Chapter 12
12
MARCUS
T he night was alive with the buzz of Charleston’s elite spilling into Dominion Hall. Guests arrived early—too early—like they were afraid to miss a single second of this rare crack in our armor. The best, brightest, and richest the city’s got swarmed through the gates, all dolled up in masks and tuxes, dripping with old money and desperation to be seen.
I caught glimpses—senators with tight smiles, oil tycoons with cigars already lit, heiresses in gowns that cost more than most people’s houses. Even the officer cadre from The Citadel strutted in, all crisp uniforms and polished brass, acting like they owned the place. I can’t stand those pricks—too much ego, not enough scars. They talk war like it’s a game they’ve mastered from textbooks.
Fucking clowns.
I lingered near the door, arms crossed, leaning against the cold stone of the foyer. The chandelier overhead glinted like a guillotine waiting to drop, casting sharp shadows over the crowd. I watched newcomers— tracked who was who, who was kissing whose ass—but mostly, I watched for her.
Claire Dixon.
She was the real prize tonight, the wild card in this rigged game. The trap was set, the bait was dangling, and I was itching to see how she played it.
That silver dress I’d sent her— fuck , I hoped she was wearing it. I wanted her walking in here, turning heads, knowing I picked it out just to mess with her.
The air shifted. Whispers rippled through the room, heads turning like a wave. I felt it before I saw her—a prickle down my spine, that hunter’s instinct kicking in. Then she was there, stepping through the arched doorway, and goddamn, she didn’t disappoint.
Claire was in the silver dress, and it was a fucking knockout punch.
The fabric clung to her like liquid metal, dipping low over her chest, hugging her waist, sliding over hips I’d been imagining under my hands since that kiss. The slit up her thigh flashed skin with every step—dangerous, deliberate, a dare to anyone dumb enough to look too long. Her blonde hair was swept up, a few strands loose, framing those gray eyes that cut through the room like a blade. A mask—black, simple, sharp—dangled from her fingers, not on yet, like she was too stubborn to play by the rules.
Everyone was staring, whispering behind gloved hands and crystal flutes. She blushed—actually blushed—and it was the first crack I’d seen in that New York steel.
She wasn’t alone. Some handsome bastard was on her arm—tall, dark hair, sharp cheekbones, dressed in a linen suit that screamed money and confidence.
Diego Gil, her producer .
I’d done my homework. Read up on him the second I caught wind he was flying down. Gay, sharp as hell, and here to keep an eye on her. I could respect that. Hell, I might even like him for it.
I cut through the crowd, a straight line to them, ignoring the murmurs and the hands reaching for me. Claire’s eyes locked on mine, narrowing just a fraction, like she was bracing for whatever I was about to throw. Diego was watching, too, head tilted, a smirk tugging at his lips. I stuck out my hand to him first—deliberate, pointed.
“Diego Gil,” I said, voice low, grin sharp. “Marcus Dane. Pleasure.”
His brows lifted, pleasantly surprised, and he took my hand, grip firm. “Well, I’ll be. You’ve done your research.”
“Always do,” I said, letting go, glancing at Claire. She glared at me, lips pressed tight, and I smiled wider. “Wouldn’t want to be rude to Claire’s plus-one.”
“Charmed,” Diego said, voice smooth, eyes glinting like he was already sizing me up. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Only the good stuff, I hope.” I flicked my gaze to Claire again, catching the spark of irritation there.
She wasn’t happy I was playing nice with him instead of her. Good. I wasn’t here to make this easy.
A waiter glided by—black tie, tray gleaming—and I snagged three flutes of top-shelf champagne, handing one to Diego, then Claire. She took it with a cool nod, her fingers brushing mine just enough to send a jolt through me. That kiss flashed again—her mouth on mine, hot and fierce—and I shoved it down.
Not yet.
“Enjoying Charleston so far?” I asked Diego, keeping my tone casual, like I wasn’t plotting every move of this night.
He sipped the champagne, smirking over the rim. “It’s growing on me. Humidity’s a bitch, but the architecture? The intrigue? I could get used to it.”
“Stick around long enough, it’ll sink its teeth in,” I said, grinning. “How about a tour? Give you the lay of the land.”
Diego’s eyes lit up, but Claire cut in, voice sharp. “What about me?”
I turned to her, slow, deliberate, letting my gaze drag over that dress—those curves—before meeting her eyes. “You’ll get your turn. Patience.”
Her jaw tightened, but Diego laughed, clapping her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in line.”
