Chapter 10
10
MARCUS
I couldn’t get that kiss out of my head.
Claire’s mouth—hot, fierce, all New York bite—had hit me like a slug to the chest. One second, she was glaring at me like she wanted to gut me, the next she was melting under my hands, gasping into me like she was starved for it.
I’d meant to mess with her, to throw her off balance, but fuck, I was the one still tasting her on my lips, still feeling that jolt of heat when her fingers dug into my shirt. She was too intoxicating. Too damn good. I’d wanted to drag her into that alley, pin her against the bricks, and see how loud I could make her scream my name.
But I couldn’t lose my edge. Not now. Not with her.
She was a tool—sharp, dangerous, and built to cut through the bullshit I couldn’t reach. Department 77 was out there, an apparition I’d been chasing blind, and Claire was the bloodhound I need to flush them out.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t have some fun first. Toy with her a little more. Push her buttons, watch her squirm, then spring the trap hard enough to send her running back to New York City with her tail between her legs. She was too close—too good—and I needed her gone before she unraveled us. But I’d be damned if I didn’t enjoy the game while it lasted.
I was parked off King Street again, Bugatti purring low, the hum vibrating through my bones. My phone was in my hand, and I was grinning—sharp, predatory—as I texted the concierge at The Palmetto Rose. Three dresses. High-end, custom shit—tens of thousands a pop—were headed straight to Claire’s room. I had them picked out: one was sleek and black, elegant as hell, all understated power; another was deep red, bold and sexy, with a slit that’d show off those legs she’s got no business hiding; and the third—the one I was betting on—was a silver number, barely there, cut low and tight, dripping with risk. She’d hate me for it. She’d love it, too. I could see her now—gray eyes narrowing, lips twitching, that stubborn streak kicking in as she picks the risqué one just to spite me.
God, I hope she does.
I shot off another text, this one to the florist—some overpriced boutique that caters to Charleston’s old money. A handwritten note to go with the dresses: “I can’t wait to see which one you choose.” Simple. Personal. Just enough to crawl under her skin and make her wonder how far I’m willing to push this. She’ll freak—oh, she’ll definitely freak—and I’ll be sipping whiskey somewhere, picturing her pacing that suite, cursing my name. Maybe she’ll even try it on, that silver fabric clinging to her curves, her breath shallow as she catches herself in the mirror.
Fuck, I’d kill to see that.
I leaned back, shoving down the heat spiking low. She was a job—a threat to Dominion, a key to Department 77. That was it.
But that kiss kept clawing at me, her taste lingering like a drug I didn’t mean to try. I’ve got to be careful. Can’t let her sink those hooks too deep. I’m the one in control here. She doesn’t get to flip the script. Not yet.
I fired up the engine and peeled out toward Dominion Hall. Tires squealed, wind ripped past, and Charleston blurred—pastel townhouses, smoking gas lanterns, tourists gawking like they were in a damn painting. The masquerade was tomorrow night, and we were cutting it close with the invites. Didn’t matter. Money did wonders. The elite of this city—old money, new money, dirty money—would drop everything when they saw Dominion Defense Corporation on that thick ivory stock. The Danes didn’t open our doors often. Hell, most of these assholes had spent years trying to peek inside our fortress, whispering about the seven brothers who ran half the shadows in this town. They would come running—masks on, egos out—because missing this wasn’t an option.
I grinned. Claire would be there too, that invite burning a hole in her hand. She wouldn’t resist—couldn’t. A chance to dig into our world, poke at our secrets, all while I was steering her right where I wanted her. She’d think she was hunting. I’d know she was prey.
The gates loomed ahead—iron, spiked, cold teeth. I rolled through and parked out front. Dominion Hall stared back. It was more bunker than mansion, built to take a hit and keep standing. Sullivan’s Island flashed in my head, as it often did—white sand, Dad’s laugh, a life before this concrete cage swallowed us whole. I’d trade it all for one more day there. But this was ours now. Me and my six brothers, holding the line .
Inside, the air was cool and sharp, marble gleaming under that chandelier that looked ready to cut you if you stared too long. I headed for the ops room. Ryker was there, hunched over a laptop, his muscular frame coiled like he was about to snap. Atlas stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching me with that quiet, piercing stare he had. Charlie paced—always moving, always ready to hit something.
“Invites are going out,” I said, dropping into a chair, legs stretched. “Tomorrow night. Full house.”
Ryker didn’t look up. “Feds are still sniffing. Senator Holloway called again. Says intel’s got eyes on Charleston. Terrorism angle’s sticking.”
“Bullshit,” I said, my voice flat. “They’ve got nothing.”
“They don’t need proof,” he snapped, finally meeting my eyes. “They need a target. We’re it unless you lock this down.”
