Chapter 8
MICAH
The Palmetto Rose wasn't what I expected.
Not that I'd expected much. A bed. Four walls. Maybe a window that locked. The basics.
What I got was something else entirely.
The building sat tucked into a quieter section of downtown Charleston, brick facade weathered in a way that suggested history without trying too hard. Understated. Elegant. The kind of place that didn't need a sign to tell you it cost money.
The driver pulled up to the curb and nodded toward the entrance. "They're expecting you."
I grabbed my bag—light, always light—and stepped out into the afternoon air, humidity wrapping around me like a wet blanket.
Inside, the lobby was all dark wood and soft lighting, tasteful without being pretentious. A woman behind the desk looked up as I entered, her smile professional but genuine.
"Mr. Dane," she said. "Welcome to the Palmetto Rose."
I stopped. "How do you—"
"We were told to expect you." She gestured toward a set of keys already laid out on the counter. "Top floor. Corner suite. Everything you need should be there. If not, just call down."
I took the keys without another word and headed for the elevator.
The suite was excessive.
King bed. Sitting area with a sofa that looked more comfortable than most beds I'd slept in. Kitchenette stocked with basics. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Charleston's rooftops and the harbor beyond. Bathroom with a shower big enough for three people and a tub I'd never use.
Luxury I wasn't used to.
Luxury I didn't deserve.
I dropped my bag by the door, crossed to the windows, and stared out at the city. The sun caught on church steeples and rooftops, gilding everything in light that felt too clean for someone like me.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number: Laptop and initial paperwork in the closet. Start whenever you're ready. Background check will take 48-72 hours. -S
Silas.
I found the laptop exactly where he said it would be—sleek, black, already powered on. When I opened it, a single folder sat on the desktop labeled: Start Here.
I sat on the sofa, balanced the laptop on my knees, and clicked it open.
Three documents. That was it.
The first was a standard NDA—pages of legal language that basically said if I talked about anything I saw, learned, or did while working with them, I'd spend the rest of my life in a hole somewhere. Standard stuff for black ops work. I'd signed a dozen like it.
The second was a background disclosure form. Pages of questions about my history—military service, contracts, aliases, arrests, known associates. They wanted everything. Which meant they probably already had everything and were just seeing if I'd lie.
I wouldn't. I’d lived their reach already.
I filled it out methodically, every mission I could remember that wasn't classified beyond my ability to admit, every name I'd worked under, every country I'd operated in. If they wanted to know who I was, they'd get the truth.
Or at least, as much truth as existed on paper.
The third document was simpler. A preliminary agreement. Essentially: We're interested. You're interested. Let's see if this works. Here's what the next week looks like.
Background check. Medical eval. Psych eval—though that one made me almost laugh. If I passed their psych eval, their standards were lower than I thought.
Then, if everything cleared, a formal offer.
I read through it twice, then signed.
The laptop prompted me to submit. I did.
A confirmation screen appeared: Thank you. Someone will be in touch shortly.
That was it.
No mission briefs. No organizational charts. No details about what I'd actually be doing or who I'd be working with.
Just paperwork and waiting.
I closed the laptop and set it aside, suddenly aware of how quiet the room was.
Too quiet.
I stood and paced to the window, hands shoved in my pockets, staring out at Charleston like the city could tell me what the hell I was doing.
Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been in Riga. Standing over Draconi's body. Alone, the way I always was.
Now I was here. In a luxury suite. Signing contracts with people who'd somehow taken care of Benson's family without asking for anything in return.
It didn't make sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
I pulled out my phone and navigated to Facebook, typing in the name before I could stop myself.
Rachel Benson.
Her profile came up—public, accessible. The photo showed her smiling with two of the kids, the third barely visible at the edge of the frame. Recent posts were sparse. A picture of a soccer game. A short thank-you to friends and family for their support during "a difficult time."
Nothing specific.
Nothing that confirmed what Silas had told me.
But nothing that denied it, either.
I stared at the screen, jaw tight.
If they'd lied—if this whole thing was smoke and mirrors—I'd know eventually. And when I did, there'd be hell to pay.
But if they'd told the truth ...
I closed the browser and pocketed my phone.
The room felt too small suddenly. Too contained.
I needed to move. To do something. Anything other than sit here and wait for emails and evaluations and decisions that weren't mine to make.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
Charleston in the afternoon was like a circus.
Tourists everywhere. Families. Couples holding hands. People who looked like they belonged here, like they'd never seen the things I'd seen or done the things I'd done.
I walked without direction, letting the city wash over me. Past historic homes with plaques that told stories I didn't read. Past restaurants with outdoor seating and laughter spilling onto the sidewalk. Past shops selling things no one needed but everyone wanted.
And then I saw it.
McKinley Flowers.
The sign was simple, hand-painted, hanging above a storefront with wide windows full of color. Arrangements lined the glass—roses, lilies, things I couldn't name. Bright. Alive.
