Chapter 10
CALEB
I stepped out of Promenade into the heavy Charleston night, the door closing behind me with a soft click that felt like a secret locking itself away. The air wrapped around me, humid and thick, laced with salt from the harbor.
Meghan’s scent lingered on my skin—a mark I couldn’t shake, didn’t want to shake. My body still thrummed from her, my pulse quickening at the memory, but my mind was a storm, churning faster than a chopper blade spinning through a desert dust-off.
Her words echoed louder than her moans: Are you one of the Danes?
Dominion Hall. Seven brothers. Billionaires with iron gates, armed security, and rumors of a venomous snake as a pet.
What did that mean?
Cousins? Some tangled family tree stretching from Montana’s wide, open plains to this swampy, secretive coast?
Ryker’s face surfaced in my mind—gray eyes sharp as steel, hair clipped tight, that operator swagger that felt too familiar, like a shadow from a past mission.
Had I crossed paths with him before? Mosul, maybe? Shanghai?
No, I decided, shaking it off as my boots found a steady rhythm on the pavement.
But something gnawed at me, an instinct buried deep, like catching the glint of a blade in the dark.
If more Danes ran Dominion Hall, what was Ryker to me?
Kin? A con? Why did it feel like I’d been pulled into a game I hadn’t signed up for, a board I didn’t even know existed?
The streets of Charleston stretched quiet around me, the occasional car humming past, headlights slicing through the humid haze.
My pulse stayed even, but my gut twisted tighter with every step.
Ryker had known about Nightshade—Jensen’s blood on my hands, Baker’s body left behind in the dust, the static of radio denials ringing in my ears.
Classified details, buried so deep even I couldn’t access them.
He’d pulled me off Kato’s trail—that grinning bastard who carved up girls for sport—with a single call through channels that didn’t exist on paper.
Blank check. Family. Trust.
His words looped in my head, a signal I couldn’t tune out, each one landing like a punch.
If Dominion Hall was family—some distant branch of cousins or uncles—why the secrecy?
My father had been a ghost in Montana, in and out, teaching us to track, shoot, survive.
“Be the predator they fear,” he’d said, his voice a low rumble over campfire embers, his eyes glinting with something I’d never fully understood.
He’d never mentioned kin on the East Coast, never hinted at another life. If this was blood, why hide it? And why drag me here now, halfway across the globe, when I’d been so close to putting a bullet through Kato’s perfect smile?
The Palmetto Rose’s lobby was silent when I reached it, the night clerk barely glancing up as I crossed the polished floor. I took the stairs two at a time, my keycard sliding smoothly, the door shutting with a heavy thud that echoed in the quiet.
I stripped quickly, my clothes hitting the floor in a heap.
The shower came next, water scalding my back, steam rising thick in the bathroom. I tried to let the heat burn away the questions, to let the water wash them clean.
But the harder I pressed my palms against the tile, the more my mind betrayed me. Every drop sliding down my skin felt like her touch. Every rush of steam carried her scent. I could see her, clear as if she stood right in front of me, mouth parted, chest rising fast with need.
I swore under my breath, tried to shake her out of me.
No good. The more I fought it, the deeper she lodged herself in.
Meghan—wild and reckless, dragging me under with her.
I wasn’t a man who lost control easily. But she’d tilted the ground beneath me, and now I couldn’t find my footing without thinking of the way she’d looked when she took what she wanted.
It didn’t work. Meghan’s body flooded my mind instead—spread open on that kitchen counter, legs wide, glistening under the low lights.
“Deeper,” she’d demanded, bold as hell, and I’d obeyed.
I groaned now, my hand on my cock, stroking fast, her name slipping out as I finished, the release sharp but fleeting. It didn’t clear her. It just made me crave her more, like a hit of something I knew I shouldn’t touch again but would, no question.
I toweled off, still naked, and pulled my encrypted laptop from the safe. The screen glowed blue in the dim room, casting long shadows across the bed. I needed answers—real ones, not rumors or cryptic promises.
