Page 12 of The Reaper
I wanted heat. Urgency. Someone who didn’t ask me to explain myself. Someone who didn’t try to fix me.
I wanted sex.
Hard. Fast.
I didn’t want the kind of love that required me to make space for someone else in my already crowded brain.
I wanted to be ruined, not rescued.
And whoever that man was on the Battery?
He didn’t look like the rescuing kind.
4
CALEB
I’d stepped into places that reeked of power before—safe houses in Dubai with marble floors and armed guards, penthouses in Hong Kong where billionaires had traded secrets over single malt, war rooms buried under deserts where men in suits had decided who lived and who didn’t.
But Dominion Hall? It hit different.
The place loomed over the Charleston harbor like it had been carved from the city’s bones—stone, glass, and iron sprawling across grounds so polished they felt like a lie. Money hung in the air, thick as the humidity. The kind that didn’t need to flash because it knew you’d feel its weight.
I’d stood outside compounds like this, scope trained on a window, waiting for a target to slip. Never inside. Never invited.
The cab dropped me at the gate. Black iron swung open without a sound, like the place had been expecting me. I walked the long drive, the air clinging to my skin. Salt and something darker rode the breeze—secrets, maybe. Or the ghosts of deals made in the dark.
The mansion rose ahead, massive and unyielding. It didn’t just look like a fortress. It felt like one. Designed to make you feel small, out of place, like you’d stepped into a game with rules you’d never learn.
I hated it on sight.
I adjusted my pack and scanned the perimeter. Cameras in the eaves, motion sensors in the grass. No guards visible, but the feeling was there—the weight of eyes. Same as Fallujah. Same as Pretoria. I didn’t need to see them to know I was being sized up.
My pulse stayed steady, but my gut was alert.
This wasn’t just a meeting. This was a test.
The front door opened before I knocked. A man in a dark suit stepped out, posture rigid. "Caleb," he said. Not a question. "This way."
No small talk.
I followed, boots echoing across polished floors. The foyer stretched above me—high ceilings, oil paintings older than my bloodline, chandeliers that probably cost more than the ranch I’d grown up on. Wealth so thick it pressed on your chest. The kind that didn’t speak—it judged.
I ignored it. Eyes forward. Counting exits, memorizing the path. Old habit. Pretty rooms could kill you just as fast.
He led me through a maze of corridors to a room built like a den for kings. Heavy oak table. Leather chairs. One window overlooking the harbor, moonlight catching the tide. A man stood at the far end, back to me, hands behind him. Still. Watching the water like it had answers.
He turned.
Broad. Sharp. Gray eyes like cold steel.
"Ryker," he said, offering a hand. No last name. No rank. Just Ryker.
I shook it. Strong grip. No overcompensation.
"Caleb. Thanks for the cryptic invite."
His mouth twitched. "Thanks for coming."
