Page 95 of The Reaper
When we stopped beneath a sweeping overhang, a man in a perfectly cut suit was already waiting. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, his bearing was crisp without being cold. His silver hair was neatly combed, and his dark eyes flicked from me to Caleb with quick, appraising precision.
“Mr. Dane,” he said, his voice warm but clipped in a way that hinted at military training. “Welcome to Dominion Hall. I’m Teddy.”
I glanced at Caleb. He nodded once in greeting, but I could feel the subtle shift in him—the straightening, the way his gaze moved to take in everything at once. He was on high alert, but there was something else beneath it. Something almost … reverent.
We stepped inside, and the air changed.
The entryway soared upward, two stories of magnificence, the far wall opening to an uninterrupted view of the harbor. Sunlight spilled across the polished floor, catching the faint ripple of water outside.
Ryker appeared from the hallway to the left, all black T-shirt and grim intensity. If Caleb was the embodiment of controlled violence, Ryker was the man who made control optional. His dark gaze slid over me, assessing, weighing, the kind of look that didn’t leave room for pretense.
“Caleb,” he said simply, clasping forearms with him in a gesture that felt older than both of them.
“You’ve met Meghan,” Caleb said, his voice a shade lower than usual. I could tell the introduction here mattered.
Ryker’s nod was short. “Welcome.”
Two more men joined us—one tall with sun-bleached blond hair and a grin that looked like trouble, the other darker, bearded, his expression thoughtful and reserved.
“Marcus,” the blond said, offering his hand first. “Good to finally meet you.”
I took his hand, surprised at the genuine warmth there.
“Atlas,” the bearded one said, his handshake firm but not showy. His eyes lingered a fraction longer, as though he were cataloging more than just my name.
When Caleb met their eyes in turn, I saw it—the recognition. Not just that they were all Danes, but that they looked it. The sharp cheekbones, the way their frames carried strength like it was bred into their bones. I’d never seen Caleb moved quite like that, and watching it hit me somewhere deep.
“This is …” Caleb trailed off for a moment, swallowing before finishing. “It’s good to meet you.”
Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. “Family’s family. Doesn’t matter how late to the party you are.”
They gave us a tour, the kind you couldn’t rush even if you tried. Every hallway opened to another breathtaking view, every room held some mix of modern design and old-world gravitas. But it wasn’t until we stopped in a long glass corridor that I froze.
In the center of a terrarium-like enclosure coiled a sleek, black viper.
“That’s Obsidian,” Marcus said casually. “Dad picked him up in some godforsaken corner of Russia. Figured a fortress should have a proper guardian.”
The snake’s unblinking eyes fixed on me, tongue flicking in the air.
“Relax,” Marcus grinned. “She’s more of a pet than a weapon.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced.
Finally, they led us to what Marcus called the war room. Floor-to-ceiling monitors lined one wall, maps and live feeds flickering across them. A massive table dominated the center, its surface polished to a dark sheen.
Caleb leaned close, his hand brushing mine under the table, a small point of contact that made my pulse skip. “I’ll explain why they call me The Reaper,” he murmured. “But not yet. There’s a lot you don’t know, Meg. A lot I don’t know about my family. Be patient.”
The promise in his voice curled low in my stomach, equal parts dread and anticipation.
The war room was unlike anything I’d ever seen in real life—closer to the kind of high-stakes command center you only saw in movies. The air was cooler here, almost humming with its own energy.
On the far wall, an oversized map of the Eastern Seaboard was flanked by smaller screens showing real-time footage: a quiet stretch of harbor at night, a feed of a city street somewhere I didn’t recognize, the entry to what looked like a private hangar.
I couldn’t help glancing at Caleb, taking in the way his gaze swept the room like it was muscle memory—assessing exits, scanning for threats, cataloging details. His presence here was different. More settled. Like this place recognized him, and he recognized it in return.
“Sit,” Ryker said, gesturing to the chairs. His tone wasn’t unkind, but it left no room for debate.
I sank into the smooth leather, acutely aware of Caleb taking the seat beside mine. His thigh brushed mine under the table—barely there, but enough to make me aware of every inch of space between us … and the fact that there wasn’t much.
