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But that thrill lingered—her in danger, me close. That deeper kick—her safe, me making sure. It was an impossible mess.
I sipped slow, staring at the bar’s grain. Claire Dixon was trouble I’d use, trouble I’d keep.
Family safe. Dominion standing.
Fuck, I was in deep.
7
CLAIRE
The next morning, the air was already thick with heat and humidity by the time I stepped outside The Palmetto Rose. The scent of salt water and blooming jasmine wafted through the air, deceptively sweet, masking the rot I knew was buried somewhere beneath the surface.
Time to dig it up.
I’d barely slept. Between tossing and turning in that ridiculously soft four-poster bed and replaying every second of my encounters with Marcus Dane—first at the pier, then in the hotel lobby—my mind had been too wired.
So I did what I always did when a story had me by the throat.
I hit the pavement.
Charleston had woken slowly, stretching into its day like a cat basking in the sun. The streets hummed with easy conversation. People strolled instead of rushed, greeting each other by name, pausing to chat like time wasn’t a commodity. It was almost quaint.Almost.
But underneath the pleasantries, I felt it. The caution. The hesitation. The unspokendon’t ask too many questions, honeylingering behind every tight smile.
Back in New York, asking questions was expected—hell, it was a way of life. People thrived on gossip, on scandal, on knowing something before their neighbor did. You could shove a mic in someone’s face, and nine times out of ten, they’d have something to say—whether it was the truth or not.
Here? Silence spoke louder than words.
People in Charleston didn’t just hesitate. They calculated. Weighing whether speaking to me was worth the risk. Whether I was worth the trouble. Whether the wrong word might come back to haunt them.
In New York City, the danger was obvious. A source might slam a door in your face, maybe throw a curse or two your way, but they wouldn’t hold back if they had something to spill.
Here, the threat was quieter. Polite. Wrapped in a slow smile and a soft drawl that made it feel like I was the one making a mistake by even asking.
Not to mention, the Danes weren’t just known here. They were something else.
Respected. Feared. Maybe even revered in some weird way.
It was the kind of influence you couldn’t buy, not even with the obscene wealth I knew they had. This was something deeper. Something woven into the city itself, into the bones of the people who lived here.
And I wasn’t the only one who felt it.
A few conversations in, and I could already tell—I was an outsider, and no one was going to roll out the welcome mat just because I asked nicely.
I leaned against the counter of a small coffee shop,my iced latte sweating in my grip, while the barista—a woman in her late fifties with soft brown eyes—stirred sugar into her own cup like she suddenly had all the time in the world.
“You’re not from around here,” she said, giving me a slow once-over.
I smiled. “Let me guess—the accent gives me away?”
“That and the questions.” Her gaze was steady, unreadable. “People in this city don’t much like questions about the Danes.”
I tapped my nail against my cup. “That because they’re dangerous?”
Her lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Because they keep us safe.”
That was the most I got out of her.