Page 24 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

CHARLIE

M y head was a goddamn war zone, Sylvia Carrington’s words— You have his eyes —looping like a broken record, tearing open scars I thought I’d stitched shut years ago.

I sat in my truck, the North End’s shadows pressing against the windows, and considered heading to the clinic, where I could lose myself in stitching wounds and handing out cash.

But my spinning mind, tangled with questions about Sylvia and my father, wasn’t fit for public consumption—too raw, too unsteady to be trusted with someone else’s pain.

Had they just dated, a fleeting romance as she’d claimed, or was it something deeper, something that left her trembling decades later?

The way she’d reacted, fear and memory etched into her face, suggested more than a broken heart.

Byron’s gravitas was legendary, but could it really linger this long, past any statute of limitations on love?

I gripped the wheel, tempted to make a beeline for the Carrington estate to demand answers, but my gut churned, and I made a sharp right instead, craving a drink to dull the mind- fuck that was my life right now.

Sullivan’s Island hadn’t given me peace, and neither would work, but a dive bar might—someplace where the whiskey burned and the questions stayed quiet.

I found one on Shem Creek, a weathered shack called The Rusty Anchor, its neon sign flickering like it was on its last legs. My truck fit right in among the beat-up pickups and rusted sedans in the lot, the kind of place where locals kept to themselves and didn’t ask names.

The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and salt, the jukebox crooning some old Merle Haggard tune, and I slid onto a barstool, the cracked vinyl creaking under me.

“Shot of Jack,” I told the bartender, a grizzled guy with a beard that looked like it had seen better decades.

He poured it without a word, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and I knocked it back, the burn grounding me for a fleeting second.

That’s when I saw it through the window—a rental sedan, its headlights off, pulling into the lot like a predator circling prey. My pulse kicked up, and then Marshall fucking Preston stepped out, still dressed like a country club Ken doll, strolling into the bar like he owned the place.

He slid onto the stool next to me, his cologne cutting through the smoke like a cheap knife, and flashed a haughty grin.

“Tom Collins,” he told the bartender, who raised an eyebrow and said he was fresh out of the fancy shit. Marshall shrugged, his eyes flicking to my empty glass. “I’ll have what Charlie Dane’s having, then.”

The name dropped like a stone, and a couple of regulars glanced over, their eyes sharp before they turned away, sensing trouble.

I wanted to throttle him, to wipe that smug look off his face with everything I had, my fists itching to connect, but I held back, watching as the bartender poured a stiff shot of Jack and slid it to Marshall.

The prick sniffed it, made a face like it was piss, and took a sip, wincing like he’d never tasted real whiskey before.

I leaned back, my voice low and cold. “You lost, Preston?”

Marshall smirked, swirling the Jack in his glass like it was a fine wine. “Oh, I’m exactly where I need to be, Dane. Seems you’re the one out of your depth.”

His tone was all polished venom, and I clenched my jaw, wondering what the hell he was playing at, showing up here.

“What’s your game, asshole?” I asked, my patience fraying, and he chuckled, the sound grating against my nerves.

“Game? No game, just a friendly suggestion—you should stay away from Sloane.”

The words hit like a spark to gasoline, and I leaned closer, my voice a growl. “Little chance of that, prick.”

His smile widened, too confident, too knowing, and for the first time, unease prickled under my skin—why was he so damn sure of himself?

I pressed, my eyes locked on his. “Why the hell should I stay away?”

Marshall’s grin turned sharp, like he’d been waiting for the question.

“Now you’re asking the right things, Dane. Took you long enough.” He sipped his drink, savoring the moment, and leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Be a pity for the Carrington fortune to vanish, wouldn’t it? All that legacy, poof , gone.”

My gut twisted, the bar’s noise fading as I tried to parse his meaning, my anger simmering but held in check by the need to understand.

“What are you getting at?” I demanded, and he tilted his head, like a teacher disappointed in a slow student.

“You’re close, but not quite there. Let’s just say a certain department has a special interest in Sylvia Carrington.”

I froze, the pieces clicking into place—Department 77, the shadow that had haunted my family for years, the same one we’d battled time and again in recent months.

