Page 21 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

T he ride to Daddy’s house was quiet.

Not the awkward kind. Not tense. But charged—like the silence knew too much to bother with small talk. I sat in the passenger seat of Charlie’s truck, bare legs sticking to the worn leather, my white blazer dress still rumpled from the yacht.

Charlie gripped the wheel like it grounded him, his jaw tight, his eyes on the road. And every so often, he’d glance over like he was memorizing the way I looked just in case this was the last time.

I sure hoped it wasn’t the last time.

Daddy’s estate came into view slowly, rising like a curated mirage through the Spanish moss and century-old oaks. White columns, perfect hedges, a lawn that looked manicured down to the blade—everything in its place. Except me.

Charlie pulled through the gate and into the horseshoe drive, the tires crunching against the gravel like we were breaking a rule just by being here. Quentin stood near the front steps in a crisp black suit, arms folded, watching us with the kind of stillness that felt both loyal and lethal.

I turned to Charlie. “You don’t have to walk me in.”

He looked at me. Really looked. “I want to.”

So, he did.

I opened the door and stepped out, the sticky Charleston heat wrapping around me. Quentin moved forward, his face impassive—until his eyes landed on Charlie.

Recognition flared there. Not surprise. Not suspicion.

Respect.

“Mr. Dane,” Quentin said with a nod. “Didn’t realize you were the one bringing Miss Carrington home.”

There was a pause, something thoughtful in the way his eyes flicked between us.

“Didn’t realize it was you who picked her up from the airport either.”

Charlie nodded back. “I didn’t realize she needed protection.”

Quentin’s mouth curved the barest amount. “You’re not wrong.”

And just like that, they’d reached some unspoken agreement. Soldier to soldier. Protector to protector.

I blinked, a little stunned by the shift. I’d never seen Quentin defer to anyone like that—not even my father. Not really.

“Your mother’s inside,” Quentin added, turning to me. “She’s been … waiting.”

The word hung there, brittle and barbed.

Charlie followed me up the front steps, slow and deliberate. Every movement felt amplified—the creak of the wood, the distant chirp of cicadas, the way my hand trembled when I pushed open the door.

Inside, the house was cool and quiet. Too quiet.

We stepped into the foyer, the scent of hydrangeas and expensive candles wrapping around me. And then I saw her.

Momma.

Standing just beyond the staircase, still in her pearls and silk wrap from lunch, but her posture wasn’t composed. It was rigid. Her hands clutched the back of a Queen Anne chair like it might keep her upright. Her eyes landed on Charlie and didn’t blink.

It wasn’t disgust. Or panic.

It was something closer to recognition.

Deep. Shaken. Unsettled.

“Momma,” I said, voice tight.

She didn’t look at me. “Mr. Dane,” she said, like the name tasted strange in her mouth. “You’re not what I expected.”

Charlie’s mouth twitched. “No one ever thinks I am.”

I looked between them, something sharp tightening in my chest. “Do you two … know each other?”

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, not personally. Of course, not.”

But Charlie was still watching her, brow drawn just slightly, like he was seeing through time.

My mother’s voice turned to ice. “Sloane, you should get changed. Your father will want to speak with you before dinner.”

“Actually,” Charlie said gently, “I’ll wait outside, make sure she gets settled. Then I’ll head out.”

Her eyes snapped to him again, and for a moment, her composure cracked. Just a sliver. Enough for the old Sloane—the observant, well-trained, please-don’t-upset-anyone Sloane—to see something she wasn’t supposed to.

It was fear.

Not of Charlie.

Of the name.

Of Dane .

Before she could smooth it over with another practiced smile, my father’s voice boomed from the study. “Sylvia? Who’s here?”

She didn’t respond.

Charlie leaned in, brushing his fingers against mine. “Go on,” he murmured. “I’ll wait.”

I nodded, reluctant, and stepped further into the house. But before I could make it up the stairs, I paused, glancing over my shoulder.

My mother was still staring at Charlie.

And then I saw it.

The way her hand lifted, the way her fingers grazed her pearl necklace, her lips parting just slightly.

Not fear.

Memory.

A memory she wasn’t ready to confront.

I turned fully. “Momma?”

She blinked. Slowly. Her eyes cut to mine. “Yes, darling?”

“How do you know the Danes?”

There was a beat. Just one.

Then she smiled. A fraction too wide. “It’s an old Charleston family, Sloane. You know that.”

But the way she said it didn’t match her eyes.

Something was cracking beneath the surface of her perfect, powdered calm. And I had a feeling I’d just stepped on a mine buried deep in the past.

Charlie’s voice was low behind me. “I should go.”

But I grabbed his hand before he could move. “No. Stay.”

My mother’s expression flickered again—this time with something dangerously close to panic.

“I’ll get your father,” she said, already moving toward the study like she was running for cover. But I knew. I knew .

Something had just broken.

Whatever it was—it started with the name Dane and ended with my mother.

I turned to Charlie, my pulse thudding in my throat. “What’s happening?” I whispered.

Charlie’s jaw clenched.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said quietly, eyes locked on the spot where my mother had stood. “But she does.”