I stopped walking.
Flowers.
Her.
My brain told me to keep moving. To walk past. To forget I'd even seen it.
This was stupid. Beyond stupid. Insane.
But my feet didn't listen.
I stood there on the sidewalk, staring at the shop like it might explode if I looked away, and then—against every instinct I'd honed over a lifetime—I stepped closer.
Through the window, I could see movement inside. A woman at the counter. Blonde hair pulled back.
Her.
My chest tightened.
What were the odds?
She was laughing at something, her whole face lighting up in a way that made the flowers around her look dull by comparison. She moved with easy confidence here, in her space, arranging stems like it was the most natural thing in the world.
This was her world.
Gentle. Beautiful. Safe.
Everything I wasn't.
I should've walked away. Should've turned around and gone back to the Palmetto Rose and focused on the job, the paperwork, the future I was supposedly building.
Instead, I watched her.
Watched the way her hands moved—careful, precise, like every stem mattered. Watched the way she smiled at a customer, leaning in to listen, nodding like whatever they were saying was the most important thing she'd heard all day.
She had no idea I was there.
No idea I was standing outside like some kind of stalker, unable to look away.
And then she glanced up.
Our eyes met through the glass.
For half a second, recognition flickered across her face. Then surprise. Then something else I couldn't read.
I turned and walked away before she could react.
Fast. Purposeful. Like I had somewhere to be that wasn't just away from her.
My heart pounded harder than it should have. Harder than it did on ops. Harder than it did when someone was shooting at me.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I didn't stop walking until I was three blocks away, tucked into an alley between two buildings, breathing hard like I'd just run a marathon.
She'd seen me.
And now she'd know I'd been watching.
Fuck.
Back at the Palmetto Rose, I stripped off my jacket and paced the suite like a caged animal.
The image of her wouldn't leave. Her smile. Her hands. The way she'd looked through the window—right at me—and I'd bolted like a coward.
I tried to push it away. Tried to focus on anything else.
The laptop sat on the table, closed and silent.
I opened it again, navigating back to the forms, but there was nothing new. Just a confirmation that my submissions had been received.
So, I did the only thing I could think of.
I looked her up.
McKinley Flowers Charleston.
The website loaded—simple, clean, photos of arrangements and fields and a family standing together in front of rows of blooms. Her face was there, smiling, younger than she looked now but unmistakably her.
Joy McKinley.
Joy.
The name fit. Too well.
I clicked through the pages. The farm on Wadmalaw Island. The shop downtown. A blog about seasonal flowers and weddings and the care that went into growing things that wouldn't last.
Every word sounded like her. Earnest. Thoughtful. Sweet.
I closed the laptop and shoved it away.
This was a problem.
Not the job. Not Dominion Hall. Not the contracts or the background checks or the future I was walking into.
Her.
She was the problem.
Because I couldn't stop thinking about her. Couldn't stop replaying the way she'd looked at me in that garden—first with curiosity, then with disappointment. Couldn't stop imagining what it would be like if I'd been different. Kinder. Better.
If I'd been the kind of man who deserved to stand in her light instead of lurking in the shadows outside her shop.
I crossed to the bathroom, turned the shower on, and stripped down.
The water was hot. Scalding. I stood under the spray and let it burn.
But even that didn't help.
Because my mind kept circling back to her.
What she'd look like if I touched her. If I pulled that braid loose and wrapped it around my fist. If I backed her against a wall and showed her exactly what men like me did to women like her.
My hand dropped, gripping myself hard.
This was pathetic. Stupid. Dangerous.
But I couldn't stop.
I imagined her wide eyes looking up at me—not with fear, but with want. That soft mouth parted, breath coming fast as I crowded her against the counter in that flower shop and made her forget every polite word she'd ever learned.
I imagined stripping her out of her clothes. Slowly. Watching her blush spread down her neck, across her chest, as I took my time learning every inch of her.
I imagined the way she'd feel beneath me. Soft. Warm. Trembling as I pushed inside her, inch by inch, breaking through whatever innocence she still carried and claiming it for myself.
The thought pushed me over the edge.
I came hard, one hand braced against the tile, breath hissing through my teeth.
When it was over, I stood there under the spray, head bowed, feeling nothing but shame.
She had a name now.
Joy.
And I was already ruining her in my head.
I dried off, dressed, and sat on the sofa with the laptop again, staring at the closed lid.
How long before I had something to do, something else to think about?
Before I officially became part of whatever Dominion Hall was.
And if I did—if I signed on—I'd have to stay away from her. Completely.
No walking past her shop. No looking her up online. No letting my mind wander to places it had no business going.
She wasn't mine to think about.
Wasn't mine to want.
And she sure as hell wasn't mine to ruin.
I opened the laptop one last time, pulled up a blank document, and typed a single line.
Stay away from Joy McKinley.
Then I deleted the line, closed the laptop and walked away.
Commitment made.
Even if I didn't believe it yet.