I logged into a secure chat, pinging old contacts—operators turned tech geeks who’d gone dark, hacking shadows for the highest bidder.
Men like me, but with code instead of rifles.
Loyal. Quiet. I reached out to three: Ghost5Rider, NullPointJack, ShadowBittyByte.
Guys I’d pulled from fire, or who’d pulled me.
Debts ran deep, and I was calling them in now.
Need deep dive on Dominion Hall, Charleston. Everything. Structure, players, mission, ties. Financials, personnel, history. No traces. Silent.
Ghost5Rider replied first: On it. 24 hours. Deep shit, expect blowback.
NullPointJack: Kandahar debt’s still good. Digging now. Stay sharp.
ShadowBittyByte: Prelims incoming. Encrypted file. More tomorrow.
I leaned back in the chair, the screen’s glow burning my eyes. I’d covered my bases. If Dominion Hall was family—some cousin clan or deeper blood—they’d find it. If it was a trap, they’d sniff that out, too.
Ryker’s face nagged at me again—familiar, like a shadow from Dad’s past, maybe an old photo or a briefing room I couldn’t place.
Had I seen him before? No, I decided, but the doubt lingered.
He had that operator vibe—scarred knuckles, calm eyes, moneyed swagger with zero fucks left to give.
But he’d known about Nightshade. Knew my calls, my failures.
Jensen’s laugh, Baker’s blood—my fault, my weight.
A blank check could’ve saved them. Drones. Ammo. Anything.
If Dominion Hall had that kind of pull, I needed to know.
I closed the laptop, locked it back in the safe, and felt exhaustion tug at me, heavy and insistent. Sleep was next. My body was leaden, my mind buzzing, but I needed it before I faced Ryker again.
I stripped the bed, crashed face-down, my pistol tucked under the pillow—a habit from years of ops where sleep was a luxury and danger never knocked.
My thoughts drifted back to Meghan, her body a tether pulling me from the questions.
I saw her again—on that counter, gasping my name, legs trembling as she came.
Her demanding “from behind,” bending over, ass perfect, taking me deep.
Then the floor, her riding me, pinning my wrists, bold and unashamed.
“Again,” she’d whispered, nipping my lip.
My cock stirred even in half-sleep, her moans echoing, her taste lingering. It was a twisted fate, but damn if it didn’t feel right.
Normally a light sleeper—ops had wired me to wake at a creak or a whisper—I sank deep. REM deep. Dreams swirled: Meghan’s body, Montana’s wide skies, Ryker’s smirk, Nightshade’s blood.
Then, at some point during the night, instinct kicked in, that animal prickle crawling up my spine.
A presence. I wasn’t alone.
My hand gripped the pistol under the pillow, my finger on the trigger guard, my eyes cracking open slow, casual. The room was dark, curtains blocking the moon, but there—a shadow in the lounge chair. It was supposed to be empty. Too solid, too human.
I clicked the lamp, my pistol whipping out, aimed steady.
Ryker. Sitting calm, his own gun resting in his lap, the barrel loose but pointed my way.
“Easy,” he said, his voice smooth as gravel. “Put the weapon down. Sit up. Slow.”
Fuck. Stupid. Careless. Deep sleep like a goddamn rookie. This was it—Ryker wasn’t what he seemed, someone wanted me off the board, the final act. I’d walked into it, led by my dick for Meghan, my head full of questions.
Sloppy.
I complied, hands up, sitting slow, the sheet pooling at my waist. Naked, but I didn’t care. My eyes locked on his.
“You here to finish it?”
Ryker’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be cold already. Put the piece down.”
I set the pistol on the nightstand, keeping it within reach. He didn’t flinch.
“What the fuck is this?”
He leaned back, the gun still in his lap.
“A wake-up call. For a guy they call The Reaper—deadly, competent, making bad guys shiver—you’re sloppy. Pinging hackers about us? Not even a day after we talked?”
It clicked fast. One of them had ratted. Too quick. “How’d you know?”
Ryker shrugged, his calm unshaken. “Maybe a reaper should pick better friends.”
