It took only a second to realize they were my new half-brothers.
Fourteen faces I didn't know but somehow recognized in the way you recognize your own reflection distorted in different mirrors, refracted through different mothers and different childhoods but unmistakably connected. Same jaw. Same build.Same way of holding themselves like soldiers who'd never fully stood down, never fully believed the war was over.
My father led the way, crossing the distance between us in long strides, his face tight with concern that looked genuine, that made something crack in my chest. "Wyatt. Are you okay?"
I nodded, trying not to wince at the movement that pulled my shoulder wrong, sent fresh pain radiating down my arm in hot waves. "I'm fine."
His eyes dropped to the blood-soaked shirt, the hand I had pressed against the wound trying to slow the bleeding, the way Sophie was holding my other hand like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go. "You need to get checked out. Dominion Hall has medical facilities. Full surgical suite, if needed. As good as any hospital in the city."
I didn't argue. Couldn't, really. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and the pain was getting sharper, more insistent, making it hard to think about anything except the burning in my shoulder and the woman beside me who'd just killed a man to save my life.
They loaded us into the middle SUV—me, Sophie, my father, and Micah. The others distributed themselves among the remaining vehicles with military precision, practiced efficiency, like they'd done this exact thing a hundred times before.
The ride was quick, silent except for the sound of tires on wet pavement and Sophie's quiet breathing beside me, slightly too fast, slightly too shallow. She hadn't let go of my hand since we'd left the bridge, fingers laced tight with mine like she needed the physical connection to process what had happened.
I squeezed her hand gently. She squeezed back, and that simple exchange said more than words could have.
When we arrived at Dominion Hall, a whole medical team was waiting in the circular drive like they'd been prepped and ready for exactly this scenario. They whisked me down a sideentrance I hadn't seen before, through corridors that smelled of antiseptic and something else—that particular scent of places designed for trauma care, for emergencies that couldn't go through normal channels.
We ended up in what looked like a mini hospital somewhere a floor below the main level—pristine white walls, equipment that looked military-grade and expensive as hell, staff that moved with the kind of efficiency you only saw in combat hospitals or the kind of private facilities that catered to people who couldn't afford questions or paper trails.
They probed, x-rayed, moved me through the process with practiced hands while I gritted my teeth and tried to focus on Sophie's presence beside me rather than the pain, rather than the memory of Klein going over the railing.
The doctor—a woman in her fifties with steady hands and kind eyes who introduced herself as Dr. Martinez—confirmed what I'd suspected after the initial shock had worn off. "Through and through. Clean entry and exit. Missed the bone, missed the brachial artery, missed everything vital. You're lucky, Mr. Dane."
"Story of my life," I muttered, then immediately felt Sophie's hand tighten on mine in protest.
Then they did what I'd done before in field hospitals and combat zones and that one time in Baghdad when everything had gone sideways and I'd ended up with shrapnel in places I didn't want to think about—cleaned the wound with solution that burned like liquid fire, probed to make absolutely sure no fragments or debris remained, stitched me up with neat, precise sutures while I breathed through my teeth and tried not to make sounds that would scare Sophie more than she already was.
She stayed at my side the entire time, holding my good hand, not saying much but present, grounding me with her touch, with the simple fact of her being there.
When I made it back upstairs—bandaged and sore but functional, arm in a sling they'd insisted on despite my protests—the family was waiting.
My father stood near the massive stone fireplace, backlit by flames that cast his face in shadow and light. All my new half-brothers filled the room, some sitting in leather chairs, some standing with arms crossed, all of them watching me with expressions that ranged from curiosity to concern to something that looked almost like ... acceptance. Like I'd passed some test I hadn't known I was taking.
Fourteen men who shared my blood, my genetic blueprint, my manufactured purpose.
I looked around the room, taking in faces that echoed mine in different ways—same strong jaw here, same dark eyes there, same broad shoulders and military bearing everywhere, slight variations on a theme my father had orchestrated—and the words just came out before I could stop them.
"Jeez," I blurted, voice rough. "We come from good stock."
Genuine laughter erupted around the room, breaking the tension like a physical thing shattering, like I'd said exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. The sound was warm, unexpected, human in a way that made something loosen in my chest, made me feel less like a stranger and more like ... family.
I relaxed, shoulders dropping, some of the weight I'd been carrying easing just slightly.
One of them—younger than me, maybe mid-twenties, with a grin that reminded me sharply of my brother Tommy back in Valentine—clapped me on the back carefully, deliberately avoiding my bad shoulder. "Welcome to the family, man. About time you showed up."
"Where's Sophie?" I asked, suddenly aware she wasn't beside me anymore, that at some point during the transition upstairs someone had guided her away.
Micah's mouth curved into a knowing smile, eyes gleaming with amusement and something warmer. "With the wives."
I blinked, processing that. "Wives?"
More chuckles around the room, like I'd asked something adorably naive, like I was missing something obvious.
"Yeah," Micah said, clearly enjoying this. "There's a lot to explain. All of us are married. Ethan's wife is Mayor Natalie Dane—the one you probably saw on the news. Ryker's wife Isabel owns The Palmetto Rose, the hotel where Sophie’s been staying. There are others. You'll meet them all. Soon."
Right. The Dane empire was bigger than I'd realized, more interconnected, more established.
