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 wallsrose 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.
