Chapter 31
31
ANNA
T he drive back to Dominion Hall felt like descending into the center of a storm-wrapped cathedral. Like we were waiting for the heavens to crack open and swallow us whole.
Ryker didn’t speak for the first several minutes, his eyes focused on the road ahead, windshield wipers fighting the downpour in furious rhythm. Flooded roads twisted like nerves under the tires, and the sky above us was the color of wet ash. Streetlights flickered. Trees bent in the wind like they were bowing to something ancient and cruel.
But I wasn’t thinking about trees. Or roads. Or whether the sky would hold.
I was thinking about Atlas.
How his mouth had felt against mine in the middle of a hurricane. How his voice had sounded when he said “our future” like it was fact, not fantasy.
“Hey,” Ryker said, his voice soft but steady. “He’s gonna be okay.”
I glanced over, surprised. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the road, but there was a small lift at the corner of his mouth. A sliver of reassurance, like he’d read my mind.
“I know you’re worried,” he said. “So am I. But this is what Atlas does. He disappears into hell and comes back dragging the devil’s head behind him.”
I let out a breath. “You really believe that?”
“Hell, yes,” Ryker said. “Man’s a myth for a reason. And now? He’s got something to come back for.”
The silence stretched for a second before I said, “You mean me.”
“I do,” he nodded. “And don’t even try to act surprised. Atlas is gone for you. He just hasn’t said it to everyone out loud yet.”
My heart thudded in my chest. “You all really think that?”
“We do,” Ryker said. “Marcus was the first to spot it, actually. Bastard notices everything. But even I can see it. The way Atlas looks at you like you’re the only goddamn reason the sun might come up tomorrow.”
I swallowed hard, trying to absorb that—trying to believe it.
Ryker glanced at me quickly, then back to the road. “He’s never looked at anyone like that, Anna. Not even her.”
“Her?”
“Fiancée,” he said simply. “From years ago. Destroyed him at the altar when he found out she’d cheated.”
My stomach dropped. “God.”
“Yeah,” Ryker said. “It wrecked him. Quietly, of course. Atlas doesn’t bleed where anyone can see. But after that? He didn’t date. Didn’t let anyone in. Just trained harder. Got quieter. Darker.”
“But now …”
“Now?” Ryker smiled. “We’ve all been waiting for this. For someone who could cut through that armor without making him feel weak. That’s you. It’s always been you.”
The words hit harder than I expected. “I just—he’s out there. And I don’t know what he’s walking into.”
“No,” Ryker said. “But he knows what he’s coming back to.”
I turned to the window, blinking fast as the estate came into view—Dominion Hall rising through the rain. The lights were off, but the glow of backup power pulsed through a few upper windows. Lanterns burned at the main entrance, flickering gold against the slate-gray facade.
“We’re home,” Ryker said, guiding the SUV into the sweeping drive.
The storm shutters were locked tight now, steel braces drawn across every window. A dull roar echoed through the massive house as the wind pressed harder, probing for weakness.
Inside, warmth still lived in the walls. The generator hummed beneath our feet. Candles and backup lighting cast long shadows across the main floor.
Claire, Izzy, and my parents were gathered in the main living area, huddled around the massive television where local news anchors looked as breathless and ragged as the weather. Sandbags were piled by the doors. Food and supplies had been moved to the central rooms. The staff—calm, trained, quiet—moved like a well-oiled machine, making final checks and taking position for whatever might come next.
“Hey,” Claire called out gently when she saw me. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Just watching the clock.”
Ryker leaned in, kissing the top of Izzy’s head before heading down the hall toward the ops room.
“They’re all in there?” I asked, watching him go.
Claire nodded. “All six, now that Ryker’s back. Hunkered down like generals in a war bunker. Watching storm trackers and internal chatter. If Atlas calls in or hits a snag, they’ll know it first.”
I took a seat on a plush sofa, eyes drifting to the clock above the mantle. Only forty minutes had passed since I left the cottage. It felt like hours.
Mama came to sit beside me, slipping her hand over mine.
