Chapter 8
LEVI
The word hung in the air between us like smoke from a firefight, thick and disorienting.
My mind scrambled, processing, recalibrating. On the outside, I kept my expression neutral—years of training kicking in—but inside, I was in full shock.
Dane.
It had to be a coincidence. Like running into Amelia in this hotel, in this city, on this particular morning. The universe throwing curveballs just to watch me swing and miss.
But even as I thought it, doubt crept in.
I replayed the text messages. We know what you're doing. Don't worry. We agree. The private plane. Le Bourget Airport. The Bentley. Charlie in the parlor with his easy grin and his doctor's bag, telling me Dominion Hall had resources that would make me salivate.
Had there been clues?
What did they really want?
My pulse kicked up, but I kept my breathing even. "What do you want with Dominion Hall?" I asked, voice cool.
She tried to play it off—shifting her weight, adjusting the towel knotted at her chest—but I knew her. I knew that look in her eyes. The one that said she'd caught the scent of a story and wasn't letting go.
"It's still early," she said carefully. "My contacts are pointing me in certain directions."
Contacts. Plural.
Of course, she had contacts. Amelia Emerson didn't show up anywhere without doing her homework first.
I felt it then—conflicted on so many levels it made my head hurt.
One: If what Amelia said was true, Dominion Hall had lied to me. Or at the very least, hadn't told me the whole truth. They'd sent a plane, rolled out the red carpet, handed me a black credit card with my name on it—and never once mentioned we shared a last name.
Two: I felt stupid. Stupid for getting on that plane. Stupid for thinking this was just a job opportunity. Stupid for not asking more questions when Charlie had been so damn vague.
Three: I wanted to help her.
That one hit hardest.
I wanted to help Amelia, even if it meant burning whatever bridge Dominion Hall thought they were building with me.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "What is this really about?"
She crossed her arms, the towel slipping slightly before she adjusted it. "You tell me. You're the one interviewing with them."
"Yeah," I said. "I am. But I don't know anything about their last names. I didn't even know there were multiple people with the same last name until you just told me."
Her eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe that?"
I stood up. Naked. Didn't care.
I crossed the small space between us and looked into her eyes. Really looked.
"You know me," I said quietly. "You'd know if I was lying."
I took her hand—small, cool, still damp from the shower—and pressed it flat against my chest, right over my heart.
It was pounding.
For a few seconds, I thought she might cave. Thought she'd forget about Dominion Hall and the Danes and the story she was chasing, and we'd go back to bed and fuck the world and its bullshit.
But she didn't.
She pulled her hand back, slow, deliberate.
"Put some clothes on," she said. "We need to talk."
I pulled on my jeans and sat on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, watching her pace.
She was compiling questions. I could see it—the way her eyes tracked the floor, the way her fingers tapped against her thigh. Her journalist mind was spinning, organizing, preparing to interrogate me like I was a source she didn't quite trust.
Fair enough.
I'd earned that.
But I'd also decided something in the last sixty seconds: fuck it. I'd answer her questions. All of them.
I didn't owe Dominion Hall a damn thing. Not loyalty. Not silence. Not protection.
If I got in trouble for Paris—for Kittleton and Popper, for the others I'd quietly eliminated over the past year—so be it. I'd own it. I'd see how it played out.
A day with Amelia was worth it.
She stopped pacing and turned to face me. "Dominion Hall is behind some very shady dealings," she said. "Overseas money. Coercion. Possibly worse."
I couldn't tell if she was stating facts or fishing.
Probably both.
She smelled the story. She was poking at the edges, testing to see what would bleed.
"What do you know?" she asked.
I met her gaze, steady. "They sent a private plane for me. I met their representative this morning—guy named Charlie. Right before I saw you in the lobby. That's it."
"What's the job?"
I repeated what Charlie had said, word for word. "Utilizing your talents to the fullest."
Her eyes sharpened. She was fast—too fast.
"Why you?" she asked. "Why now?"
This time, I went with half the truth. "My current Army enlistment is almost up. Somehow, Dominion Hall knew."
"Is that normal?"
I shrugged. "Yeah. Guys in my line of work get reputations. Those reputations make it through certain grapevines."
She studied me, weighing my words, looking for the lie I wasn't telling.
Surprisingly, I wanted to tell her everything. About Paris. About Kittleton and Popper bleeding out on a shitty apartment floor. About the others I'd tracked down and eliminated over the past year, off the books, off the grid.
