Chapter 4
ETHAN
Ilet Flapjack slow to a walk, his hooves carving deep prints in the sand, the ocean’s roar a steady pulse as our collective heart rate settled.
The beach stretched out, still too crowded for my taste, but quieter now, the families thinning as the sun climbed higher.
My shirt clung to my back, sweat mixing with the salt in the air, and Flapjack’s coat gleamed like polished coal.
He snorted, tossing his head, content but ready to be done.
I patted his neck, feeling the heat of his muscles under my palm.
“Good boy,” I murmured. “Time to clean you up.”
We turned back toward the parking lot, weaving through the last stragglers of the crowd—kids with melting ice cream, parents hauling chairs, a few teenagers snapping selfies with the waves.
I kept my eyes forward, ignoring the stares.
Flapjack and I were a spectacle, always had been. Didn’t mean I had to like it.
Back at the trailer, I dismounted and tied him to the side, grabbing the hose I’d rigged to the truck’s water tank.
The nozzle hissed as I sprayed him down, starting at his hooves and working up, the water cutting through the sand and sweat.
Flapjack stood still, ears twitching, letting out a low nicker like he was thanking me.
A few kids hovered nearby, drawn like moths to his size, their whispers loud enough to catch. I didn’t look up, just kept working, but when a girl no older than ten stepped closer, clutching a plastic bucket, I nodded. “You can say hi. He’s friendly.”
She beamed, dropping her bucket to stroke his flank, her friends inching forward behind her.
Flapjack lowered his head, sniffing at the nearest kid’s hand, and they giggled, nervous and thrilled.
I kept the hose steady, watching from the corner of my eye, making sure nobody got too bold.
Flapjack was a gentle giant, but he was still a giant.
“Sir?” A voice cut through the kids’ chatter, polite but firm.
I turned, hose still in hand, and saw two beach patrol officers in yellow polos approaching. Isle of Palms patches on their sleeves, radios clipped to their belts. My gut tensed, ready to play dumb, maybe flash some credentials if it came to that. I’d talked my way out of worse.
But the woman spoke first, her smile easy, her eyes on Flapjack. “He’s gorgeous. Percheron, right? How’s he handle the beach?”
I relaxed, just a fraction. Horse people. “Yeah, Percheron. Handles it like he was born for it. Likes the open.”
The man, shorter, with a sunburned nose, nodded. “Bet he’s a beast to saddle. What’s his name?”
“Flapjack,” I said, shutting off the hose. “And yeah, he’s a lot, but he’s worth it.”
The woman laughed, stepping closer to run a hand along Flapjack’s shoulder. “Flapjack’s a hell of a name. You ride him out here often?”
“First time,” I said. “Just passing through.”
They exchanged a look, and I braced for the lecture, but the woman just shrugged. “Technically, horses aren’t allowed on IOP beaches. But …” She glanced at Flapjack, who was busy nuzzling a kid’s hand, looking for treats. “Horses are people, too, right? We’ll let it slide.”
The man grinned. “Try Sullivan’s Island next time. Quieter. Less hassle.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, meaning it. For the first time since I’d rolled into Charleston, I felt a flicker of welcome, like I wasn’t a stranger in a place that didn’t want me. It wasn’t Montana—nothing ever would be, with its wide skies and silence you could sink into—but it was something.
I finished rinsing Flapjack, the kids drifting back to their parents as the officers waved and headed off.
I dried my hands on my jeans, loaded Flapjack back into the trailer, and locked everything up.
The lot was still busy, but the noise felt distant now, like I’d found a pocket of calm.
I climbed into the truck, punched the address for Dominion Hall into the GPS, and pulled out, the trailer rattling behind me.
The drive was short, but Charleston’s streets twisted like they were trying to shake me. Narrow roads, old houses with porches that looked ready to tell stories, palmettos swaying in the breeze.
I kept my eyes on the road, but my mind wandered back to the beach. To her. The blonde with the badge, all volcanic flash, her eyes catching on my scars like she could read them. I didn’t know her name, but I could still feel the weight of her gaze, like a hook I hadn’t shaken.
