Chapter 18
18
MARCUS
I practically had to drag Claire out of that hotel room, my grip tight on her arm as her heels skidded against the carpet. She fought me—stubborn as hell, twisting in my hold—but I wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not after that glass, half-full when it should’ve been empty, screaming someone had been in there.
She’d been expendable before—a tool, a sword I could wield and toss when it dulled. But fuck if she felt that way now. Something had shifted, hard and fast, and I’d do anything— anything —to keep her safe.
“Marcus—what about Diego?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the lobby’s hum as we rushed past the desk, the receptionist barely glancing up.
“Diego’ll be fine,” I snapped, shoving the glass doors open. Truth was, I didn’t give a damn about Diego right then. He could flirt his way out of Charleston for all I cared. My mind was spinning, a mess of jagged edges and cold panic.
How could I have been so stupid? Letting her stay at The Palmetto Rose, thinking cameras and a tail were enough, when Department 77 was already ten steps ahead, playing me like a damn fiddle. I’d underestimated them, and now Claire was in the crosshairs because of it.
We hit the valet line outside the hotel, the night air thick with jasmine and exhaust, and I shoved her toward the Bugatti, my hand still locked on her wrist. She stumbled, yanking against me, but I didn’t ease up until she was in the passenger seat, door slamming shut behind her. I slid in, keys already in hand, when it hit me—the envelope. That weathered bastard outside Dominion Hall, slipping it to her like a ghost.
“Open it,” I said, voice rough, nodding at her clutch as I fired up the engine.
Claire shot me a look—wary, pissed—but she pulled it out, her fingers careful as she tore the creased edge. A single slip of paper fluttered into her lap, scrawled with jagged ink.
Don’t listen to the Danes. They’re a pack of liars.
Her head snapped up, gray eyes blazing, and she lunged for the door handle. “Let me out?—”
“No fucking way.” I slammed the gas, tires screeching as the Bugatti tore away from the curb, the hotel shrinking in the rearview. She twisted in her seat, clawing at my arm, nails digging into my skin, but I held the wheel tight, eyes locked straight ahead.
“Pull over, Marcus! Now!” she screamed, her voice raw, bouncing off the leather interior. “Let me out, you asshole?—”
“Not happening,” I growled, swerving past a slow- moving cab, the city lights blurring into streaks. My mind was a goddamn tornado—Department 77 knew about us, had to. That note wasn’t random. It was a wedge, sharp and deliberate, meant to split us apart. And fuck, it was working.
Claire was losing it, her hands scrabbling at me, her breath hitching with fury, and I didn’t know what to do. For the first time in years—years of war, blood, and cold decisions—I didn’t know what the hell to do.
“Marcus—stop the fucking car!” She grabbed my forearm, yanking hard, and the Bugatti swerved, tires squealing against asphalt. I shook her off, barely keeping us straight, my pulse hammering in my ears.
“Enough!” I roared, slowing just enough to take a breath, my hands white-knuckling the wheel. No more games. No more subterfuge. I had to tell her—maybe not everything, but enough to pull her back, to get her on my side again. “I’m ready,” I said, voice low, steady despite the chaos in my chest.
She glared at me, chest heaving. “Ready for what? Another fuck?”
I let out a rough laugh, heat flashing low despite everything. “Tempting. Maybe after. But no—I want to tell you the truth.”
Her eyes narrowed, skepticism etched into every line of her face. She looked like she’d bolt the second I stopped, but after a beat, she nodded—sharp, reluctant. “Fine.”
I didn’t waste it. I yanked the wheel right, tires biting into the turn, and gunned it toward Sullivan’s Island. Not Dominion Hall—this wasn’t for the fortress. This was home, the old Dane place on the water, where the air smelled like salt and sea foam. The road stretched dark ahead, the city fading into marsh and moonlight, and I felt her watching me, waiting. I drove without speaking. Claire just sat there, waiting.
