Page 1 of The Scout

1

ISABEL

Ishould have known better than to step outside alone.

Dominion Hall wasn’t the kind of place where you wandered without someone noticing. The estate sat on the edge of Charleston’s historic district, a sprawling testament to wealth and power carved out of the Lowcountry landscape. It wasn’t old money, not like the mansions along the Battery, but the men who owned it carried the same weight—the kind that turned heads and kept doors open long after business hours.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not really.

The only reason I had an invitation was because of Will. My brother didn’t live at Dominion Hall, but he often worked with the seven men who did. Tonight’s gathering was part business, part celebration—something about a new contract their company had just landed. Will insisted I come, called it an opportunity to “network,” but the second I walked through the wrought-iron gates, I knew I didn’t belong.

As I stepped onto the stone pathway, a melodylodged itself in my mind—“Castle on the Hill” by Ed Sheeran. The nostalgic, wistful notes felt too on-the-nose for a place like this, where the weight of success seemed to echo through every gleaming surface. The song’s refrain looped in my head, blending with the murmur of voices drifting from the house, making me feel like I was walking through someone else’s story. Someone bigger, more important.

Still, I lasted an hour. Long enough to smile politely through conversations I didn’t understand and accept drinks I barely touched.

Now I was on the back patio, trading polite company for the quiet hum of cicadas and the salt-heavy breeze drifting in from the marsh. The garden stretched out below, manicured hedges forming labyrinths of green under the soft glow of gas lanterns. Beyond them, Charleston’s skyline flickered against the inky sky, distant but ever-present.

I placed my glass on the stone ledge and leaned against the railing, hoping the cool night air might unravel the tightness coiling in my chest.

The sensation of being watched hadn’t left me.

I couldn’t explain it, but the weight of unseen eyes lingered, skimming over my skin in a way that felt more personal than paranoia. It wasn’t Will or any of the men I’d shaken hands with inside. This felt different. Heavier.

It was probably nothing. Maybe Will’s habit of warning me about “watching my surroundings” had finally sunk in after all these years. He’d always said Charleston wasn’t as safe as it looked in the brochures.

Don’t tell that to my guests at The Palmetto Rose hotel.

I’ll admit, I’m not exactly a tough girl when it comesto self defense. I probably should have taken one of those jiu jitsu classes Will has been nagging me about.

But it’s fine. Well, it’s been fine, anyway. Other than a few catcalls in dark alleys and the occasional handsy drunk guy at bars, no one has bothered me. Yet.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

The voice emerged from the dark, low and even.

I stiffened before turning around.

Ryker Dane.

I didn’t have to see him to know it was him.

He was part of Will’s circle—the silent one who lingered in the background at every event, barely speaking unless necessary. The men at Dominion Hall all carried a certain air, but Ryker? He carried it like a loaded weapon, cold and sharp beneath the surface.

He stepped forward, leaning casually against one of the patio columns, arms crossed over his chest. The soft light from the lanterns barely touched his face, but I caught the outline of his sharp jaw and the set of his shoulders.

“Needed some air,” I said, hoping the breeze would hide the fact that my pulse had kicked up.

Ryker didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed on me, unreadable.

“Will wouldn’t like you being out here alone,” he finally said.

I tipped my head slightly. “You always take orders from my brother?”

A flicker of something crossed his eyes—amusement, maybe, but gone before I could be sure.

“I don’t take orders from anyone,” he said. “But I keep people from making mistakes.”

My grip tightened on the railing, even as I forced a calm exterior. “And you think I’m making one?”

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