She shot him a look—half betrayal, half amusement—and I nodded toward the hall. “This way, Gil.”
We moved through the crowd, Diego keeping pace, his stride easy but his eyes sharp, taking it all in. The ops room was off-limits, obviously, but I showed him the bones of Dominion Hall—marble floors, high ceilings, the spiral stairs that could double as a sniper perch if you knew how to use ‘em. He was a good conversationalist—strategic, probing without pushing too hard. I liked him already. Guy had a brain and knew how to use it.
We hit the garage—wide, shadowed, lined with cars that cost more than most people’s lives. In the center, under a spotlight, sat our black viper, Obsidian—sleek, mean, all curves and menace. Diego stopped short, letting out a low whistle.
“Jesus,” he said, circling it. “What’s the story here?”
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, playing coy. “Family mascot. Best not to have it out when the elite are here. ”
He raised a brow, not buying it, but didn’t press. “Fascinating. Matches the vibe.”
“Does, doesn’t it?” I said, smirking. Obsidian was more than that—Dad’s find, a reminder from before everything went dark—but Diego doesn’t need to know that.
We finished the loop, back to the main hall, and there was Claire—surrounded. Men circled her like sharks, some of Charleston’s most influential assholes. Married assholes, mostly—senators, CEOs, a Citadel colonel with a smug grin I’d love to wipe off his face. She was holding court, that silver dress catching the light, her laugh sharp and controlled, but I could see the edge in her posture. She was working them, digging, and they were too dumb to notice.
I cut through the pack—straight line, no apologies—my shoulders brushing suits aside. They scattered, muttering, but I didn’t give a shit. My eyes were on her—those curves, those eyes—and fuck, I couldn’t tear them away.
Want clawed at me, hot and urgent. I wanted her. Right now, under me, on me, any way I could get her.
Easy, Dane. Take it easy.
“Enjoying yourself?” I asked, voice low, stepping close enough to smell her—something sharp and floral, cutting through the champagne haze.
She tilted her head, cool as hell. “It’s a party. What’s not to enjoy?”
“Thought you might like the grounds,” I said, nodding toward the doors. “Fresh air. Quieter.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded and took my arm. “Lead the way.”
We stepped outside, the night thick with humidity, gas lanterns flickering along the paths. The crowd was a distant hum now, and it was just us—her heels clicking on the stone, my steps silent beside her.
“Making progress on your investigation?” I asked, keeping it light, testing her.
She smirked, sidestepping. “Oh, you know. Digging where I can. Charleston’s full of secrets.”
“Like Department 77?” I tossed it out, casual, watching her face.
Her step faltered—just a fraction—then she recovered, voice smooth. “Heard of it, have you?”
“Maybe,” I said, grinning. “You’re not the only one who listens.”
She laughed, soft and sharp. “Careful, Dane. Keep talking like that, I might think you’re helping me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back, and she matched me, parrying like the mental warrior she was. Every word was a jab, a feint, and fuck, it was hot. Her mind was as sharp as her body was dangerous, and I was hooked—reeling her in, letting her pull me back.
We were sparring, circling, and I couldn’t resist. “What about that kiss?”
She stopped, turned, gray eyes locking on mine. “What kiss?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I said, stepping closer. “You remember.”
Her lips twitched, but her eyes—fuck, they were sparkling, inviting, wanting. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
“Bullshit,” I murmured, voice rough. Heat slammed me—her on top, thighs gripping me, begging me to stick it in, grabbing my cock and forcing it inside her. I could see it, feel it, and I was two seconds from losing it.
She didn’t back off. Just watched me, daring me, that blush from earlier gone, replaced by something raw and reckless. I had to have her. Now .
We’d hit a secluded spot at the far corner of the grounds, concrete decking underfoot, trees blocking the party’s glow. I grinned, tapped my foot twice, and a hidden hatch clicked open—soft, mechanical, a secret sliding free. Her eyes widened, just a flicker, but she didn’t flinch.
“Real tour starts here,” I said, nodding at the dark stairs descending into the tunnel. “You in?”
There was a beat—hesitation in her gaze, a shadow of doubt—but then she nodded, silent for once, no smartass comeback. Just a tilt of her chin, like she was stepping into the fight she’d been chasing all along.
We descended, the hatch sealing shut behind us, and the air turned cool, tight, electric. It was just me and her now—Claire Dixon, silver dress and all, walking into my world. I had her right where I want her.
And fuck, I wasn’t sure I was the one in control anymore.