“What is this place?” she asked as we pulled down the dirt drive, her voice quieter now, edged with something I couldn’t pin down as we pulled up to the weathered beach house. The wraparound porch sagged under years of storms, the white paint chipped, but it still stood—solid, ours.
“Sullivan’s Island,” I said, cutting the engine. “The old Dane home. Before Dominion. Before everything went to shit.”
She didn’t snap back, didn’t fire off something sharp. She just listened, her head tilted slightly, gray eyes locked on me. I exhaled, staring out at the black waves crashing beyond the dunes, and let it spill.
“Yeah, I’ve been lying to you,” I started, voice rougher than I meant it. “That file? It was a plant. The CIA director—piece of shit, yeah, but he’s got nothing to do with Department 77. Just a name to throw you off, keep you chasing shadows.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt. “Why tell me now?”
I gripped the wheel, even with the car still, my knuckles ached. “Because the hotel scared the shit out of me. Someone else that close to you—someone who could’ve hurt you—it flipped something. I don’t want to see you hurt, Claire. Not by them. Not by anyone.”
Her breath caught, just enough to notice, and her eyes softened—not much, but enough. Shock, maybe, but the good kind. Neither of us knew what to say, the silence thick between us, the sound of the ocean filling it. I swallowed hard, pushing forward before I lost my nerve.
“What I’m about to tell you could get me in deep shit with my brothers,” I said, low and careful. “Department 77—they’re real. They kidnapped Will, one of our guys. Ryker’s best friend, Izzy’s brother. The pier explosion? That was meant to take out Will and Ryker. Ryker burned one of his nine lives dodging that blast. I’ve been trying to protect my family—everything we’ve built. That’s all this is.”
I couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t believe I’d just laid it out like that—raw, unguarded, the kind of truth that could bury me. She could run with it now, splash it across her podcast, a million ears tearing into Dominion’s guts. And if she did, I knew—deep down, cold and certain—I might have to kill her. The thought twisted in me, sharp and sick, but it was there. Family first. Always had been.
Then her hand was on my face, warm against my jaw, turning my head until I had to meet her eyes. They were steady, piercing, and fuck, they hit me harder than I expected.
“Okay,” she said, voice soft but firm. “Now that we’re on the same page, tell me how I can help.”
I blinked, surprise slamming into me, stirring something deep—relief, want, something I couldn’t name. A grin tugged at my mouth, slow and real. “What do you know about Evelyn Hart?”
She leaned back, a spark flaring in her gaze, like she’d been waiting for this. “The mayor? Not much—yet. Polished, connected, clean as Dorothy skipping down the yellow brick road. Why?”
“Because she’s in it,” I said, leaning closer, the space between us shrinking. “Caught her on camera tonight, staring at that file in your hand like it was a loaded gun. She’s tied to Department 77—don’t know how deep, but she’s not just a bystander.”
Claire’s lips parted, processing fast, that hunter’s glint I loved sharpening her features. “You think she’s the one who broke into my room?”
“Probably not. I’ll bet she’s got people who did.” I scrubbed a hand through my hair, the weight of it settling in. “Point is, she’s moving, and she knows you’ve got something. That note—‘pack of liars’—it’s them trying to turn you against me. And it almost worked.”
She smirked, a flicker of that New York steel cutting through. “Almost.”
I laughed, short and rough, the tension easing just enough to breathe. “Yeah, well, you’re still here.”
“For now,” she shot back, but there was no bite in it—just a challenge, daring me to keep her there.
I held her gaze, the air between us crackling again, different this time. Not just heat, not just the pull that’d landed us naked in that tunnel. This was something else—trust, fragile and untested, but there. I’d given her a piece of me, more than I’d meant to, and she hadn’t run. Not yet.
“Tell me about Will,” she said, breaking the silence, her voice steady but curious. “What happened?”
I leaned back in the seat, staring out at the dark water, the waves glinting under moonlight. “He was one of ours—Dominion through and through. Ryker’s shadow growing up, damn near a brother. Izzy’s actual brother, blood and all. Department 77 snatched him—clean op, no trace. We tried everything to get him back. Then, the pier. The pier was their kill shot—blow him and Ryker sky-high, send a message. Ryker got out with Will, alive. Lucky.”