The GPS pinged, and I turned onto a private road, the kind that didn’t invite visitors. Live oaks lined the way, their branches dripping moss like they were guarding something ancient. Then I saw it. Dominion Hall.
I pulled to a stop at the gates, my breath catching despite myself.
The place was a fortress, not a house. Stone walls rose high, their edges sharp enough to cut the sky, flanked by iron gates that looked like they could stop a tank.
Beyond them, the main building loomed—sprawling, gray, with columns that didn’t apologize for their weight.
It wasn’t just big; it was imposing, like it had been built to remind you who was in charge.
I’d seen compounds in war zones that felt less commanding.
I wasn’t afraid—fear wasn’t something I carried anymore—but this place demanded respect, and I gave it.
I eased the truck forward as the gates slid open, silent and smooth, like they’d been waiting for me.
The drive curved through manicured grounds, the kind of green that took money and obsession to maintain.
I parked near the main entrance, where a man stood waiting.
He was my size, maybe bigger, with shoulders that said he’d carried more than his share of weight.
His stance was easy but deliberate, like he knew exactly how much space he took up and why.
I stepped out, feet crunching on gravel, and he extended a hand. “Atlas,” he said, his grip like stone, unyielding but not cruel.
“Ethan Dane,” I said, meeting his strength with my own. His eyes locked on mine, searching for something—recognition, maybe, or a crack he could read. I couldn’t tell. “That your real name?”
He chuckled, a low rumble that felt like it came from the earth itself. Something in it told me to relax, like he’d seen men like me before and knew how to set them at ease. “Born with it,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push.
His gaze flicked to the trailer. “That Flapjack?”
I nodded, surprised. “You know horses?”
“Enough,” he said, stepping toward the trailer. “Mind if I let him out?”
“Go ahead,” I said, curious.
I watched as Atlas unlatched the gate with practiced ease, his hands moving like he’d done this a hundred times. He led Flapjack out, stroking his neck, checking him over with the kind of care that said he wasn’t just humoring me. Flapjack leaned into him, trusting, and I felt a grudging respect.
“How old?” Atlas asked, running a hand along Flapjack’s flank.
“Nine,” I said.
He nodded, like that confirmed something. “Good age. Steady.” He glanced at me. “Mind if one of our staff looks after him? Maybe give him a carrot or two? Apples?”
“Both are fine,” I said, and as if on cue, an attendant appeared—young, wiry, with a quiet efficiency that matched the place. He took Flapjack’s lead, murmuring to him as he led him away.
Atlas gestured toward the house. “This way.”
I followed, my boots echoing on the stone steps.
The front doors were massive, carved oak that looked older than the city itself, and when they opened, the interior hit me like a blow.
Cavernous didn’t cover it. The foyer stretched up two stories, all dark wood and polished marble, with a chandelier that looked like it could light a small town.
Every inch screamed power—old, earned, unapologetic.
The air carried the faint scent of leather and woodsmoke, and the walls were lined with paintings that weren’t there to impress; they were there because they belonged.
I’d been in war rooms that felt less alive than this place, like the house itself had a pulse.
Atlas moved through it like he was part of it, his steps light for a man his size, every motion precise. I knew that walk. Operator. The kind of man who’d been in places where hesitation got you killed. I didn’t ask, but I filed it away, my instincts humming.
He didn’t lead me to a conference room or some stiff receiving parlor.
We ended up in a kitchen, big enough to feed an army, all gleaming steel and warm wood.
A cook—a woman with sharp eyes and flour-dusted hands—was working at a counter, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and something spiced I couldn’t place.
My stomach growled, loud enough to make Atlas glance over with a half-smile.
“Beer?” he asked, already pulling two bottles from a fridge that looked like it cost more than my life.
“Yeah,” I said.
I needed something to ground me in this place, this fortress that felt like it could swallow me whole.
He handed me a bottle, cold and heavy, the label in a language I didn’t read.
I took a sip, and it hit like a memory—crisp, foreign, expensive.
Like a night in the Swiss Alps, years ago, when I’d been someone else for a while.
“Food’ll be ready in thirty,” the cook said, not looking up from her work. “Want it out by the water?”
“That’d be fine,” Atlas said, polite but firm, like he was used to giving orders that didn’t need repeating.
