The helicopter settled in the middle of the field, grass flattening under the downdraft, and the side door opened.
The same butler from Dominion Hall—impeccably dressed, completely unruffled—gestured us inside like this was a normal day.
We piled in.
The interior was outfitted like something out of a James Bond film—leather seats, sleek paneling, and a row of weapons secured along one wall. Tactical rifles. Handguns. Body armor.
I gave the butler a look. "Seriously?"
He just inclined his head slightly. "Mr. Dane thought you might need options."
Which Mr. Dane, I didn't ask.
We lifted into the air, Charleston falling away beneath us, and I felt the familiar shift—adrenaline sharpening everything, thoughts narrowing to mission parameters.
Except this wasn't a mission.
This was Joy.
And that made it different. More dangerous. Because missions had rules. Objectives. Clear lines between success and failure.
This? This was personal.
And personal made you sloppy.
We made quick time to Wadmalaw, the marsh and farmland blurring below us, and when the McKinley property came into view, I felt my chest tighten.
The house. The fields. The tidy rows of flowers stretching out like something out of a painting.
And in the middle of it all, Joy.
Standing in the yard with her family around her, arms crossed, chin up.
Alive. Safe. Angry.
Thank God.
We landed in the yard, grass and dust kicking up, and I was out before the skids fully touched down.
Multiple sets of wide eyes greeted me—Joy's siblings, her parents, all of them staring at the helicopter like we'd just dropped out of the sky on a spaceship.
And then there was Joy.
Her eyes weren't wide.
They were narrowed.
Pissed.
I didn't care.
She could be as mad as she wanted. I was here. And I'd brought backup.
The helicopter lifted off behind us, rotors deafening, and I moved toward her without thinking, my brothers fanning out instinctively—assessing, securing, making sure there was no immediate threat.
"Micah," Joy said, voice tight. "What the hell?—"
"Are you okay?" I cut her off, hands already reaching for her, checking, needing to confirm with my own eyes and hands that she was whole.
