Chapter 4
LEVI
I'd never had a more comfortable plane ride.
The jet was sleek—all polished leather and dark wood, soft lighting that didn't strain the eyes, seats that reclined so far back they might as well have been beds.
The crew was professional but silent, moving through the cabin like ghosts.
They'd offered me water, a meal, a shower.
Never once asked where I'd been or where I was going.
Smart.
I didn't press them for details. They didn't volunteer any. It was a dance we both knew the steps to.
The shower was the first thing I took advantage of. Hot water, actual pressure, soap that didn't smell like government-issue nothing. I stood under the spray longer than I needed to, washing Paris off my skin—the dust, the sweat, the metallic tang of Kittleton's apartment.
When I stepped out, there were fresh clothes waiting. Jeans, a plain black T-shirt, socks, boxers. All in my size.
Someone had done their homework.
I dressed, ran a towel through my hair, and padded barefoot back into the main cabin. The crew had set out a meal—steak, medium-rare, with roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes that looked homemade. A glass of red wine sat beside it, but I waved it off and asked for water instead.
"Of course, sir," the attendant said, her accent faintly British, and disappeared.
I ate slowly, methodically, letting my body settle. The steak was good. Better than good. The kind of meal that reminded you there was a world outside MREs and protein bars.
My routine was always the same when I traveled: get on the new time zone fast. No sense dragging out jet lag when you could just rip the bandaid off. Charleston was six hours behind Paris, which put us landing around eight in the morning, local time.
I'd sleep on the plane, wake up with the sunrise, and hit the ground ready.
After I finished eating, I found the bedroom at the back of the jet. King-sized bed, blackout shades, white sheets that felt like silk. I set an alarm for six a.m. Charleston time, stripped down to my boxers, and climbed in.
Out in seconds.
The alarm buzzed at six, and I woke clear-headed. No grogginess, no confusion. Just the sharp, immediate awareness that came from years of sleeping light.
I dressed, splashed water on my face, and headed back to the main cabin. The crew had breakfast waiting—bagel, cream cheese, lox. Coffee, black. Simple. Efficient.
"We'll be wheels down in two hours, sir," the attendant said.
I nodded, biting into the bagel. The lox was salty, the cream cheese smooth. I ate while staring out the window at the Atlantic stretching endlessly below, the sun climbing higher, turning the water from black to silver.
Two hours.
Two hours to figure out what the hell I was walking into.
We touched down at eight a.m. sharp.
The airport was small—private, corporate jets lined up like toys. No TSA, no crowds, just smooth tarmac and a driver waiting beside a car that made me do a double-take.
A Bentley.
A fucking Bentley.
I'd only ever seen Bentleys through binoculars, tracking targets who thought money made them untouchable. And now one was waiting for me, gleaming black under the morning sun, the driver standing at attention like I was someone who mattered.
I walked down the stairs, backpack slung over one shoulder, and approached. The driver was older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and a face that had seen some things. He opened the rear door without a word.
"Morning," I said, sliding in.
"Good morning, sir," he replied, his accent pure Lowcountry—soft, slow, like he had all the time in the world. He closed the door and moved around to the driver's seat.
The interior smelled like leather and money. I settled back, letting the seat swallow me, and watched Charleston roll past the windows.
It was … different.
Not loud like New York or gritty like Detroit or sprawling like L.A.
Charleston had weight. History. The buildings were old but maintained, painted in pastels that should've looked ridiculous but somehow didn't. Palmettos lined the streets, Spanish moss hanging from live oaks like something out of a movie.
The air coming through the vents smelled like salt and earth and something green I couldn't name.
We moved through morning traffic—light, unhurried. People walked instead of rushed. No one honked. No one shouted.
It felt ... civilized.
Too civilized.
I leaned forward slightly. "Where are we going?"
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Dominion Hall, sir."
Dominion Hall.
I let the name roll around in my head. "That sounds ominous."
He chuckled, a low, easy sound. "It can be, sir. Depends on your perspective."
I grunted, settling back.
We headed south, the landscape opening up—marshes, waterways, estates tucked behind gates. The driver turned onto a private road, and suddenly the car was moving through a tunnel of live oaks, their branches lacing overhead, sunlight dappling the pavement.
Then the gates appeared.
Iron. Tall. Serious.
They swung open smoothly, and we rolled through.
Dominion Hall rose ahead like something out of another century.
Stone walls, sprawling verandas, ivy climbing up the sides.
It was massive—not just big, but heavy, like it had roots that went deeper than the foundation.
Modern security was woven into the old architecture—cameras tucked into eaves, sensors probably hidden in the landscaping.
This wasn't just a house.
This was a fortress.
The Bentley pulled up to the front entrance and stopped. The driver came around, opened my door.
I stepped out, backpack in hand, and stared up at the mansion.
