Now we were leaving.
Lucas drove. Ethan took shotgun, his massive frame making the passenger seat look child-sized. I sat in back with my fatheron one side and Hazel on the other, her hand locked in mine like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.
Maybe she was right.
Byron Dane sat perfectly still beside me, rifle secured in the back, hands resting on his knees. He didn't try to make conversation. Didn't offer explanations or apologies or any of the things a man who'd been dead for fifteen years might say to the sons he'd left behind.
He just sat there. Present. Solid. Real.
And I wanted to scream.
The broken boy inside me—the one who'd spent years searching, hoping, praying that Dad would come home—was drowning. Flailing in dark water with no surface in sight, lungs burning, hands grasping for something, anything to hold onto.
But there was nothing. Just the weight of fifteen years and the impossible fact of the man sitting six inches away from me.
I'd imagined this moment a thousand times. A thousand different ways it could go. Dad walking through the door with a perfectly reasonable explanation. Dad showing up at my doorstep asking for forgiveness. Dad appearing out of nowhere like he'd never left, like time was just a thing that happened to other people.
None of my imaginings had included him stepping out of a marsh with a rifle after shooting a man dead in front of his own daughter.
Hazel's thumb traced small circles on the back of my hand. Grounding. Steady. I squeezed back, maybe harder than I meant to.
"You okay?" she whispered, voice still rough from crying.
I nodded because I couldn't make my throat work properly.
She didn't believe me. I saw it in her eyes—that sharp, seeing look that cut through every defense I had. But she didn't push.Just held my hand and pressed her shoulder against mine and breathed with me.
Next to us, Byron's gaze flicked to our joined hands, then to my face. Something moved behind his eyes—approval, maybe, or relief—but it was gone before I could name it.
The drive to Dominion Hall took thirty minutes that felt like three hours.
Nobody spoke. The truck's engine hummed. Tires crunched over gravel, then smoothed out on asphalt. The marsh gave way to trees, then to the manicured grounds of the estate that housed Dominion Hall's operations.
Security waved us through without stopping. Lucas navigated the winding drive like he'd done it a hundred times, which he probably had by now. The main building rose ahead—columns, stone facade. A fortress welcoming us home.
We pulled into the circular drive. Other vehicles were already there—high-end SUVs and sedans that probably cost more than most houses. The Charleston Danes had gathered.
My stomach tightened.
Lucas killed the engine. For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Ethan opened his door, and the spell broke.
We filed out into the humid night air. Security personnel materialized from shadows, checking credentials, scanning faces, doing that careful dance of protection that looked casual but wasn't.
The front doors opened before we reached them.
Women poured out first—a small army of them, moving with purpose and concern and that particular kind of feminine energy that saidsomeone needs taking care of and we're handling it.
They descended on Hazel like a wave.
"Oh, honey," one of them said—tall, dark-haired, moving with the kind of confidence that came from running things.Portia, maybe. The wedding planner Lucas had mentioned. "We heard what happened. Come with us."
"I—" Hazel looked at me, confused, still gripping my hand.
"It's okay," I said, though I wasn't sure it was. Wasn't sure of anything anymore except that I needed her close and safe and mine. "Go. I'll find you after."
Another woman—blonde, striking, with eyes that assessed and decided in seconds—linked her arm through Hazel's. "We've got her. Don't worry."