He was still holding my hand, and I realized my grip had tightened, like I needed an anchor to keep from sliding beneath whatever truth was about to surface.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Daddy emerged from the study, a tumbler of bourbon in one hand, the buttons of his shirt collar undone, his expression confused but composed.

“Sloane,” he said, brow furrowing. “We’ve been calling you all afternoon. Your mother was worried sick.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Momma reappeared just behind him. Her face had been reassembled—smile intact, pearls straight, voice soft.

“I wasn’t worried,” she said too smoothly. “I just wanted to be sure she was safe.”

I lifted my chin. “I’m a grown woman, Momma. I live in Palm Beach. You don’t usually keep tabs on me like I’m sixteen sneaking off after curfew.”

Charlie’s gaze cut to me at that. “Palm Beach?”

I glanced at him, caught off guard. “Yeah. Thought you knew.”

He gave a small shake of his head, like he was filing that away for later. “Guess I didn’t.”

“But I get it,” I added, glancing back at my mother. “Maybe it’s just the way I left the club. It was … abrupt.”

Daddy turned toward Charlie, eyebrows lifting slightly. “And you are?”

“Charlie Dane,” he said evenly, stepping forward and offering his hand. “Sir.”

Something flickered behind my father’s eyes. Surprise. Caution. Then something colder—calculation.

“Dane?” Daddy repeated, shaking his hand. “As in …”

Charlie nodded once. “Byron was my father.”

There it was.

The name fell into the room like a thunderclap, sucking the air from the walls.

My mother went still. Not a blink. Not a breath.

Daddy turned to look at her, slowly, like a man retracing steps through a maze he hadn’t realized he was in.

“Is that a name we know, Sylvia?” he asked lightly, but there was tension coiled beneath the words. Something brittle. Something sharp.

She said nothing. Not at first.

Just pressed her fingers to her lips like she was trying to hold something in.

Then, softly: “Yes.”

Silence.

“I dated him,” she added after a beat, like the confession had to be peeled from somewhere deep and buried. “Before you and I ever met, Thatcher. It was brief. And a very long time ago.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even process it.

Charlie, though, went still beside me.

“You dated Byron Dane?” His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even particularly loud. But it carried the weight of history behind it. The kind of weight you didn’t ask for, but inherited all the same.

Momma’s gaze flicked to him, something mournful and defensive tangled in her eyes. “I was young. And he was … magnetic. Dangerous, yes. But brilliant. He had a way of making the world feel like it was about to shift beneath your feet.”

She exhaled shakily and looked at me. “I never told you because it didn’t matter. Not until now.”

My voice came out hollow. “But it does now.”

Daddy still hadn’t moved. He just stared at her, like he was seeing a stranger wearing his wife’s skin.

“You said it was brief,” he said finally, the words clipped.

“It was,” she said quickly. “A few months. But intense.”

Charlie took a slow step back. “That’s why you looked at me like that.”

“You have his eyes,” she whispered.

I could feel my world tilting. Just slightly. Like the ground beneath my manicured childhood wasn’t quite as solid as it had always appeared.

“You warned me away from the Danes,” I said, my voice thin. “Why? Because of him?”

Momma turned her full attention to me now, and I saw it again—that shadow of fear, of memory.

“Because loving someone like Byron Dane wasn’t safe,” she said, trembling now. “Because it broke something in me that never healed. Because I couldn’t imagine watching my daughter go through the same.”

I swallowed hard.

Charlie was quiet, his posture unreadable. But I could feel the tension in him. The slow, quiet unraveling.

Daddy cleared his throat, breaking the silence like glass. “You never mentioned this before.”

Momma looked at him with something close to apology. “Because I thought I’d buried it. Like the rest of that part of my life.”

She turned back to Charlie. “Your father wasn’t evil, Mr. Dane. But he was dangerous in ways even he didn’t always understand. He lived like he was already a ghost.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. “And he died like one.”

The words hung in the air.

I wanted to speak. To reach for him. But I couldn’t find the words.

Charlie stepped away from me, just enough to shift the space between us. “I should go.”

“No,” I said quickly, stepping forward. “Please don’t.”

He looked at me, his expression torn. “I need a minute, Sloane.”

And then he nodded at my father—respectfully, distantly—and left without another word. The front door clicked shut behind him.

I turned back to my mother. “You should’ve told me.”

She nodded, eyes glossy now. “Yes. I should have.”

Somehow, that was worse than any lie she could’ve told. Because the truth had always been waiting. And now it had walked straight through our front door.

A thousand questions tangled in my throat, but I couldn’t form a single one. I just stood there, watching my mother fold.

Byron Dane.

She hadn’t just known of him. She’d known him. In a way that left her shaken all these decades later.

My gut twisted.

There was more. More than a long-ago romance or a polite connection she’d buried for appearances’ sake. This wasn’t nostalgia. It was fear. Regret. Something brittle and unfinished.

I didn’t know what had happened between them.

But I knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t over. Not in her mind. Not in this house.

And maybe not for Charlie, either.