Annoyance flared, but I wasn’t dead. This was a lecture, not an execution. I relaxed a fraction, testing him. “Cut the bullshit. How?”
He holstered his gun—waistband, concealed carry—and stood, gesturing to the adjoining room. “Grab a robe. I ordered breakfast. We’ll talk.”
I glanced at the clock: 4:30 a.m. Breakfast?
But hunger gnawed—my last meal was at Promenade, hours ago, burned off in Meghan’s heat.
I slipped on the hotel robe, white terry, and followed him to the suite’s living area.
A table sat by the window, the harbor dark outside, glinting faintly under streetlights.
A knock sounded at the door. Ryker opened it, gestured.
A waiter rolled in a cart, five covered dishes and coffee, lifting the cloches with practiced ease: eggs Benedict, hollandaise glistening; crispy bacon strips; three kinds of sausage—links, patties, spicy chorizo; a fruit plate overflowing with berries, melon, pineapple; pastries flaked golden, croissants and danishes gleaming with glaze.
Coffee steamed in a carafe, rich and dark.
The waiter pocketed Ryker’s tip and vanished silently.
Ryker sat, poured coffee, the aroma cutting through the room. “Eat. Then we’ll talk.”
Hunger won. I sat, loaded a plate—eggs, bacon, chorizo, a handful of fruit for balance. I forked in a bite, the flavors bursting: hollandaise tangy, bacon crisp, chorizo biting with spice.
Ryker ate steadily, no rush, his calm infuriating and familiar all at once.
I swallowed, locked eyes with him. “How’d you find out?”
He sipped his coffee, unhurried. “One of your hackers used to work with my brother, Atlas. Saved his life once. His wife’s family, too. The guy’s loyal—to us. You pinged him, he pinged us.”
Fuck. Which one was it? It didn’t matter. Their web of loyalties ran deeper than I’d thought.
I chewed on that, mentally sorting it—family loop, he’d called it. Atlas. Another name to file.
I set the fork down, leaned forward. “You never said your last name was Dane.”
The first crack in his facade. Annoyance flashed in his eyes, quick and sharp. “How’d you know?”
“By accident,” I said, my voice steady. “Meghan—the chef at Promenade—mentioned it. Dominion Hall. Seven brothers. All Danes.”
Ryker exhaled, leaning back, his jaw tight. “That wasn’t how I wanted you to find out.”
“Find out what?” I pressed, my pulse kicking up. “Are we cousins? Distant kin?”
He looked pained, like he was weighing a secret too heavy to drop. Then, quietly, “What’s your father’s name?”
I flashed to Dad. Larger than life, a giant in our Montana world. He’d taught us to shoot, fish, track, survive. Instilled mission, honor, family, his voice a low rumble over campfire nights, his eyes always seeing more than he said.
“Byron Dane,” I said, my voice rough.
Ryker nodded, his expression almost sad. “Yeah. Us, too.”
It didn’t compute at first. A fluke? A coincidence? Same last name, same dad. My mind reeled, trying to piece it together.
Ryker leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice low. “This wasn’t the plan. I wanted to ease you in. But now it’s out …”
Stunned. Words dried up, my head spinning. Half-brothers? Full? How?
Dad’s absences, his long stretches gone—another family? It felt like a betrayal, but not anger. Intrigue. Pieces were fitting—Ryker’s familiarity, the pull to Charleston, his knowledge of Nightshade. Dad’s shadows, his secrets.
“How?” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ryker glanced at the food, a faint smile breaking through. “It’s a long story. Finish eating, I’ll give you a tour of Dominion Hall, and tell you what we know.”
I grinned, faint but real. I wanted to meet this Atlas. All of the brothers. Half or not. Family. Real family.
I ate slower, savoring the eggs, the spice of chorizo, the sweet burst of pineapple.
Then he’d tell me. About Dominion Hall. About Dad. All of it. And maybe I’d figure out where I fit in this twisted, hot fate that had pulled me to Charleston.