. “You know, the thing about being stuck indoors during a hurricane?”
“What?” I asked.
Her grin turned downright wicked. “There’s nothing to do but eat, sleep, and fuck.”
Izzy snorted into her mug. “I haven’t even ridden out a storm here yet, and Ryker’s already eyeing the supply closets like they’re five-star suites.”
I raised a brow. “Emergency preparedness, or just an excuse?”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll start with survival instincts,” Izzy said, sipping her coffee with mock innocence. “But let’s be honest—it won’t end there.”
Claire laughed. “Marcus is less spontaneous. More … engineered lust.”
“Engineered?” I echoed.
“Like he’s got a blueprint in his head,” she said, biting back a smile. “Every touch, every angle, every breath. It’s tactical. He’s planning your destruction and satisfaction simultaneously.”
Izzy hummed. “Sounds about right.”
I blinked, a slow heat crawling up my neck. “That doesn’t sound like Ryker.”
Izzy’s gaze met mine. “Because it’s not. He’s rougher. Hungrier. Like he’s trying to burn every trace of the world off your skin so only he’s left.”
I exhaled slowly. “And Atlas?”
They both turned to me.
I hesitated. But only for a breath.
“Silent,” I said finally. “Deliberate. Like a command you don’t question. But when he breaks?” I shook my head. “It’s not just physical. It’s … surrender. Worship from a man who doesn’t kneel for anything else.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then Claire gave a low whistle. “Damn.”
Izzy grinned. “Well, now I need a shower. Or a cigarette.”
“I’m not even mad he left you that toy,” Claire said, nudging my leg.
I covered my face with one hand. “I wasn’t going to bring that up.”
“Why not?” Izzy laughed. “We all got the initiation gift. Mine was a pair of cuffs.”
“Mine was a knife,” Claire said, holding up her hand. “Which I thought was for protection.”
“And?” I asked.
She smiled slyly. “It was for something else entirely.”
I laughed so hard I nearly choked.
Claire grinned and leaned back in her chair. “I mean, at some point, we’re going to want variety and end up making questionable decisions in the hallway.”
Izzy raised an eyebrow, mock-innocent. “Questionable like … the snake enclosure?”
Claire cackled. “Obsidian? Please. That thing is watching.”
I blinked. “You’re not seriously saying?—”
“Oh, no,” Claire said, waving a hand. “No one’s actually done anything. Yet.”
“But if anyone’s gonna be brave enough to experiment with voyeuristic snake energy,” Izzy added, deadpan, “it’s Ryker. That man gives off danger noodle kink vibes.”
I clutched my mug, wheezing with laughter. “Oh, my God. ‘Danger noodle kink’? I’m never looking at Obsidian the same way again.”
Claire nodded solemnly. “That snake has seen things. Or it will. Eventually. It’s bound to happen.”
We were all grinning now—loopy from food, nerves, and the surreal calm before the hurricane decided to make its entrance. Somewhere, Atlas was out there in the wind.
But in here?
For now?
If we had to ride out the end of the world, at least we had delicious food and enough scandalous confessions to make a therapist retire.
Or maybe just the beginning of something stronger than fear.
Izzy was mid-sip of her coffee when we heard footsteps—sharp, purposeful, booted—moving fast down the hall.
A second later, Ryker stepped into the room.
He didn’t pause to greet anyone. He had a matte black phone in his hand, thick and utilitarian, like something built to survive a war zone. His expression was calm, but there was tension in the way his jaw ticked.
He looked directly at me.
“It’s Atlas,” he said, voice low. “Secure line.”
Everything inside me jolted. I shot to my feet so fast my mug nearly tipped.
Ryker handed me the phone, fingers brushing mine just long enough to steady the tremble I didn’t realize I had.
“Make it quick,” he said. “He’s bouncing the signal through too many layers. It won’t hold long.”
Then he turned.
Without another word, he walked straight to Izzy, grabbed her face in both hands, and kissed her like the world outside had already ended and she was the only thing worth saving from the wreckage.
It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming.
By the time he pulled back, Izzy was breathless and grinning, and Claire was fanning herself with a napkin.
“Damn,” she muttered. “And I thought Marcus was dramatic.”
I clutched the phone tighter.
“Go,” Izzy said, nodding toward the hallway. “We’ve got you.”
So, I went.