Page 41 of The Reaper
Ryker sat, poured coffee, the aroma cutting through the room. “Eat. Then we’ll talk.”
Hunger won. I sat, loaded a plate—eggs, bacon, chorizo, a handful of fruit for balance. I forked in a bite, the flavors bursting: hollandaise tangy, bacon crisp, chorizo biting with spice.
Ryker ate steadily, no rush, his calm infuriating and familiar all at once.
I swallowed, locked eyes with him. “How’d you find out?”
He sipped his coffee, unhurried. “One of your hackers used to work with my brother, Atlas. Saved his life once. His wife’s family, too. The guy’s loyal—to us. You pinged him, he pinged us.”
Fuck. Which one was it? It didn’t matter. Their web of loyalties ran deeper than I’d thought.
I chewed on that, mentally sorting it—family loop, he’d called it. Atlas. Another name to file.
I set the fork down, leaned forward. “You never said your last name was Dane.”
The first crack in his facade. Annoyance flashed in his eyes, quick and sharp. “How’d you know?”
“By accident,” I said, my voice steady. “Meghan—the chef at Promenade—mentioned it. Dominion Hall. Seven brothers. All Danes.”
Ryker exhaled, leaning back, his jaw tight. “That wasn’t how I wanted you to find out.”
“Find out what?” I pressed, my pulse kicking up. “Are we cousins? Distant kin?”
He looked pained, like he was weighing a secret too heavy to drop. Then, quietly, “What’s your father’s name?”
I flashed to Dad. Larger than life, a giant in our Montana world. He’d taught us to shoot, fish, track, survive. Instilledmission, honor, family, his voice a low rumble over campfire nights, his eyes always seeing more than he said.
“Byron Dane,” I said, my voice rough.
Ryker nodded, his expression almost sad. “Yeah. Us, too.”
It didn’t compute at first. A fluke? A coincidence? Same last name, same dad. My mind reeled, trying to piece it together.
Ryker leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice low. “This wasn’t the plan. I wanted to ease you in. But now it’s out …”
Stunned. Words dried up, my head spinning. Half-brothers? Full? How?
Dad’s absences, his long stretches gone—another family? It felt like a betrayal, but not anger. Intrigue. Pieces were fitting—Ryker’s familiarity, the pull to Charleston, his knowledge of Nightshade. Dad’s shadows, his secrets.
“How?” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ryker glanced at the food, a faint smile breaking through. “It’s a long story. Finish eating, I’ll give you a tour of Dominion Hall, and tell you what we know.”
I grinned, faint but real. I wanted to meet this Atlas. All of the brothers. Half or not. Family. Real family.
I ate slower, savoring the eggs, the spice of chorizo, the sweet burst of pineapple.
Then he’d tell me. About Dominion Hall. About Dad. All of it. And maybe I’d figure out where I fit in this twisted, hot fate that had pulled me to Charleston.
11
MEGHAN
Sleep didn’t stand a chance.
I’d tried—twice. First, with chamomile tea and a thirty-minute meditation app that promised to lull me into a delta wave coma. Then again, with a lavender balm I rubbed onto every pulse point like I was preparing for battle. But my mind was moving too fast. Thoughts layered over thoughts, ideas sparking off each other like static on silk.
It was nearly two a.m. The house was dark, the silence heavy. But I was lit from the inside—buzzing with concepts, plating variations, flavor combinations I couldn’t shake. I’d even sketched out a new tasting menu, half-dressed and barefoot at the kitchen counter, using a pencil I found wedged behind a wine rack.
