Chapter 8
8
RYKER
I should’ve walked away.
Hell, I had walked away.
And yet, as I stepped out of The Palmetto Rose, my pulse was still hammering, my fists still tight at my sides. The sun was too fucking bright, but all I could see was that kid’s smug fucking grin.
I’d heard his name. Matt Ralston. Citadel cadet. Fresh-faced and full of himself.
I knew his type.
The way those pricks strutted around Charleston, all starch-stiff uniforms, acting like they were a cut above the rest. They wore their brass buttons like badges of honor, but they’d never seen real war, never felt the weight of a trigger against their finger and known this was the moment that decided if they lived or died.
They trained in classrooms, marched on well-manicured lawns, and called it discipline.
Fuck them.
The thought of his hands anywhere near Isabel made my jaw clench so hard my teeth ached. I should’ve broken his fingers right there at the front desk. Should’ve leaned in close, let him get a good look at the kind of man he really needed to be afraid of.
But I didn’t.
Because she had been smiling.
That easy little laugh, the one she hadn’t given me. The way she’d let him flirt, let his gaze drift over her like he had a fucking right to.
I exhaled sharply, forcing my fists to relax. A man like Ralston? He wasn’t a threat. He was a distraction.
The real threats were the ones who didn’t make a show of themselves. The ones who didn’t smirk and lean on hotel counters, trying too hard to impress a pretty girl. The real threats were the ones watching from a distance, waiting for the right moment.
Waiting for someone like Isabel to let her guard down.
I was already halfway down the street before I realized I had no fucking idea where I was going. I should’ve gotten in my car, driven back to Dominion Hall, found some way to burn this restless, gut-deep frustration out of my system.
Instead, I stopped at the corner, leaned against the brick of an old storefront, and turned back.
What the fuck are you doing?
I shouldn’t have been here. I sure as hell shouldn’t have been watching. But I was.
Through the hotel’s front windows, I could see the lobby, the steady movement of guests and staff, the polished surface of the marble desk where she stood. Ralston was back, and she was talking to him again. That same goddamn easy smile on her lips, the slight tilt of her head, the way her fingers brushed the counter as she spoke .
And him? He was eating it up.
My fingers flexed against my thigh, an ugly heat building in my chest. I was a man who dealt in control—control over my surroundings, control over my own goddamn instincts. But right now?
Right now, all I wanted to do was walk back inside and wipe that look off his face.
My muscles coiled, the kind of tension I usually reserved for the seconds before a fight. It had been a long time since something—or someone—got under my skin like this.
She wasn’t mine.
Not yet.
I dragged a hand through my hair, forcing my breath out slow. This wasn’t about her. Not really. This was about Will. About the promise I’d made. About making sure his sister was protected, even from stupid, swaggering Citadel kids with zero fucking awareness.
I needed a vantage point. Somewhere close. Somewhere I could watch and wait without drawing attention to myself.
A narrow alley cut between two old buildings just across the street from the hotel. A café sat at the entrance, its patio full of tourists nursing overpriced lattes, but beyond that, the alleyway opened to a shadowed brick courtyard. Empty. Quiet.
Perfect.
I made my way over, stepping past the café’s outdoor seating without a glance. The moment I slipped into the alley, the world seemed to dull, the noise fading as I found a spot against the wall. From here, I had a clear sightline to the hotel entrance.
And to Isabel .
She was talking to Ralston as he sipped coffee, smiling and gesturing to his umbrella. My jaw ticked.
This was a mistake.
I should’ve been anywhere else. I should’ve been doing anything else.
Instead, I leaned against the brick, crossed my arms, and waited.
Because if there was one thing I was good at, it was patience.
And one way or another, that kid was going to learn?—
I waited.
The street was hot, the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows across the cobblestone sidewalks. The café beside me buzzed with the usual hum of tourists and locals—soft laughter, clinking silverware, the occasional rustle of a newspaper page. Normal sounds. Normal people.
But my world had shrunk to one thing.
Waiting for Matt Ralston to walk out of The Palmetto Rose.
I didn’t need to follow him. That was the rational part of my brain talking. The part that knew this kid wasn’t a real problem. Just another Citadel cadet with a pretty-boy face and a hero complex, floating through Charleston like he owned it.
But then I thought about the way he had looked at Isabel. The way she had laughed, let him lean in just a little too close.
I gritted my teeth.
The hotel doors swung open, and there he was .
Ralston stepped onto the sidewalk with that same easy arrogance, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp gray jacket like he was preparing to strut onto a goddamn parade ground. His phone was already in his hand, thumb flicking over the screen as he started walking.
I pushed off the brick wall, slipping into the flow of pedestrian traffic a few paces behind him.
He had no idea I was there.
That was the thing about guys like him. They were trained, sure. But they weren’t conditioned. They didn’t know how to feel when they were being watched, followed.
I did.
I tracked him down King Street, keeping a steady distance as he turned onto a quieter block. His posture was loose, relaxed—completely unaware. He was talking now, phone pressed to his ear, his voice light and smug.
“Yeah, man, you should’ve seen her,” Ralston laughed. “Fucking gorgeous. Tight little uniform, legs for days. She was eating it up.”
A slow burn started in my chest.
“She played it coy, but I know the type. She’ll put up a little fight, make me work for it, but in the end? They always fall.” He chuckled. “Think I just found my next lay.”
I moved before I even realized what I was doing.
One second, he was walking. The next, he was airborne.
I grabbed him by the collar and ripped him off the street, yanking him into a narrow alley between two buildings. His phone clattered to the pavement. A strangled sound left his throat, but it was swallowed by the noise of passing cars.
“What the?— ”
My fist crashed into his ribs, cutting him off mid-sentence. The breath whooshed out of him, his body folding like a cheap chair.
I didn’t stop.
I slammed him against the brick wall, my forearm crushing against his throat. His hands clawed at my wrist, his eyes wide with confusion, with panic.
“Who the fuck?—”
“Say it again.” My voice was low, rough. “Say what you just said about her.”
Ralston wheezed, his body twisting. He tried to plant his feet, tried to shove me back, but he was out of his depth. Too used to sparring in clean, padded gyms.
I pressed harder, let him feel the weight of me. The truth of the situation settled into his features then, his cocky mask cracking straight down the middle.
“Y-you got the wrong guy, man,” he gasped, struggling.
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
Then I threw him to the ground.
He landed hard on his side, choking out a pained curse. He barely had time to roll before my boot connected with his stomach.
He grunted, curling in on himself.
I crouched down, grabbing a fistful of his jacket, dragging him up just enough so he had no choice but to look at me.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked quietly.
His lips were split, a thin trickle of blood trailing down his chin. “You’re fucking insane?—”
I drove my fist into his face.
His head snapped back against the pavement with a sickening crack. A sharp, wet cough rattled out of him, blood streaking his teeth .
I barely felt the impact. My knuckles were already numb, my breath steady, controlled.
I hit him again. And again.
He stopped fighting after the third punch.
His hands had gone slack, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. But I wasn’t finished. Not yet.
I could still hear his voice. Think I just found my next lay.
I pulled my arm back, my knuckles raw, poised for the final blow.
And then I saw her.
Isabel.
Standing just feet away, frozen at the mouth of the alley.
The umbrella she was holding—Ralston’s umbrella, the one he left at the hotel—slipped from her fingers. It hit the pavement with a soft, hollow clack.
She wasn’t screaming. Wasn’t running.
She was just staring.
At me.
At what I’d done.
At what I was about to do.
For the first time in years, I felt something I didn’t recognize.
Something cold. Something sharp.
Something that felt a whole lot like regret.