Chapter 2
ETHAN
Ikilled the engine in the far corner of the Isle of Palms lot, where asphalt gave way to scrub and sand. The truck’s rumble faded, leaving only the distant crash of waves and the restless hum of a packed beach. Too many people. Too much noise.
“All right, buddy,” I muttered, shoving the door open. “You win.”
The air hit me first—thick, warm, carrying the tang of seaweed and sunscreen.
I squinted into the glare, the lot crammed with SUVs and minivans, families hauling coolers, kids darting between cars with plastic shovels.
Not my scene. Never was. But Flapjack nudged the trailer again, harder this time, and I couldn’t ignore the message.
He wanted out. He wanted to move. And hell, so did I.
I swung open the trailer gate, and Flapjack’s big head swung toward me, dark eyes steady, ears twitching.
At nineteen hands, he was a beast—coal-black, built like a tank, the kind of horse that could carry a man my size without breaking a sweat.
Percherons weren’t common on beaches, or anywhere outside a farm, but Flapjack wasn’t just any horse.
He was mine. My best friend. The only one who’d stuck with me through years of blood and bullshit.
I led him out, his hooves thudding heavy on the ramp, and tied him to the trailer’s side. The crowd didn’t notice us yet, too busy with their beach bags and arguments over parking. Good.
I worked fast, grabbing the saddle and blanket from the trailer’s tack compartment.
My hands moved on muscle memory—checking the cinch, smoothing the blanket, settling the saddle just right.
Flapjack stood patient, his bulk a quiet kind of reassurance.
He didn’t care about the chaos around us. He just wanted the open.
“Hey, mister, what’re you doing with a horse?”
The voice was small but sharp, cutting through the hum of the lot.
I turned, saddle strap still in hand, and found a kid staring up at me.
Maybe seven, bright blue eyes, face splotched with sunscreen like he’d been finger-painted.
He clutched a bucket of plastic army men, the kind I used to play with when I was his age, back when the world felt simpler.
I straightened, which only made me loom larger. At well over six feet and built like I’d been forged for breaking things, I was used to people staring. The kid didn’t flinch, though. Just tilted his head, curious.
“Just got here,” I said, voice low, steady. “Long drive. Flapjack needs to stretch his legs.”
“Flapjack?” The kid’s nose scrunched, like he’d tasted something sour. “What’s a flapjack?”
“Pancake,” I said, tightening the cinch. “Thick, buttery, stacked high with syrup. Best breakfast you’ll ever eat.”
He grinned, showing a gap where a front tooth should’ve been. “I like pizza better. With extra pepperoni.”
“Good choice.” I gave Flapjack a pat, his coat warm under my palm. “Can’t go wrong with pepperoni.”
“Why’re you so big?” the kid asked, blunt as only kids can be.
I chuckled. “Born this way. Same as Flapjack here. We’re just built for heavy lifting.”
“Can I pet him?” The kid’s eyes lit up, bucket swinging in his hand.
I glanced around, scanning the lot for whoever was supposed to be watching him. No obvious parents nearby, just the usual chaos of beachgoers.
“Run and ask your mom or dad first. If they say it’s okay, sure.”
He bolted, little legs kicking up sand, bucket rattling. I turned back to Flapjack, double-checking the bridle, making sure every strap was snug. I’d been saddling horses since I was younger than that kid, back when my family’s ranch was the only place that felt like home.
Flapjack snorted, tossing his head like he was laughing at me for fussing. I gave him a look. “Don’t start.”
The kid came sprinting back, a woman trailing behind him, a baby propped on her hip. She was in her thirties, maybe, with tired eyes and a beach bag slung over one shoulder. Her gaze flicked from Flapjack to me, and her eyebrows shot up, like she’d expected her son to be spinning stories.
“Mom, his name’s Flapjack!” the kid shouted, bouncing on his toes. “He said I could pet him if you say it’s okay!”
The woman’s eyes lingered on me, not quite suspicious but close. I stepped forward, keeping my movements slow, deliberate.
“Ethan Dane,” I said, offering a nod. “Flapjack’s tame as they come. Gentle as a lamb unless he smells cotton candy.”
The kid’s eyes went wide as saucers. “He eats cotton candy?”
I let a grin tug at my mouth. “Not a lot. But when he’s lucky, yeah.”
The woman’s lips twitched, like she was fighting a smile. She adjusted the baby, who was gnawing on a teething ring, and gave a small nod. “All right. Just … be careful.”
I led the kid to Flapjack, who knew the drill.
He lowered his massive head, nostrils flaring softly, and instead of just a pet, the kid threw his arms around Flapjack’s muzzle, hugging tight.
I froze, ready to step in, but Flapjack just stood there, calm as a summer lake.
The kid stroked his face, gentle as anything, then leaned in and whispered something in Flapjack’s ear.
I couldn’t catch the words, but Flapjack nickered, a low, warm sound, and the kid squealed, pure joy.
“He understands me!”
“Course he does,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Horses always listen better than people.”
The kid jumped in the air, practically vibrating, then ran back to his mom. She ruffled his hair, glancing at me. “Say thank you, buddy.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ethan Dane!” the kid chirped, full name and all. Then, because he was a kid and kids don’t filter, he pointed at my left arm. “What happened to your arm?”
