Page 66 of The Reaper
Meghan’s face flashed—her lips parted, eyes blazing in that office kiss—but I didn’t linger, lathering fast, rinsing, toweling off.
Food arrived as I dressed—jeans, gray tee, boots. I ate quick. Grabbed the thermos, coffee to go, and headed out.
Dominion Hall was calling, and Ryker had answers I needed.
The drive was short, the city alive around me—tourists snapping photos, vendors hawking wares, the harbor shimmering like glass. I pulled up to Dominion Hall’s gates, and they swung open without a call, a silent signal someone was watching. How closely were the Charleston Danes tracking me? My brothers, scattered across the globe—were they under the same lens?
The thought pricked, a needle of unease, but I parked and stepped out, the mansion’s facade looming like a fortress builtfor war. Ryker waited on the porch, leaning against a column, his gray eyes sharp as flint.
“Caleb,” he said, nodding.
“You knew I was coming?” I asked, climbing the steps, my voice low but pointed.
He smirked, faint but knowing. “I figured.”
I followed him into a study, not the war room, a smaller space with dark wood shelves, a single screen glowing with a global map, red dots pulsing—ops, assets, maybe threats. We sat.
“What’s up?” he asked.
I laid it out—the notes, the first one days ago, the second last night.
“Someone’s targeting Meghan. They’ve got access, know her routine. I don’t like it.”
Ryker listened, all business, no judgment, no ribbing about me falling for a woman so soon after hitting town. I liked that—straight, no bullshit, just focus, like a brother who got it.
“At least the threat didn’t start with the Danes,” he said, leaning back, his tone even but loaded with something heavier.
I frowned. “What’s that mean?”
He exhaled, eyes flicking to the map, like it held ghosts he’d rather not face.
“We’ve been at war with an outfit called Department 77. Officially, it didn’t exist—shadow ops, black budgets, the kind of thing governments fund and deny. That’s where Dad got our money, siphoned it from their accounts, built the family legacy. It’s where my mother disappeared, too.”
That hit like a knife to the ribs. First time Ryker had mentioned his mother, his voice steady but raw, a crack in his armor I hadn’t expected. I didn’t press—some scars you let breathe—but the revelation stirred questions like a kicked hornet’s nest. The matriarch of the Charleston Danes, gone, swallowed by a ghost outfit like Department 77.
Was she dead? Taken? Hiding?
Another reason to tread lightly around this family business, no matter the power, the money. Dominion Hall was a fortress, but it was built on secrets, and secrets had teeth.
“So Department 77’s done?” I asked, voice low, testing the water.
Ryker’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping the table. “We think so. Hit them hard, burned their networks to ash. But who knows? If this is them, targeting your girl to get to you, to us, it’s a new play, one we didn’t see coming. You’re right about the timing. Maybe a coincidence, but it’s best to be careful.”
Your girl. The words landed heavy, a claim I didn’t correct, not when it felt true. “What’s the move?”
“Full weight of Dominion Hall’s resources,” Ryker said, leaning forward, his voice firm. “For Meghan’s protection. Backgrounds on her staff, suppliers, regulars—deep, clean, no stone unturned. We’ll find the source. But,” he paused, eyes narrowing, “how’s she gonna feel with eyes on her day and night?”
I hadn’t thought of that, not fully. She’d hate being caged, even for safety. I brushed it off, voice steady. “It’s for her own good.”
But deep down, I wondered—really wondered—how long she’d last under scrutiny. Critics already dissected her plates, her dream; now this, a shadow over her world because of me.
A worry for another day, I told myself.
20
MEGHAN
The light slanted through the tall dining room windows, laying gold bars across the polished tables. Outside, Charleston bustled—tourists drifting from shop to shop, the occasional carriage horse clopping past—but in here, it was all measured chaos.
