Page 96 of The Reaper
Marcus leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers like he was born to fidget. “So,” he said, eyes flickingbetween Caleb and me, “we’ve got a lot to cover, but I feel like maybe you two need a minute first.”
“We don’t,” Caleb said, his voice sharp but quiet. “We need information. Now.”
Atlas studied him, then me, his dark eyes thoughtful. “You’re here because something’s escalated.”
Caleb nodded once.
I sat there, pulse thrumming, watching the unspoken communication pass between them.
Ryker leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You’ve been operating alone for a long time. That ends now.”
It should have sounded like an order. It did sound like an order. But there was something protective in it, too.
Caleb’s jaw flexed. “I’ve been fine on my own.”
“Fine,” Ryker said, “isn’t good enough.”
I wanted to ask a hundred questions—about what “operating” meant, about what fine wasn’t good enough for—but my instincts told me to wait. Watch.
Caleb’s hand found mine under the table. His palm was warm, fingers wrapping firmly around mine like he was anchoring me. “I told you,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “There’s a reason they call me The Reaper. But it’s complicated. You’ll get the whole picture, soon.”
The way he said it made my skin prickle. I should have been afraid of what that picture might look like. Instead, I felt … drawn in. Like I was standing on the edge of a drop and couldn’t stop leaning forward.
Ryker started pulling files—real, physical folders—from a drawer built seamlessly into the table. Marcus pulled up camera feeds. Atlas jotted quick notes in a precise, looping script. I realized, with a strange jolt, that I’d walked straight into the inner circle of something I didn’t understand at all.
“You’re going to be staying here tonight,” Ryker said suddenly, eyes flicking to me.
It caught me off guard. “Here?”
“This place is secure,” he said simply. “Your restaurant isn’t. Not until we’ve neutralized the threat.”
I opened my mouth to argue—about my life, my restaurant, my independence—but Caleb’s thumb brushed over my knuckles, a silent warning.
“I’m not running you off,” he said, his gaze catching mine. “This isn’t about control. It’s about keeping you breathing.”
The words hit somewhere deep. The room felt smaller all of a sudden, the air thicker. Because the truth was, I believed him. I trusted him in a way that defied logic. And some part of me—the part I’d always buried—was stirred by the idea that people this dangerous wanted to keep me safe.
And that … thrilled me.
Ryker slid one of the folders toward Caleb, then stopped, as if changing his mind mid-motion. “Before we dive in,” he said, glancing at Marcus and Atlas, “housekeeping.”
Marcus tipped his chair back on two legs, grin quick. “Translation: family business.”
Atlas uncapped his pen, but his eyes were on Caleb. “Stay here,” he said simply. “As long as you want.”
Caleb blinked. “Here, here?”
Ryker nodded. “Dominion Hall is home base. It’s meant for exactly this—gather, protect, plan, execute. If you decide Charleston’s more than a stopover, you make a home here. No rent. No strings. Family.”
The word landed with a weight I could feel through Caleb’s hand under the table. He didn’t move, but something in him did—a barely there loosening of the shoulders, a breath.
Marcus jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Private wing on the north side’s got vacant suites. One’s already keyed for ‘Caleb Dane’ because Ryker can’t help himself.”
Ryker didn’t deny it. “Teddy will handle the particulars. Full access to the grounds, gym, dock, flight deck. Room’s yours by right, not by favor.”
I stared between them. “By … right?”
Atlas’s gaze shifted to me, warm but exact. “We don’t extend that word lightly. Caleb’s solid. He’s ours.” He paused, then added, as if he’d calculated I needed it said aloud, “Which makes you welcome, too.”
