Page 53 of The Reaper
“You’re doing better than you think, Meggie,” he said into my hair.
I nodded but didn’t answer.
As he stepped out onto the porch, he turned and added, “Just remember: the past doesn’t get to decide who you become. You do.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by sunlight and the sound of his idling car.
I stood there for a beat, watching the street.
Finn came up beside me. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
I sighed.
He bumped my shoulder with his. “He means well.”
“I know.”
“He just shows up like a hurricane.”
“Also true.”
We stood in silence for a while, the morning moving around us, full of things I didn’t have words for.
“Folly’s still there, you know,” Finn said gently. “Even if it isn’t.”
I didn’t answer.
But something inside me twisted.
14
CALEB
The next night, I leaned against a gnarled oak outside Promenade, its bark rough under my shoulder, Spanish moss drooping like a veil in the humid Charleston night.
The air felt alive, heavy with the city’s pulse—distant laughter from a rooftop bar, the faint creak of a carriage rolling by, the low hum of cicadas weaving through the quiet. Lanterns along South Battery cast a golden glow, their light pooling on the cobblestones, making the restaurant’s white columns gleam like sentinels.
I didn’t want to intrude on Meghan’s space, not after the fire we’d ignited, so I waited, the to-go bag from Lowcountry Bakes warm in my hand, its weight a tether to something solid. My heart thumped steady, but my mind was a live wire, sparking with the bombshell Ryker had dropped about our father, Byron Dane.
A double life—husband and father to seven sons in Montana, but a shadow here, raising another family, taking billions to build an empire. I was reeling, yet energized, like I’d just cleared a hostile zone and found a path I hadn’t known existed.
The revelation churned in me, a mix of awe and unease. Dad hadn’t just been absent from our lives, slipping out for “work” that kept him gone for months. He’d been a mastermind, siphoning funds, funneling them into an empire to give to his children.
Ryker’s voice echoed from our early-morning talk, low and heavy: “You’re one of us, but we bring your brothers in slow. Test them. See if they’re Dane material.”
He’d sworn me to secrecy, his hand firm on my shoulder, and I’d felt it—the weight of family, real family, but also the sharp edge of trust I wasn’t ready to give. I wanted to believe in it, this kingdom of power, but my gut, honed by years of ops, whispered to hold back, to watch, to wait.
Ryker had sent a summary of Dominion Hall’s mission that afternoon, a sleek document that read like a pitch to a billionaire with a taste for danger. I liked what I saw—power to end threats, resources to never face a “denied” again. But I’d learned long ago not to dive in just because the deal looked sweet. I’d take my time.
Ryker had mentioned testing me and my brothers, but so far, nothing. No ambushes, no trials, no gauntlets I’d braced for from a man who knew my darkest moves. Whatever would come would come, and I’d be ready, my instincts sharp as ever.
The steel credit card he’d given me sat heavy in my pocket, plain and hard-worn, no limit, a promise of power I hadn’t touched yet except for the bakery bag—apple strudels, chocolate croissants, pecan tarts, a nod to Montana mornings, Mom’s kitchen, the smell of dough and coffee, laughter echoing through our ranch.
I shifted, eyes scanning the street out of habit, checking for shadows that didn’t belong. None. Just the city’s quiet hum, the clop of hooves fading, the cicadas’ relentless chorus.