We moved through more rooms, each one heavier with that same quiet power. A library with shelves that climbed to the ceiling, books bound in leather that looked older than my family’s ranch. A hall with windows that framed the harbor, the water glinting silver in the late afternoon light.
I sipped the beer, letting the details sink in—the way the floorboards didn’t creak, the way every piece of furniture looked like it had a story, the way Atlas moved like he owned every inch of this place without needing to say it.
We stepped outside, and the view stopped me cold.
The lawn rolled out forever, manicured to a fault, green as a lie that worked.
Beyond it, the harbor stretched wide, the water so still it looked painted.
Moored at a private pier was a jet-black yacht, sleek and massive, the kind of thing you saw in movies, not real life.
Two helipads sat off to the side, their markings crisp against the grass.
I couldn’t hold it in. “What is this place?”
Atlas took a pull from his beer, his eyes on the water. “Home. For me and my brothers.”
“Brothers?” I asked, turning to him.
He nodded, but didn’t explain, his silence as deliberate as mine ever was. A man of few words, like me. I let it go, my gaze drifting back to the yacht. It was a beast, all sharp lines and quiet menace, like it could vanish into the horizon or start a war, depending on the day.
We walked down to the pier, the air cooler now, carrying the clean bite of the harbor. I set my beer on the railing, the bottle sweating against my palm. “Why am I here?” I asked, blunt.
Atlas didn’t answer right away. He turned, his eyes meeting mine, and I saw it—the moment he’d been waiting for, rehearsed, planned.
I knew that look. I’d worn it myself, in places where words were weapons and trust was a gamble.
My gut hummed, the way it did when I was a kid, watching, listening, internalizing everything before I acted.
It had kept me alive more times than I could count.
“Dominion Hall’s the epicenter,” he said finally. “Where we plan missions. Make deals. Vet new blood.”
I raised an eyebrow. “New blood? And that’s me?”
He shrugged, casual but not careless. “We have ways of finding people.”
“How?” I asked, my voice low. I didn’t like being found. Not by anyone.
Another shrug. “We have ways.”
I wanted to push, to ask what the hell that meant, but I didn’t. Not yet. “This a job offer? Or a test?”
“Not traditional,” he said, his eyes glinting with something that might’ve been amusement. “Make yourself at home in Charleston. There’s a room waiting for you at The Palmetto Rose.”
“Flapjack?” I asked, because he was the only thing that mattered as much as answers.
“Stables on the other side of the property,” Atlas said. “Fully stocked. Staff’s probably already spoiling him. You can visit him whenever you’d like.”
I nodded, letting that settle. “I’ve got questions.”
Atlas clapped me on the back, his hand heavy but warm, and laughed—a sound that felt like it could shift the ground under my feet. “Plenty of time for that.”
We boarded the yacht, settling into the aft lounge, all sleek wood and leather that smelled like money.
The cook’s promise of food lingered in my mind, but for now, it was just me, Atlas, and the view.
The harbor stretched out, endless and calm, the yacht rocking gently beneath us.
I sipped my beer, letting the silence stretch.
Atlas was comfortable in it, same as me, and that told me more than his words had.
But something nagged at me. He felt familiar, like a face I’d seen in a half-remembered dream. Had we met? I didn’t think so, but the feeling wouldn’t quit. And this place—Dominion Hall, with its stone and secrets—felt like it knew me, too.
I’d grown up scraping by on a Montana ranch, me and my six brothers pitching in when our father was gone on his endless work trips. We’d never had money like this, never known power like this. But something in the air here, in the weight of the walls, felt like it fit somewhere.
Then, unbidden, she came back to me. The woman from the beach. Not as she was, badge and all, but in a flowing dress, standing on this very yacht, a glass of champagne in her hand. Every curve of her body sharp and alive, calling to me like a siren song I didn’t know I could hear.
I shook it off, hard, focusing on the beer, the harbor, Atlas’s quiet presence. Questions piled up in my head—about this place, about him, about why I was here. I started listing them, trying to sort them by weight, but that was for later.
For now, I let the moment hold me. The beer was cold, the company quiet, the view endless. And that was enough.