Chapter 6
NOAH
T hey’d thrown me in a solo cell after I turned the holding pen into a goddamn triage unit.
Swastika and Busted Nose hadn’t stood a chance.
I’d watched with a lazy grin as the guards carted them off to the hospital, one clutching his shattered wrist, the other wheezing through a throat I’d half-crushed.
Blood still stained the concrete where I’d smashed Swastika’s face into the bars, a dark smear glinting under the flickering lights. The third guy, the junkie, hadn’t even twitched—just sat there, muttering to himself like I was a ghost he didn’t want to piss off. Smart move.
The cops figured I was better off alone after that. Fine by me. I didn’t need company—just a slab of steel to crash on and the hum of my own thoughts to drown out the world.
The cell was a shithole: rusted bunk, cracked walls, a toilet that smelled like it’d been fermenting since the ‘70s. Didn’t matter. I’d slept in worse—sandpits with scorpions, jungle floors with snakes, rooftops where the wind howled like it wanted to rip your skin off. This was nothing.
I stretched out on the bunk, boots still on, and let the exhaustion hit me hard. Sleep came fast, deep, and black, like I’d been shot up with morphine.
I dreamed of her. Blonde hair whipping in the breeze off Sullivan’s Island, catching the sun like it was spun from gold. Blue eyes bright, sharp, cutting through the haze of the day—big and alive, not dulled by life and circumstance.
She stood on the dunes, barefoot, the ocean crashing behind her, and I just watched, rooted like some dumbass who didn’t know how to move. Didn’t know what to say. Didn’t even try.
The wind carried salt and her scent—something clean, soft, like lavender and rain—and for once, my hands weren’t bloody. For once, I wasn’t aiming at anything. Just her, standing there, real as the tide.
The clang of the cell door jolted me awake. I blinked into the gray half-light, the dream slipping away like smoke. Deputy Mendez stood there, keys in hand, her face a mask of tired patience.
I sat up slow, joints popping, and smirked at her. “Ready for breakfast,” I said, voice rough from sleep. “Hope it’s still hot. Hate cold eggs.”
She didn’t bite—just jerked her head toward the hall. “Out.”
I swung my legs off the bunk, stretched my arms until my shoulders cracked, and followed her. The station was quiet now, the buzz of last night’s chaos faded to a low drone.
My boots echoed on the linoleum, a steady thump that matched the dull ache in my knuckles. Mendez didn’t say shit, just led me down a corridor to the lieutenant’s office.
The door was already open, and he sat behind his desk, hunched over a stack of papers, looking like he’d aged ten years since I’d laughed in his face. He didn’t look up when I walked in—just kept scribbling something, his jaw tight, veins bulging like he was one signature away from a stroke.
I dropped into the chair across from him, slouching back, one leg kicked out. Mendez leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I might start swinging again.
I could feel his piss-off radiating off him, hotter now, probably because of the two assholes I’d sent to the ER. “Nice night?” I asked, grinning. “Sorry about your boys. They tripped. Hope it’s a big boo boo.”
Hargrove’s pen stopped. He lifted his head, eyes bloodshot and narrow, but he didn’t rise to it. “I don’t care,” he said, voice flat. “You’re free to go.”
That hit me sideways. I blinked, sat up a little straighter. “The fuck?”
He leaned back, tossing the pen onto the desk like it’d burned him. “A witness gave you a glowing recommendation. Said you’re a hero, not a criminal. Law’s the law, but as long as you keep your mouth shut—no media, no bullshit—you’re out. We’re done here.”
I stared at him, genuinely thrown. Justice—real justice—on American soil? I hadn’t seen that in so long I’d forgotten what it looked like. Not some bureaucratic tap dance, not a slap on the wrist for the bad guy while the good ones bled out.
This was clean. Sharp. Like a ten blade cutting through the red tape. My mind snapped to her—those blue eyes, that steady voice, the way she’d stood in that courtyard like a goddamn saint facing the devil. She’d done this.
“Her name,” I said, softer now, the smartass edge gone. “What’s her name?”
The lieutenant didn’t answer—just glared at me like I’d asked for his daughter’s hand.
Mendez stepped forward, her voice low but firm.
“Hallie Mae Calhoun. And if you’ve got any ideas about corrupting her, Dane, I’ll personally throw you in a hole so deep last night’ll feel like a trip to Barbados. ”
I smirked, but it didn’t reach my eyes. Hallie Mae Calhoun. The name rolled through me, settled in my chest like a weight I didn’t mind carrying.
I nodded once—at Mendez, at the lieutenant, at the whole damn room. “Thanks.”
For once, I didn’t have a quip. Didn’t have shit to say. I just stood, the chair scraping loud against the floor, and walked out.
Mendez trailed me to the front desk, handed me my keys, my wallet, and my rifle bag. She didn’t say another word. I didn’t need her to. I’d gotten what I came for—Hallie Mae’s name, and a free pass I hadn’t expected.