But I didn't. That would be suicide on so many levels. So, I did the next best thing.
"I'll help," I said. "In any way I can."
Her mouth twisted. "Like last time?"
Damn, this woman.
"No," I said firmly. "Not like last time."
I wanted to tell her why I'd done what I'd done. Why I'd cut her off, why I'd disappeared, why I'd let her think I'd betrayed her when the truth was so much more complicated.
But I couldn't.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
It was too close to home. Too raw. Too tangled up in classified operations and decisions I didn't get to make.
She seemed appeased, though. Or at least, less hostile.
I thought maybe she'd come back to bed. I even hinted at it—something about living for today, about not wasting the time we had.
She looked at me coolly. "That time has passed."
The words landed like a punch.
"We've moved on," she added, turning away.
The weight thunked down on my heart, heavy and familiar.
I'd fucked it up again.
I stood quickly—because that's what Danes do, apparently. We get back up. We keep moving. We don't let anyone see the cracks.
I grabbed my shirt off the floor, pulled it on, found my socks and boots. She disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard the shower turn on again.
By the time she came out, I was fully dressed, backpack slung over one shoulder, hand on the door handle.
She was dressed, too—jeans, a loose button-down, hair still damp and pulled into a knot at the base of her neck.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"My room," I said.
"No, you're not."
I turned, confused. "What?"
She crossed her arms, chin tilted up in that stubborn way I remembered too well.
"If you ever cared for me," she said slowly, "and if you want to make up for before—you're going to take me to Dominion Hall. Now."
I stared at her.
She stared back.
"You're serious," I said.
"Dead serious."
My mind raced. Take her to Dominion Hall. Introduce her to Charlie. Let her start asking questions about the Danes and their shady overseas dealings and whatever else she thought she'd uncovered.
It was reckless. Dangerous. Possibly the dumbest thing I could do.
"And if I say no?" I asked.
Her expression hardened. "Then you're exactly who I thought you were two years ago."
Fuck.
She knew how to hit where it hurt.
I thought about Charlie's grin. The black credit card. The vague promises of utilizing my talents. The way they'd known about Paris without me saying a word.
If they were Danes—if we were connected somehow—they'd played me.
And I didn't like being played.
"Fine," I said. "I'll take you."
Her shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good."
"But you need to understand something," I continued. "I don't know these people. I don't know what they're involved in. And if this goes sideways, I'm not your shield."
She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "I don't need a shield, Levi. I need the truth."
We stood there, inches apart, the air between us still crackling with everything we'd just done and everything we hadn't said.
"Then let's go find it," I said.
The Bentley driver was still waiting when I texted the number he'd given me.
He pulled up to the Embassy Suites twenty minutes later, the same sleek black car, the same calm professionalism.
"Morning again, sir," he said, opening the rear door.
"Morning," I replied.
Amelia slid in beside me, laptop bag over her shoulder, a small recorder tucked into her pocket. She'd come prepared.
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror but didn't comment.
"Dominion Hall?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
He nodded and pulled into traffic.
Charleston rolled past the windows—same pastel buildings, same live oaks, same oppressive humidity pressing in from all sides. But it felt different now. Less like a new beginning and more like walking into an ambush I should've seen coming.
Amelia sat rigid beside me, staring out the window, fingers drumming lightly against her thigh.
"You nervous?" I asked quietly.
"No," she said.
Liar.
I could see the tension in her jaw, the way her pulse jumped at her throat. She was running on adrenaline and caffeine and the kind of determination that had gotten her into—and out of—war zones most people only saw on TV.
"You should be," I said.
She turned to look at me. "Why? You think they're dangerous?"
"I think anyone with that much money and that much secrecy is dangerous," I said. "You taught me that."
Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "I taught you a lot of things."
"Yeah," I said. "You did."
The silence stretched between us, heavier now.
We turned onto the private road, the tunnel of live oaks closing in overhead. The gates appeared—iron, tall, ominous in the morning light.
They swung open.
Dominion Hall rose ahead like a monument to power I didn't understand yet.
The driver stopped at the entrance. "Here we are, sir."
I climbed out first, then turned to offer Amelia my hand. She took it. Briefly. We stood side by side, staring up at the mansion.
"Last chance to turn back," I said.
She looked at me, eyes fierce. "Not a chance in hell."
I almost smiled. "Then let's go."
We walked toward the front doors together, and I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever happened next was going to change everything.
Again.