Chapter 9
9
CLAIRE
C harleston was a city that breathed in secrets and exhaled silence.
By midday, the sun was already relentless, beating down on the streets like it had a personal vendetta. I was following a lead, or at least, what might have been one.
Deputy Norton had thrown me a name—Department 77—and even though I had no idea if it was real, I could feel it was something. I didn’t believe in gut instincts so much as experience, and experience told me that when someone tossed out a phrase like that in a town where people barely even admitted the Danes existed, it meant something.
So I went where information tended to loosen.
Bars were where people talked, even before dark. This wasn’t New York, where a dive would still be dead at this hour—Charleston was slower, lazier, and people didn’t wait for the clock to hit five before they started pouring bourbon.
I’d found a small, shadowed place just off a side street—a bar that wasn’t really open, but also not closed—and slid onto a stool, watching. Listening.
A female bartender was wiping down the counter, giving me a slow, curious glance. A man in the back corner nursed a glass of whiskey, muttering into his phone. Two others sat at a table by the window, speaking too low for me to catch.
My fingers drummed lightly against the polished wood as I let my eyes sweep the room. It wasn’t much—dimly lit, smelled faintly of alcohol and fried food, the kind of place where conversations drifted low and private.
Exactly the kind of place I needed.
I’d learned a long time ago that bars were where the best information lived. The real information. Police stations had their walls, their rules, their chains of command. People in high-rises had too much to lose to spill secrets. But bars?
Bars were where the cracks showed.
I’d once spent two weeks practically living in a dive bar in Queens while investigating a missing girl—listening, watching, and waiting for the one wrong word that would send the whole case unraveling. It had worked. One guy got too drunk, let something slip about a jacket found in a dumpster, and boom—I had my story.
This was no different.
The Danes weren’t just billionaires with military backgrounds. They were something bigger. Something woven into the city itself, and people didn’t just not talk about them. They avoided it. And when people avoided something that hard? It meant there was something worth knowing.
And just like that, my luck ran out .
Marcus Dane.
I didn’t even need to turn my head to feel him enter. The air shifted, a ripple of tension moving through the space as he stepped inside, moving toward me with the kind of slow, deliberate gait that said he knew he had my attention before I even gave it to him.
Fuck.
“Jesus,” I muttered, not bothering to mask my irritation. “Do you just materialize out of nowhere?”
“Sometimes,” he said easily, stepping close. Too close.
One second, I had space. The next, I had him.
Marcus Dane didn’t just walk into a room—he took it over. And right now, he was taking over me.
He smelled dark and masculine. He’d ditched the button-down from last night, trading it for a black Henley. The fabric clung to his torso, outlining every sculpted line, every muscle, making it impossible not to look. Not to imagine what he’d feel like pressed against me, what that body could do if he wasn’t just toying with me but taking.
And those jeans—dark-washed, low on his hips, worn just enough to hint at the kind of man who knew how to move. Knew how to handle himself. Knew how to handle a woman.
Heat moved deep in my belly, unwanted but undeniable. My pulse kicked up, breath hitching slightly before I forced it even. I hated him. I wanted to shove him back. But my body? My body was a traitor.
His body pressed in just enough to trap me between the bar and him. One arm braced on the counter, the other landing lightly against my hip, barely touching—just enough contact to remind me he could hold me there if he wanted to .
Heat spiked in my blood. Not just from irritation.
“Walk with me.” His voice was low, smooth.
“I haven’t ordered a drink yet,” I tried.
He shrugged, and even that was somehow sexy.
I should have hesitated. Should have told him to fuck right off.
I didn’t.
I slid off the stool, moving past him—but he caught me by the elbow, guiding me toward the exit. The touch was brief, but deliberate.
Possessive.
I stopped just beyond the threshold, yanking my arm free. “You always grab women like that, or is it just me?”
Marcus smirked. “Depends. You always let men you hate touch you like that?”
God, I wanted to wipe that grin right off his face.
Before I could fire back, his hand moved to my hip again, fingertips pressing enough to make me feel the heat of him through my jeans. He leaned in, his breath ghosting against my cheek, his voice dropping to something dark and edged with challenge.
“Or would you rather I kiss you instead?”
