“I’ve heard things,” he said. “They’ve been after my brothers and me. Something connected to our dad. We’re not clear on the specifics.”
My stomach twisted. “So why did my mother bring them up?”
“Because she knows exactly what they’re capable of,” Charlie said, voice low. “And because she knows I rattled something. She told me we’re on their radar now. That what I’ve stirred up won’t go unnoticed.”
I swallowed, throat dry. “How do they watch?”
His gaze flicked to me. “However they want.”
I stared at him. “Then we need to leave.”
His brow lifted slightly. “You sure?”
“I’m sure I don’t want to spend another minute under this roof if someone thinks I belong to them.” My voice was shaking now, but I didn’t care. “I’ll pack a bag.”
Charlie looked relieved and devastated all at once. “There’s no time.”
I blinked. “What?”
“We need to go. Now. Before anyone changes their mind about letting you walk out.”
My stomach flipped. “Charlie?—”
“I’ll buy you whatever you need,” he said softly, then took my hand. “Come with me. Please.”
I did. Without another word. Without another glance over my shoulder. I followed him across the lawn, past Quentin’s solemn gaze, and climbed into the passenger seat of his truck. My pulse was a drumline in my ears. I didn’t know what I was walking toward, only what I was walking away from.
We didn’t speak as the truck rumbled back down the driveway. The shadows of moss-draped oaks stretched across the road like ghostly fingers, and I kept my hand curled tight in my lap, trying not to think about what I was leaving behind.
About halfway down the drive, Charlie finally broke the silence. “I’m taking you somewhere safe.”
I looked at him, voice barely audible. “Where?”
His jaw clenched. “Dominion Hall.”
The name echoed in my chest like a warning bell. I’d heard of it in hushed whispers—some kind of private estate, part fortress, part legend, perched along the Charleston harbor. No photos. No address. Just rumors. Some said it was owned by ex-militarybillionaires who operated outside the law. I thought maybe it was a myth.
“It’s real?” I asked.
His eyes didn’t leave the road. “Very.”
“Who else is there?”
He glanced at me then, something unreadable in his expression. “My brothers. The men I grew up with. Served with. Bled with. We built that place together.”
“You live there?”
“I own it,” he said, voice like steel. “We all do. It’s not just a house—it’s our fortress. A safe zone. Dominion Hall was designed to keep things out.”
I nodded, even as a chill settled deep in my bones. I didn’t know what Dominion Hall really was. I didn’t know who or what Department 77 was. But I knew I trusted the man driving this truck more than I trusted anyone else. For now, that would have to be enough.
24
CHARLIE
Idrove through the Charleston night, Sloane beside me in the truck’s passenger seat, her silence a weight that matched the storm in my head. Dominion Hall loomed ahead, its pale stone walls rising like a fortress against the harbor’s dark water, and I stole a glance at her, her face taught but her eyes sharp, taking it all in.
The revelation about Sylvia and my father, Byron, still churned in my gut, amplified by Marshall’s threats at The Rusty Anchor and Sylvia’s gin-soaked confession in the solarium. She’d laid it bare: Department 77 had her in their sights, a neutral zone she’d carved out with a deal—Sloane’s marriage to Marshall to keep the Carringtons safe. Sylvia hadn’t known about their toxic past, and Thatcher was in the dark, but her fear was raw, the gin barely dulling its edge.