I held it out, the four long, jagged scars catching the light. Diagonal, deep, old but still angry-looking. The kid’s mom stiffened, her eyes flicking to mine, a silent plea not to scare him. I got the hint. No war stories. No blood.
“Maybe when you’re grown,” I said, keeping it light. “Long story for another day.”
The kid shrugged, like he was used to adults dodging, and tugged his mom’s hand. “C’mon, Mom, let’s go build the fort!” They headed off, the woman throwing me a quick, grateful nod over her shoulder.
I locked the truck and trailer, ignoring the stares from a few passersby who’d stopped to gawk at Flapjack. Big horse, big man, big scars—people always looked. I didn’t care.
I swung into the saddle, the leather creaking under my weight, and nudged Flapjack toward the beach.
Away from the crowds, if that was even possible.
The lot spilled into a stretch of sand packed with umbrellas, coolers, and screaming kids.
Bad call, coming today. But I wasn’t here by choice.
Some cryptic orders had landed me in Charleston for a meeting at a place called Dominion Hall, with a guy named Atlas.
If that was even a real name. Sounded like a codename, or some rich asshole’s idea of a power move.
Either way, I had a day to kill, and I wasn’t wasting it in a hotel room.
Flapjack deserved the beach, and so did I.
We hit the sand, his hooves sinking deep, and I steered him toward the quieter end, where the dunes rose higher and the people thinned out.
Didn’t last long. A gaggle of kids started trailing us, keeping a respectful distance but whispering and pointing. I could feel their eyes, curious, a little awed. Flapjack didn’t mind, but I felt the old itch crawling up my spine—the one that hated being seen.
I nudged him into a trot, then a lope, his stride smooth and powerful, eating up the beach. The kids fell back, their parents calling them to safer distractions. Good.
The sun was brutal, beating down on my shoulders, sweat already beading under my t-shirt.
Flapjack’s coat glistened, his breath steady but heavy.
He loved this as much as I did—the rhythm, the motion, the way the world blurred when you moved fast enough.
We were two of a kind, built for work, not crowds.
I let him slow to a walk, patting his neck, his muscles warm and solid under my hand.
Then she stepped into my path.
A blonde, tall and athletic, tanned just enough to look like she belonged here but worked too hard to be a tourist. She held up both hands, a badge clipped to her belt, her expression all business.
A knockout, sure, but the kind who didn’t care if you noticed.
Behind her, a lanky guy with a clipboard glanced up, curious but staying out of it.
“You can’t have a horse on the beach,” she said, voice sharp, official, like she was reading from a rulebook.
I reined Flapjack to a stop, his hooves kicking up sand. “Didn’t know,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Thought this was a public beach.”
“It is,” she said, hands dropping to her hips. “For humans. Not horses.”
I grinned, couldn’t help it. “Don’t go anywhere without my best friend.” I patted Flapjack’s neck, and he nickered, right on cue, like he was backing me up.
Her frown deepened, but her eyes flicked over me, sizing me up. “You new in town?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, leaning forward in the saddle, just enough to make her notice my size again.
“What’s your deal?” she asked, head tilting. “You a cowboy or something?”
I let out a low chuckle. “Maybe in another life.”
Her eyes narrowed, catching on something. My chest. My dog tags had slipped out during the lope, dangling against my shirt. I tucked them back, quick, but not quick enough.
Her gaze sharpened. “What was that?”
“Dog tags,” I said, flat.
“No, the other thing.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Souvenir.”
“It looked like a claw,” she said, not letting it go.
My jaw tightened, just a fraction. She was pushing, and I didn’t like being pushed. But I kept it locked down, bottled tight, like always.
“Bear claw,” I said, voice low. “Want proof?”
I held up my left arm, the scars stark in the sunlight, then lifted the hem of my shirt. Another set of ragged marks slashed across my chest, older but no less brutal.
Her eyes widened, just for a second, then she blinked. Once. Twice. Like she’d seen a ghost.
She took a step back, her composure slipping. “You can’t have a horse on the beach,” she said again, quieter this time. “Not this one.”
I nodded, tipping my head. “Thanks for the tip.”
I nudged Flapjack forward, not caring if the cops showed. I could handle them. Play dumb, flash some credentials, mention the kind of work I did.
But it didn’t come to that. She didn’t call anyone. She just stood there, watching me ride on, her eyes burning a hole in my back.
I kept going, Flapjack’s stride steady, the ocean roaring to my left.
But my mind wasn’t on the beach anymore.
It was on her. That look in her eyes—part spark, part fear, part something I couldn’t name.
It stuck with me, like a splinter I couldn’t pull.
I’d sworn off women, maybe for good, after too many years of scars—literal and otherwise.
But something about her, about that moment, made me want to know what she’d seen when she looked at me. What had made her back away. What had made her blink.
The wind picked up, tugging at my shirt, and Flapjack snorted, tossing his head. I patted his neck again, grounding myself.
“Easy, buddy,” I said, voice low. “We’ll figure it out.”
But I wasn’t sure if I was talking about the beach, the meeting at Dominion Hall, or the woman who’d just burned herself into my head.