Chapter 19
CALEB
I slipped out of Meghan’s office, the door clicking shut behind me, her taste still lingering on my lips, a spark that refused to fade. Outside, Promenade’s facade stood quiet, its white columns catching the glow, but the note we’d found last night kept my senses on edge.
I positioned myself across the street again, under the overhang of a shuttered antique shop, the cool brick grounding me as I scanned the restaurant. The live feed on my phone, set up by Ryker’s team at dawn, showed every angle, crisp and steady, no motion alerts yet.
But it didn’t kill the question burning in my gut: who the fuck was leaving those notes ? Someone with access, someone who knew her rhythm, and that made my blood hum with a protective energy I couldn’t shake.
I lingered for nearly an hour, checking and rechecking, ensuring no eyes but Dominion Hall’s were watching.
The street moved slowly—a vendor’s cart rattling over cobblestones, a cyclist in bright spandex, a gull swooping low with a sharp cry— but no one lingered, no one moved wrong.
The feed stayed quiet, cameras catching the day’s calm, but the notes gnawed at me.
Someone had slipped them twice, leaving their mark without a trace. A stalker? A rival playing dirty? Or something tied to her past, the restaurant fire that stole her parents’ dream?
Her vulnerability last night, sharing that loss in the quiet, had hit me like a slug to the chest. I didn’t take it lightly.
The city’s sounds built—a delivery truck’s engine growling, the faint clatter of a street cleaner’s broom—but my focus stayed on Promenade. The live feed gave me confidence the gaps were plugged for now, but I needed answers, not just eyes.
Finally, satisfied the street was clear, I headed to The Palmetto Rose, my strides quick.
The hotel lobby was buzzing with guests. I took the stairs two at a time, keycard sliding, door shutting with a thud.
Room service first. I ordered, then stripped, hitting the shower, water scalding my back, steam clouding the air.
Meghan’s face flashed—her lips parted, eyes blazing in that office kiss—but I didn’t linger, lathering fast, rinsing, toweling off.
Food arrived as I dressed—jeans, gray tee, boots. I ate quick. Grabbed the thermos, coffee to go, and headed out.
Dominion Hall was calling, and Ryker had answers I needed.
The drive was short, the city alive around me—tourists snapping photos, vendors hawking wares, the harbor shimmering like glass.
I pulled up to Dominion Hall’s gates, and they swung open without a call, a silent signal someone was watching.
How closely were the Charleston Danes tracking me?
My brothers, scattered across the globe—were they under the same lens?
The thought pricked, a needle of unease, but I parked and stepped out, the mansion’s facade looming like a fortress built for war. Ryker waited on the porch, leaning against a column, his gray eyes sharp as flint.
“Caleb,” he said, nodding.
“You knew I was coming?” I asked, climbing the steps, my voice low but pointed.
He smirked, faint but knowing. “I figured.”
I followed him into a study, not the war room, a smaller space with dark wood shelves, a single screen glowing with a global map, red dots pulsing—ops, assets, maybe threats. We sat.
“What’s up?” he asked.
I laid it out—the notes, the first one days ago, the second last night.
“Someone’s targeting Meghan. They’ve got access, know her routine. I don’t like it.”
Ryker listened, all business, no judgment, no ribbing about me falling for a woman so soon after hitting town. I liked that—straight, no bullshit, just focus, like a brother who got it.
“At least the threat didn’t start with the Danes,” he said, leaning back, his tone even but loaded with something heavier.
I frowned. “What’s that mean?”
He exhaled, eyes flicking to the map, like it held ghosts he’d rather not face.
“We’ve been at war with an outfit called Department 77. Officially, it didn’t exist—shadow ops, black budgets, the kind of thing governments fund and deny. That’s where Dad got our money, siphoned it from their accounts, built the family legacy. It’s where my mother disappeared, too.”
That hit like a knife to the ribs. First time Ryker had mentioned his mother, his voice steady but raw, a crack in his armor I hadn’t expected.
I didn’t press—some scars you let breathe—but the revelation stirred questions like a kicked hornet’s nest. The matriarch of the Charleston Danes, gone, swallowed by a ghost outfit like Department 77.
Was she dead? Taken? Hiding?
Another reason to tread lightly around this family business, no matter the power, the money. Dominion Hall was a fortress, but it was built on secrets, and secrets had teeth.
“So Department 77’s done?” I asked, voice low, testing the water.
Ryker’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping the table.
“We think so. Hit them hard, burned their networks to ash. But who knows? If this is them, targeting your girl to get to you, to us, it’s a new play, one we didn’t see coming.
You’re right about the timing. Maybe a coincidence, but it’s best to be careful. ”
Your girl. The words landed heavy, a claim I didn’t correct, not when it felt true. “What’s the move?”
“Full weight of Dominion Hall’s resources,” Ryker said, leaning forward, his voice firm.
“For Meghan’s protection. Backgrounds on her staff, suppliers, regulars—deep, clean, no stone unturned.
We’ll find the source. But,” he paused, eyes narrowing, “how’s she gonna feel with eyes on her day and night? ”
I hadn’t thought of that, not fully. She’d hate being caged, even for safety. I brushed it off, voice steady. “It’s for her own good.”
But deep down, I wondered—really wondered—how long she’d last under scrutiny. Critics already dissected her plates, her dream; now this, a shadow over her world because of me.
A worry for another day, I told myself.