“He’ll come back,” she said softly, echoing Ryker. “You’ll see.”
Outside, the wind howled louder.
The TV anchor was pointing at a wall of red and orange on the radar now. “This is the eyewall of Hurricane Arden. We’re looking at sustained winds of 110 to 120 miles per hour, pushing directly into the downtown Charleston peninsula. Outer bands have already caused significant flooding on barrier islands …”
I squeezed my mother’s hand.
Claire stood nearby, arms folded, her brow tight as she stared at the screen. “This is the worst of it.”
“We’re ready,” Izzy said, her voice steady. “Shutters locked. Backup power’s holding. Water stored. Medical ready. No one’s getting through those gates without a death wish.”
“But Atlas is out there,” I whispered. “Alone.”
“No,” Claire said, meeting my gaze. “He’s never alone. Not with us behind him.”
I looked past them all then, toward the hallway that led to the ops room, where six men—the rest of the Dane brothers—waited in shadows, tracking everything, watching every signal. Marcus. Ryker. Noah. Charlie. Elias. Silas.
All of them ready to make the world burn if Atlas so much as stumbled.
And I knew—I knew —that as long as they had breath in their bodies, they would bring him home.
I turned back to the fire and watched the flames flicker.
Waiting.
Ready to hold the line until he walked through that door.
Claire sank down into the armchair across from me, tucking one leg beneath her. “Do you feel better,” she asked gently, “after seeing him?”
I hesitated, eyes still fixed on the TV. “Yes. And no.”
Izzy tilted her head. “Talk to us.”
I drew in a slow breath, the kind that burned a little on the way in. “Better because I saw him. Because I touched him, heard his voice, looked in his eyes and knew he was still mine. But also … not better. Because I don’t know exactly where he went after that. Not the street name or the building. But I know the type of place. I know the kind of danger. And I know the man he has to become to walk into it—and survive.”
Claire’s expression softened. “He knows how to come back.”
“I hope so,” I whispered. “Because I’m not done with him.”
Izzy’s lips quirked into a smile. “No, babe. You’re just getting started.”
I smiled faintly, then glanced between them. “Speaking of … when is this wedding happening?” I asked, nudging Izzy. “Because the moment the skies clear, I want to be at that altar watching you two tie the knot.”
She gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, the storm threw a wrench into some plans. But we’ve got a date in mind. Late summer, if things settle. Intimate. Family only. And a little chaos, of course.”
Claire gave a sly smile. “Marcus is pretending not to care about details, but the man has a spreadsheet hidden somewhere. He wants to write his own vows and pick the wine himself, but leave the flowers to me. Typical.”
Izzy snorted. “And yet, you’re the one who made him try on five tux jackets.”
“Because he has shoulders like a Greek tragedy,” Claire shot back. “It’s a public service.”
That made me laugh, and the sound caught in my throat—warm and bittersweet. “You two ever think about doing a double wedding?”
Claire blinked, then tilted her head. “You mean Ryker and Izzy, plus Marcus and me?”
“Sure,” I said, a little breathless at my own boldness. “If everything lines up. If we’re all still standing by the end of this. Why not?”
Izzy grinned.
Claire leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Only if Marcus doesn’t try to schedule the honeymoon with a mission debrief.”
We all laughed, and the air around us softened, warmed. Like the idea of love and celebration could be enough to hold back the wind pressing against the walls.
A flutter stirred low in my chest. “It’s just … being with Atlas, hearing the way he talks about the future, about a life … I don’t know. I’ve never felt this sure about anything. Not even music.”
Claire leaned forward. “You’re thinking about a wedding?”
I shrugged, cheeks warm. “Maybe not tomorrow. But I could see it. With him.”
There was a pause. Then?—
“Well,” Mama said, smiling gently as she squeezed my hand, “we’ll be there. Whenever the time comes.”
Papa nodded from his seat near the window, eyes tired but proud. “Just give us a little warning. And make sure it’s not during another hurricane.”
I laughed, but the emotion beneath it was sharp, shining.