“I’m on it,” I said, leaning forward, my elbows on the table. “Claire’s got Department 77 now. She’s chasing it. Masquerade’s the play—she’ll dig there, I’ll watch. She’s useful.”
Atlas cut in, his voice low and steady. “She’s a loose end. Useful doesn’t mean safe.”
“She’s not safe,” I said, grinning sharply. “That’s why I’m having fun with her first.”
Charlie stopped pacing, smirking. “What’d you do now?”
“Sent her dresses,” I said, leaning back, my arms behind my head. “Three of ‘em—pricey as hell. One’s so thin you could see through it in the right light. Bet she picks that one just to fuck with me.”
Charlie laughed, short and rough. “You’re an asshole. ”
“Yep.” I shrugged. “Keeps her off balance. She’ll show tomorrow—pissed, hot, and digging. I’ll steer her right into 77.”
Ryker wasn’t laughing. “And if she doesn’t?”
“She will,” I said.
He glared. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe,” I said, my smirk widening. “Doesn’t change the plan.”
Atlas tilted his head, studying me. “What’s the endgame? She finds 77. What then?”
“Then we smoke ‘em out,” I said, tapping the table. “She’s the bait, she just doesn’t know it. They show, and we hit. Feds back off. Dominion stands.”
“Risky,” Atlas said, but there was a glint in his eye, like he was warming to it.
“It’s worth it,” I countered. “We’ve been chasing shadows for weeks. Claire’s the edge we need.”
Ryker leaned in, his voice low and lethal. “And if Department 77’s already here? Watching us while you’re playing dress-up with your reporter?”
I didn’t flinch. “Then we’re ready. This place is a fortress. Let ‘em try.”
He didn’t buy it. I saw it in his jaw. “Short leash, Marcus. One slip, and I’m not cleaning up your mess.”
“Understood,” I said, holding his stare.
He turned back to the laptop, muttering something I didn’t catch. Charlie was already back to pacing, Atlas was plotting in that quiet way of his, and I was left with the hum of the monitors and the weight of tomorrow night. Masks, shadows, elite chatter. Claire in that silver dress, digging where I pointed her. Department 77 might show. My gut said they would. I’d be ready—watching her, watching them, every move locked down.
I left the ops room and headed for my car. I needed more air. The masquerade was set—caterers, security, the works—all arranged in a day because that’s how we rolled. Money, money, money. Charleston’s elite would swarm, desperate for a peek at Dominion Hall, and Claire would be right in the thick of it, thinking she was the hunter. I’d let her run, let her feel the thrill, then spring the trap. She’d bolt for New York City, story half-baked, and we’d be clear.
I slid into the Bugatti, my door slamming shut, and that was when I saw it—an envelope on the passenger seat. It was thick and unmarked, just sitting there like it belonged. My gut clenched—that same hum I’d been ignoring too long. I grabbed it, tore it open, and seven photos spilled out.
Fuck.
Me—grainy, recent, caught mid-stride outside The Battery Club. Ryker—outside Dominion Hall, eyes sharp, Izzy at his side. Atlas—leaving a meeting downtown, posture tight. Charlie—on a run, mid-step, sweat gleaming. Three more—each brother, each one a fresh shot, taken in the last week. No note, no name, just the pictures staring back at me like a middle finger from the dark.
Department 77.
They weren’t just ahead—they were fucking here. Ten steps didn’t cover it—they had us pinned, scoped, and tracked like prey. My pulse kicked up. It wasn’t fear. It was anger, hot and sharp. I slammed a fist into the steering wheel. The horn blard, echoing off the gates. How the hell had they gotten this close? Cameras, tails, my own damn eyes—and they’d slipped through, left this right under my nose.
I shoved the photos back in the envelope, then shoved the envelope into the glovebox. I fired up the engine, peeling out toward The Battery Club. I needed a drink. Needed to think. Claire’s dresses, her kiss, the masquerade—all of it was still in play, but this changed shit. Department 77 wasn’t just a ghost. They were a blade, and it was already at our throats.
I hit the bar—same corner stool, same whiskey order. The bartender poured, quick and silent, and I slugged it back, the burn grounding me. Claire was in my head—silver dress, gray eyes daring me, that kiss I couldn’t shake. I’d toy with her tomorrow—push her, pull her, watch her burn bright before I sent her running. But now it wasn’t just about her. Department 77 was watching, waiting, and I had to figure out how to turn this trap around.
They thought they had us. They didn’t know me.
I sipped slow, staring at the bar’s grain. My plan shifted. The masquerade was still on, Claire was still bait, but now I was hunting, too. They’d show—my gut screamed it—and when they did, I’d be the one springing the trap.
Fuck, I was deep. And I wasn’t letting go.