“You’re with them,” I said, my voice low, and Marshall nodded, sipping his Jack with a casual shrug.

“Marriage of convenience, physically and metaphorically,” he said, his eyes glinting with something I couldn’t place.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped, my patience gone, and he leaned closer, spelling out Sloane’s name, letter by letter, like a taunt.

“S-L-O-A-N-E. I get the girl and the name. They get to keep their honor, their lives.” He finished his drink, slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar, and stood, his parting shot a smirk. “Maybe you should shore up your family’s defenses, Dane, instead of chasing a girl who’ll seal your doom.”

Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving me staring at my empty glass, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

I sat there, the bar’s hum returning, Merle Haggard’s voice a low drone as I tried to unravel Marshall’s words.

Sylvia and Department 77—what did they want with her? Was it tied to her past with Dad, some old debt or secret she’d buried when she walked away from him? The thought of Byron breaking her heart didn’t add up—not with the fear in her eyes, not with Marshall’s cryptic threats.

I signaled for another shot, the Jack burning less this time, but it didn’t dull the questions clawing at me.

Marshall’s confidence, his connection to Department 77, and his obsession with Sloane—it was a puzzle with too many pieces missing, and I was too raw, too spiraled, to see it clearly.

I wanted to pound the truth out of him, to feel his smug face give under my fists, but that wouldn’t get me answers, wouldn’t tell me why Sloane was the key to whatever game he was playing.

The bartender slid another shot my way, unasked, and I knocked it back, my mind racing. Marshall’s “marriage of convenience” line stuck in my craw—physically, metaphorically, what the hell did that mean?

Was he using Sloane to get to Sylvia, to leverage some old Department 77 dirt on the Carringtons? Or was it personal, a twisted bid to reclaim her after their past, with Department 77 as his muscle?

The idea of him near her, of his hands on her, made my blood boil, but the unease was deeper—his certainty, his calm, like he held cards I didn’t even know were in play.

I thought about Sloane, her fire, her touch, and the way she’d looked at me on the yacht, like I was something real.

I’d ignored her calls, left her to face her family alone, and now Marshall was circling, his threat hanging like a storm cloud.

I needed to get to her, to figure this out, but first, I needed to understand what Sylvia knew, what Dad had done to make her flinch at my name.

I pushed the glass away, my head clearer but no less heavy, and stood, tossing cash on the bar.

The regulars didn’t look up, their eyes fixed on their drinks, and I stepped outside, the humid night air hitting me like a slap.

The sedan was gone, Marshall’s taillights long vanished, but I scanned the lot, my instincts sharp despite the whiskey.

I climbed into the truck, the engine rumbling to life, and sat there, my hands gripping the wheel as I tried to piece it together.

Sylvia’s fear, Department 77’s interest, Marshall’s play for Sloane—it all circled back to Byron Dane, to a past I’d never fully known.

I thought about Dad, his strength, his secrets, and wondered what he’d done to leave such a long shadow, one that reached across decades to threaten the woman I was falling for.

I pulled out my phone, Sloane’s missed calls a weight in my chest, and started to dial, but stopped, the spiral still too raw, Marshall’s words too fresh.

I drove toward the city, my mind churning with possibilities. Sylvia hadn’t just dated Dad—she’d been part of something bigger, something that scared her enough to hide it from history.

Marshall’s threat about the Carrington fortune disappearing felt like a clue, a hint that Department 77 had leverage, maybe tied to whatever Dad and Sylvia had been tangled in.

I thought about the trust, the billions I’d signed for, and wondered if it was connected, if Dad’s empire was built on secrets that could bring us all down. Sloane was in the middle of it, whether she knew it or not, and Marshall’s “I get the girl” bullshit made it personal.

I needed answers, needed to talk my brothers, to dig into Dad’s past, but most of all, I needed Sloane—her fire, her truth, the way she made the world make sense.

I floored the gas, the truck roaring into the night, determined to find her, to face whatever this was, because no matter what Marshall or Department 77 had planned, I wasn’t letting her go.