My stomach clenched, heat licking up my spine. It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was a warning. A threat wrapped in temptation, because we both knew if I so much as faltered—if my breath caught, if my eyes flicked to his mouth—he’d do it.
I wasn’t sure I’d stop him.
Gathering all the strength I could muster, I folded my arms, tilting my head. “What do you want, Dane?”
His gaze flicked down my body, slow and assessing.
The worst part?
I liked the way he looked at me .
Marcus took a step closer, invading my space all over again.
“I hear you’ve been making friends,” he murmured.
“Who, Norton?” I shrugged. “He approached me.”
His smirk deepened.
Asshole.
I hated him. I hated him.
And yet my body was reacting like I wanted him to press me back against the bricks, to tilt my chin up and drag his teeth along my jaw just to see how fast I’d come undone.
I clenched my hands into fists at my sides. “You gonna tell me why you followed me, or do you just enjoy being a menace?”
“Why does it have to be one or the other?”
I exhaled sharply. “Marcus?—”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out something, and held it up between two fingers. A thick ivory card. Black ink.
My name written across the front in bold, looping script.
I snatched it from his grasp, scanning the text.
The words were simple.
Dominion Defense Corporation invites you to The Charleston Masquerade.
I blinked. Then looked up at him. “A ball?”
Marcus grinned. “I was going to slip this under your door at the hotel, but here you are instead.” His gaze flicked over me, slow and knowing. “Saves me the trouble. ”
I scoffed, waving the card in the air. “This isn’t an invite. This is bait.”
His grin widened. “Smart girl.”
My heart pounded. Oh, this was dangerous.
A masquerade. An elite event, hosted by the Danes. It was exactly the kind of access I needed—an open door straight into their world. A chance to get close. To listen.
But it was also his world.
I exhaled, tilting my head, watching him. “And let me guess—you’ll be there?”
Marcus stepped in, closing the last of the space between us. He leaned down slightly, his lips brushing just past my ear.
“Better believe it,” he murmured.
A full-body shiver rolled through me.
He took a step back, like he was about to walk away.
I should have let him. I should have turned and left, should have gone back into the bar, should have sat down and ordered a drink and focused on my damn job.
Instead—
“Wait.”
The word slipped out before I could stop it, too sharp, too quick.
Marcus stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned back, his head tilting slightly as his gaze flicked over me, knowing. “Couldn’t resist, could you?”
I didn’t even know what I was about to say. Why I had stopped him.
Except that my thoughts were spinning—wild, reckless, dangerous thoughts.
The alley was dim, the bar’s glow flickering just beyond us, and there was a door to my left leading to a hallway. Bathrooms. A quiet space. A place where no one would see .
Jesus.
I barely had time to shove the thought away before Marcus’s smirk deepened, like he could see it written all over my face.
“So you do want me to kiss you.”
Before I could fire back—before I could think—he was on me.
One hand buried in my hair, tilting my face up. The other wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His mouth crushed against mine, hot and demanding, a kiss that wasn’t sweet or tentative—it was possession, pure and undeniable.
I gasped, and he took full advantage, his tongue sweeping against mine, coaxing, teasing, taking.
Heat flooded my veins, my body arching against his, my fingers curling into the front of his Henley before I could stop myself.
I hated him.
But God, I wanted him.
The world blurred. The sounds of the street, the low murmur of the bar, the passing hum of Charleston life—it all faded.
There was only him.
Marcus kissed like he fought. Like he won.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to push him away or pull him closer.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one caught off guard, because out of the corner of my mind, I heard something—someone passing by.
A voice, half-laughing, half-shocked. “Damn. Get a room.”
Marcus smirked against my lips. “Tempting.”
Reality snapped back like a whip.
I yanked away, breathless, pulse roaring in my ears .
His grip loosened—barely. But his gaze? That stayed locked on me, dark and knowing, like he’d just discovered my biggest secret.
And maybe he had.
I wiped the back of my hand across my lips, glaring up at him. “You’re such an ass.”
Marcus chuckled, low and rough. “And yet, you still stopped me from leaving.”
I hated how smug he sounded. Hated how much my body still buzzed from his touch.
He took a step back, adjusting his shirt like he hadn’t just stolen my breath. “See you at the ball.”
Then he was gone, leaving me dangerously, stupidly tempted to find out just how much more trouble Marcus Dane could be.