Her brows knit, piecing it together. “And you’ve been chasing them ever since.”
“Every damn day,” I said, voice low, the ache of it still raw. “They’re ghosts—slippery, connected, always ahead. Until tonight. Hart’s the first solid thread I’ve had.”
Claire nodded, slow, like she was slotting it into her own puzzle. “So you planted the file to see who’d bite.”
“Yeah,” I admitted, glancing at her. “Didn’t expect it’d be her. Or that they’d come for you so fast.”
She snorted, a dry laugh. “Guess I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” I said, sharper than I meant. “They’re not playing. That hotel stunt? That’s a warning—or worse.”
Her smirk faded, replaced by something harder, resolute. “Then we hit back. Hart’s the key—dig into her, find the cracks. I’ve got sources, ways to pull strings you can’t.”
I raised a brow, caught off guard again. “You’re in?”
“I’m already in,” she said, simple, like it was a done deal. “You just made it official.”
Fuck, she was something else. I grinned wider, leaning toward her, close enough to catch that sharp floral scent of hers that’d been driving me crazy all night. “All right. Partners, then.”
“Partners,” she echoed, her voice dropping, a glint in her eyes that said she wasn’t done pushing me yet. “But don’t think this means I trust you completely.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back, matching her tone. “Wouldn’t want you to.”
She laughed—soft, real, cutting through the heavy air—and it hit me low, stirring that mix of want and something deeper. I’d brought her here to come clean, to pull her back from the edge, but now? Now she was diving in with me, eyes wide open, and I wasn’t sure I could keep her safe from what was coming.
“Let’s get inside,” I said, nodding toward the house. “Figure out our next move. ”
She didn’t argue, just grabbed her clutch and stepped out, the silver dress catching the moonlight as she moved. I followed, my mind racing—Hart, Department 77, the mess I’d just dragged Claire deeper into. But as I watched her climb the porch steps, that stubborn tilt to her chin, I knew one thing for damn sure: I wasn’t letting her out of my sight. Not tonight. Not until this was done.
The old Dane home creaked under our weight as we stepped inside, the smell of salt and wood hitting me like a memory. The living room was sparse—faded sofa, a scratched coffee table, a few framed photos of us as kids before it all went to hell. Claire glanced around, taking it in, but didn’t comment. She just dropped onto the sofa, kicking off her heels with a sigh, and looked at me expectantly.
“All right, Dane,” she said, folding her arms. “Hart. Spill it.”
I paced to the window, staring out at the black water, the horizon lost in the dark. “She’s mayor—elected three years back, all smiles and promises. Too clean, like I said. Husband’s a shipping guy, controls half the docks. Brother’s ex-military, black-ops type, maybe. Not confirmed. And tonight, she couldn’t take her eyes off that file. She’s in—maybe running point, maybe just a cog, but she’s tied to them.”
Claire leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Shipping’s a goldmine for smuggling—drugs, weapons, whatever Department 77’s moving. And black-ops? That’s not a coincidence.”
“Sure,” I said, turning to face her. “She’s got the connections to make it work. But we need more—proof, something solid.”
“I can get it,” she said, voice steady, that glint back in her eyes. “I’ve got a contact in D.C.—old-school journalist, owes me a favor. He’s dug into worse than Hart before.”
I nodded, impressed despite myself. “Good. I’ll lean on Norton—you met him. He’s already digging into her. Between us, we’ll crack her open.”
Claire smirked, leaning back. “Look at us—teamwork.”
“Yeah,” I said, crossing to the sofa, dropping beside her. “Don’t get used to it.”
She laughed again, and fuck, it was a sound I could live on. But as the quiet settled, her hand brushed mine—just a graze, unintentional—and the air shifted again. Heat, trust, danger—all tangled up, pulling tight. I didn’t move, didn’t dare, but I felt it: we were in this now, together, and whatever came next, I’d kill to keep her breathing.