Outside, the air was damp and heavy, the sky a bruised gray promising more rain. My truck sat in the lot, matte black and gleaming wet, and there was my brother Atlas—huge, silent, leaning against the driver’s side like a statue carved from granite.
He didn’t look at me, just opened the door and climbed in. I circled to the passenger side, slid in, and he handed me a Styrofoam cup of coffee without a word.
It was lukewarm, bitter, perfect. I took a sip, let it trickle down my throat, and watched him start the engine.
“What’s the good word?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, like he hadn’t used it in days.
I snorted, staring out the window as the station shrank in the side mirror. “You tell me.”
He didn’t. Just drove, hands steady on the wheel, the quiet stretching between us like it always did.
Atlas could go weeks without talking—used to, anyway, back when we were kids running wild on Sullivan’s Island, back before the world chewed us up and spit us out. He’d thawed some since Anna came along, since he’d started talking about rings and vows and shit I didn’t want to think about.
That bit me harder than I expected—the thought of losing him, the one brother I’d always gone to when I had the balls to admit I needed something. Marcus had his plans, Ryker had his chaos, but Atlas? Atlas was the rock.
And now he was slipping away, too, into a life I didn’t fit in.
“Home?” he asked, glancing at me for the first time.
I laughed—sharp, hollow. “Dominion Hall ain’t home.”
Sullivan’s Island was home—sand between my toes, salt in my lungs, the crash of waves drowning out the noise in my head. I didn’t say it. Didn’t need to. Atlas knew.
Instead, I took another swig of coffee and said, “Grace House.”
He didn’t ask why. Didn’t need to. Just turned the truck, the engine rumbling low under the weight of the silence.
I didn’t tell him about her—didn’t tell him I needed to see Hallie Mae, needed to know if she was real or just some ghost I’d dreamed up in that cell. Part of me didn’t believe she existed—some angel who’d vouched for me, saved my ass from a cage I’d half-wanted to rot in.
And if I could dig up the guts, I owed her a thank you. Not that I’d say it clean—words weren’t my thing—but I’d figure it out.
The streets slid by, wet and empty, storefronts dark under the overcast sky. Charleston had a way of looking haunted in the gray—like the ghosts of old wars and older sins hung in the air, watching.
I didn’t mind it. Felt right, somehow, like the city knew me better than I knew myself. My knuckles throbbed, still raw from last night, and I flexed them slow, savoring the sting.
Didn’t give a shit about the fight, the cops, the bullshit. Didn’t care about much at all, except her. Hallie Mae Calhoun. She’d gotten under my skin, and I didn’t know how to cut her out. Didn’t know if I wanted to.
Grace House came into view—the sagging Victorian hunched behind the Piggly Wiggly, its porch warped and weary, windows patched with tape from last night’s mess. Atlas pulled up a block away, killed the engine, and looked at me.
“Need me?” he asked.
“Nah,” I said, popping the door. “I’m good. I’ll catch a ride back.”
He nodded once, didn’t push. I stepped out, coffee still in hand, and let the door slam shut.
The truck didn’t move—Atlas just sat there, watching, like he always did. I didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.
I walked toward the shelter, the air thick with the smell of rain and rot. The place was quiet now, no cops, no ambulances, just the aftermath hanging heavy.
A busted window gaped like a wound, shards of glass glinting in the dirt. The courtyard gate hung crooked, bent from that bastard’s shoulder, and I could still see the bloodstain on the concrete, dark and slick under a tarp they hadn’t bothered to move.
Didn’t faze me. I’d seen worse—left worse—in places most people couldn’t pronounce.
I stopped at the edge of the lot, leaned against a post, and scanned the building. No sign of her. Maybe she wasn’t here. Maybe she’d gone home, curled up under a quilt, trying to scrub me out of her head like I was trying to scrub her out of mine.
Didn’t matter. I’d wait. I had time—more than I knew what to do with—and a curiosity that wouldn’t quit.
Hallie Mae. I rolled her name around in my head, tasting it like the coffee—bitter, warm, sharp. She’d stood up for me, put her neck on the line for a killer she didn’t even know.
Why? Respect? Pity? Something else? I didn’t get it, and that pissed me off. I didn’t like puzzles I couldn’t solve, didn’t like feeling like I owed someone.
But I did. I owed her, and that debt burned in my gut, mixing with the want I couldn’t shake.
A damp wind kicked up, tugging at my jacket. I took another sip of coffee, let it sit on my tongue, and watched the shelter like it might save me.
Didn’t give a shit how long it took. Didn’t care if she walked out and told me to fuck off. I just needed to see her—those blue eyes, that blonde hair, that fire she didn’t even know she had.
Needed to know if she’d flinch when she saw me again, or if she’d stand her ground like she had in that courtyard.
And if I was lucky—if I could choke down the pride and find the words—I’d tell her thanks. Maybe more. Maybe nothing. Didn’t matter. I’d figure it out when I got there.
For now, I waited.
And I didn’t give a fuck about anything else.
Until then, I’d call a couple of handymen I knew and get them to work fixing the place. It was the least I could do. For now.