“I’ve always wanted you to be safe,” Mama said. “But more than that … I wanted you to be loved. Fiercely. Unconditionally.”
“I am,” I said, voice thick. “And I love him the same way.”
Claire raised her mug. “To the dangerous kind of love.”
Izzy lifted hers, too. “The kind that changes everything.”
And I whispered, just for myself, “The kind that’s worth waiting through a storm.”
Outside, Arden raged. Inside, I waited for my war machine to come home.
The hours crawled.
The wind never let up, not for a second. It battered the shutters with a relentless fury, howling around Dominion Hall like it had a personal grudge. The sky outside had turned nearly black, and the rain sounded like bullets against the steel-reinforced windows. The house groaned under the strain, but it held, solid and defiant.
Time seemed to stretch in strange ways. We rotated shifts watching the news and checking storm reports with the staff. Claire made tea. Izzy found a bottle of whiskey and poured a little into mugs for those who wanted it. My father paced. My mother stitched a hem in her blouse that didn’t need mending. Everyone needed something to keep their hands busy.
I sat on the sofa, a blanket thrown over my legs, the soft hum of backup power vibrating through the floor. The room flickered in warm golds and muted blues—TV screen, lanterns, lightning beyond the storm shutters.
And then … the wind changed.
Not stopped. Not gone. But shifted. Slowed.
I looked up at once, every part of me on high alert. Claire noticed, too, her eyes narrowing toward the sealed windows.
“It’s the eye,” she whispered.
Izzy moved to the window, resting her palm against the cold steel. “We’re in the center.”
The room went still. Even the reporters on the TV seemed quieter, their voices steadier, like the storm had blinked and everyone was holding their breath.
I stood, slowly. My heart was pounding, but I wasn’t sure why.
Then—
A low engine growl outside. A truck.
My body moved before my mind caught up.
I crossed the living room at a run, the others shouting behind me—my name, warnings, surprise—but I didn’t stop. I yanked open the front door, barely noticing how the wind had calmed, how the rain had gentled for this strange, sacred moment. The shutters held the worst of it at bay, but mist clung to the air, curling around the columns like smoke.
The black truck rolled to a stop near the base of the steps.
The driver’s door opened.
Atlas.
He moved fast, boots pounding the wet stone path, black clothes soaked, face streaked dark with something between war and weather. And then I was in his arms, lifted off the ground, crushed to his chest.
He was alive.
He was home.
I buried my face in his neck, tears slipping free now, silent and unstoppable. He held me tighter, hand fisted in my hair, one arm locked around my waist like he never planned to let go.
Behind us, the front doors opened wide.
Voices spilled out—cheers, relief, laughter, and the soft clatter of boots as his brothers rushed forward. One by one, the Danes appeared in the entryway.
Claire gasped, covering her mouth.
Izzy made a choked sound and grabbed Ryker’s arm.
Atlas didn’t look away from me, not even for them. But he nodded once—to Marcus, to Ryker, to the brothers who didn’t need words to know what had been done.
He set me down gently, cupping my face, breath still hard in his chest. “We’ll talk soon, I swear. I just need?—”
He hesitated, just for a beat.
Then: “Your parents.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “My—wait, really?”
His gaze held mine, steady and sure. “It’s important.”
I believed him. Completely.
He brushed his lips over mine once—quick, reverent, like a man running on fumes but fueled by something more powerful than adrenaline.
Then he turned to his brothers. “We have a new asset. A friend in a high place. Intel’s solid. I’ll brief you all in five.”
“Understood,” Marcus said.
But Atlas didn’t head for the ops room.
He walked straight to where my parents stood at the edge of the foyer—my mother with her hands clasped, my father standing like a soldier expecting orders. Atlas stopped in front of them, rain still dripping from his sleeves.
“Mr. and Mrs. Peters,” he said, his voice steady but low. “We need to talk.”
And for the first time in my life, I saw my father hesitate.
But he nodded.
Atlas reached out—gentle, deliberate—and shook his hand.
The storm would return in minutes. But in that breath of stillness, in the eye’s quiet grace, the war came home.
And it walked in peace.