Private planes. Bentleys. Mansions.
I was a long way from MREs and sleeping on cold ground.
A man met me at the door. Not a butler—at least, not the tuxedo-and-tails kind. He was dressed sharp but casual, dark slacks and a crisp shirt, his posture straight but relaxed.
"Mr. Dane," he said with a slight nod. "Welcome to Dominion Hall. This way, please."
I followed him inside.
The interior matched the exterior—money, but lived-in. Marble floors, high ceilings, a chandelier that looked like it could kill you, if it fell. But there were scuff marks on the floor, a jacket slung over a chair, the faint smell of coffee drifting from somewhere deeper in the house.
He led me down a hallway and into a room that looked like a parlor—leather chairs, bookshelves, a fireplace that hadn't seen use in a while.
And sitting in one of the chairs was a guy built like me.
Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of frame that came from work, not a gym. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, his hair dark, his jaw shadowed with stubble. There was an old doctor's bag on the floor next to him—black leather, worn at the edges, the kind that had seen some shit.
I pointed at the bag. "Am I about to get a cavity check?"
The guy grinned, slow and easy, and stood. "Only if you want one."
We shook hands. His grip was firm, confident.
"Charlie," he said.
"Levi."
"I know." He gestured to the other chair. "Take a seat."
I sat, setting my backpack on the floor. Charlie settled back into his chair, still grinning, and there was a long pause where he just looked at me.
Like he was waiting for something.
Recognition, maybe.
Normally, I'd just sit there and wait him out. Silence was a weapon, and I knew how to use it.
But whether it was my body still acclimating after Paris and the flight, or the anticipation of who the fuck these Dominion Hall people were, I broke first.
"What do you want?"
His grin widened. "Straight to the point. I like that."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "We know your current enlistment's coming up."
My jaw tightened. "How do you know that?"
He ignored the question. "We also know about your … extracurricular activities."
My pulse kicked up, but I kept my face neutral. "What activities?"
Charlie's grin didn't falter. "Come on, Levi. Paris wasn't a vacation. And it wasn't the first time you've gone off-reservation."
Fuck.
He let that sit for a second, then continued. "The Army's going to start getting suspicious. Eventually. And when they do, things are going to get messy for you."
I didn't say anything.
"Dominion Hall," Charlie said, "could be a good fit. For your next move."
I studied him. He wasn't threatening me. Wasn't trying to intimidate. He was just … laying it out.
"How do you know about my extracurriculars?" I asked again.
His grin turned sharper. "Dominion Hall has resources that would make a guy like you—in your line of work—salivate."
I leaned back in my chair. "Is this a job offer or an interview?"
Charlie shrugged. "It's a warm welcome. What happens next is up to you. No strings."
"What would I be doing for Dominion Hall?"
"Utilizing your talents," he said. "To the fullest."
Vague. Too vague.
But I didn't push.
Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He handed it to me.
A credit card. Black. Heavy. My name etched into it.
Levi Dane.
"Use it for any expenses," Charlie said. "You can find a place to stay in town, or you can stay here. There's a hotel called The Palmetto Rose—cozy, good staff. Up to you."
I turned the card over in my hand. No logo. No bank name. Just my name and a number.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"Not for today." Charlie stood, and I followed. "Take the day. Get acclimated. Think it over."
He led me back through the mansion, down another hallway. We passed through a massive room—library, maybe, or a sitting room—and Charlie paused, pointing to a glass enclosure in the corner.
"Anything in there?" I asked.
Charlie grinned. "Yeah. Our mascot. Viper named Obsidian."
I walked closer, peering into the enclosure. The snake was coiled in the back, sleek and black, its eyes tracking me.
"Don't stick your hand in," Charlie said with a wink.
"Wasn't planning on it."
The same driver was waiting outside. I slid into the back of the Bentley, and he glanced at me in the rearview.
"Where to, sir?"
"Where would you suggest staying in Charleston?"
He smiled. "Did they give you the scoop on The Palmetto Rose?"
"Yeah. But I'm not really a boutique hotel kind of guy."
He nodded, understanding. "Marriott or Hilton?"
"I've got Hilton points."
"I know just the place. Breakfast buffet in the morning'll keep your belly full."
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the Embassy Suites.
The driver handed me a card with a number. "Call or text if you need a ride."
"Thanks."
I stepped out, backpack slung over one shoulder, and walked inside.
The lobby was clean, modern, functional. Exactly what I needed.
I headed for the front desk, already pulling out my wallet, when something in my peripheral vision made me stop.
A woman. Coming out of the elevator.
Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A body I'd memorized in a tent halfway around the world.
No fucking way.
Of all the places. Of all the hotels.
Amelia fucking Emerson.
And before I could look away, her eyes locked on mine.
They hardened.
And she stomped my way.