Chapter 18
18
RYKER
I was already pissed. The fact that my tech team couldn’t trace the text message Isabel received only sent me deeper into the kind of rage that made men fear me.
“You’re telling me,” I said slowly, barely keeping my voice even, “that with all the fucking resources we have, you can’t tell me who sent a goddamn text?”
Elias, our head of cyber ops, shifted in his seat, looking just uncomfortable enough to tell me he knew exactly how much trouble he was in. “It was a one-time encrypted message. No metadata, no routing logs. Burned the second it was sent.”
“So, someone with high-level tech experience?”
“Very high,” Elias confirmed. “They knew what they were doing.”
That didn’t sit well with me.
Our business was dangerous, borderline suicidal at times, but most of the threats were overseas. Places where war was a constant hum in the background, where deals were struck in the shadows and lives were snuffed out just as easily. But now?
Now it was here.
On my front fucking stoop.
I turned away from Elias, forcing myself to breathe before I did something stupid. Losing my shit wouldn’t get me the information I needed.
But then Marcus walked in, told me that Isabel had left, and my temper fucking snapped.
“You let her leave?” My voice was low, deadly.
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “She’s not a prisoner, Ryker.”
“She should be.”
Marcus scoffed. “You think locking her up is going to solve this?”
“No,” I bit out. “But letting her wander around Charleston with a fucking target on her back sure as hell isn’t going to help.”
“She needed space,” Marcus said, crossing his arms. “And I wasn’t about to manhandle her back into the house.”
“You should have stopped her.”
“She’s not your property, Ryker.”
Something ugly twisted in my chest. Not my property. Maybe not. But she was mine, whether she realized it yet or not.
I took a slow step forward, towering over him, my body humming with barely restrained fury. “You want to know the real problem, Marcus?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “Someone was watching her.”
His eyes flickered. I had his full attention now.
“In the pool,” I continued. “She was being watched. Someone was close enough to send her a text message. Someone was close enough to see her. ”
Marcus exhaled sharply.
“Emergency protocol. Now,” I ordered.
Marcus held my gaze for a long second, then nodded.
With that, the room snapped into motion. Elias started typing furiously, locking down digital access, while Marcus barked orders to the rest of the security team. Dominion Hall was built for situations like this. We expected war. But war was supposed to happen over there. Not here.
I ran a hand down my face, exhaling to cool the thumping in my chest.
I needed to find Will. I needed to figure out who the fuck was watching Isabel. I needed to keep my family safe.
And underneath all of that—like a goddamn disease—was the hunger still burning through me.
I could still feel her skin under my hands. Could still smell her, taste her.
She had fucked me senseless, and now I couldn’t fucking think.
I was in a fuckworld of shit.
There were seven of us.
Seven sons, raised rough, hardened by circumstance, shaped into men by war. We had all served, all bled, all walked the line between life and death so many times that it became second nature. We didn’t just survive in chaos. We thrived in it. Just like Dad.
I had been a SEAL. A scout. A point man.
The one in the lead. The one who stepped forward when others hesitated. The one who took the calculated risk, knowing that one wrong move could mean everything going to hell in an instant.
I liked the job.
No, I loved it.
I was going to make a career out of it. We all were.
Because we came from nothing. We fought for everything. And we were good.
Better than good.
Marcus had been a Marine Raider. Methodical, relentless, able to get inside an enemy’s head and dismantle him from the inside out. He had the kind of tactical mind that saw patterns where others saw chaos, and he never walked into a fight without knowing how it would end.
Charlie was Delta Force. Quiet. Lethal. The kind of operator who could move through the dark without a sound and put a bullet between a man’s eyes before he even knew death was coming.
Silas. Noah. Atlas. They had all served in different units, different branches, but the blood ran the same. We had been forged in fire. Sharpened by war. And then?—
Our father died.
Not in combat. Not in an accident. Not in any way that made sense.
He was just gone.
And the man we had all looked up to, the one who had shaped us, hardened us, made us, hadn’t just left behind a legacy?—
He had left behind billions.
Money we didn’t even know he had. Money that wasn’t supposed to exist.
And the worst part?
There were no answers. No investigation. No justice.
Just silence .
So we made a pact.
We walked away from the military, from the lives we had sworn to, and we built something new.
Dominion Defense Corporation.
A private military empire. A fortress. A kingdom of war, built by seven sons who had spent their lives training for the battlefield.
Officially, we were hired guns. We took high-risk contracts, provided security for governments, corporations, people with deep enough pockets to afford us. But underneath all of that?—
Our real mission had never changed.
We were hunting the men responsible for our father’s death.
And we wouldn’t stop until we found them.
I had made enemies. We all had. Warlords, gangsters, arms dealers, international syndicates who had every reason to want us dead. When you operated in the world’s most dangerous places, you pissed off dangerous people.
But this—this felt different.
Will had been on his way to keep an eye on the Russians before he disappeared. Maybe it was them. Maybe they’d decided to make a move. But if that was true, why send a fucking text message to Isabel? Why play games when a bullet was more their style?
I didn’t know.
And I fucking hated not knowing.
The questions followed me as I slid into my car, gripping the wheel tight as I tore out of Dominion Hall, pushing the Bentley hard. The city blurred past in streaks of light and shadow, my thoughts a mess of anger, worry, and the relentless need to see her.
Isabel.
I spotted her the second I walked into the hotel.
She was talking to her co-worker, Sasha. Oblivious. Unaware. She didn’t see me coming.
Gasps rippled through the lobby as I reached her, grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her clean off the ground.
“Ryker—what the hell!” she gasped, her hands clutching my shoulders, her legs instinctively locking around me for balance.
I didn’t slow down. Didn’t explain. I turned on my heel, carrying her straight out the fucking door.
“Put me down!” she shrieked, struggling in my grip.
“Not a chance,” I growled, shoving open the passenger door and dropping her into the seat. She landed with a soft oof, eyes blazing as she scrambled upright.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Seatbelt. Now.”
She glared at me, breath coming fast, but something in my tone must have cut through the shock because she yanked the belt across her body, clicking it into place just as I peeled out onto the road.
Halfway home, I started to exhale, my fingers loosening slightly on the wheel. She was in the car. Safe. I just had to?—
Fuck.
I saw the headlights a second too late.
The jacked-up pickup came out of nowhere, barreling through an intersection at full speed. The impact hit like a missile, metal crunching, glass shattering as my Bentley lurched sideways, the world tilting, flipping, spinning.
The roof crumpled, steel groaning as we tumbled. I felt the seatbelt bite into my chest, my head snapping forward, the taste of blood in my mouth.
Then—
Silence.
Pain pulsed through my body as I forced my eyes open, the world hazy, disoriented. Smoke curled from the wreckage, the acrid scent of burning oil thick in the air.
Isabel.
I twisted, my breath catching as I spotted her slumped against the passenger door, unconscious.
My pulse roared in my ears as I unbuckled, glass slicing into my palms as I braced myself, pried the door open, and pulled her into my arms.
She was breathing.
Relief was brief. Footsteps crunched against gravel.
I turned my head, expecting bystanders, good Samaritans rushing to help.
Instead, I saw him.
Matt Ralston.
Flanked by five of his Citadel pals, their faces set, their postures stiff with purpose.
They weren’t here to help.
They were here for their pound of flesh.