Page 27 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

T he Mount Pleasant Pier stretched into black water. Moonlight clung to the waves below, dancing in fractured silver, but the air stayed still—waiting, just like us.

Charlie parked the truck in a shadowed corner near the end of the lot, engine idling as his fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel.

I didn’t ask if he was nervous. I could feel it.

In the tension knotting his shoulders. In the way his gaze scanned the pier like he was mapping out exits, memorizing shadows.

I rested my hand on his thigh. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, we do,” he said. Voice low. Certain.

A gull shrieked in the distance. Somewhere below us, water slapped wood. The lights lining the pier cast long, eerie paths across the boards.

We got out together, the scent of salt and something rotten riding the breeze. Marshall stood at the end, his silhouette sharp against the harbor’s glow. Alone, but never really. Men like him didn’t breathe without backup.

“Stay behind me,” Charlie muttered.

I didn’t argue.

I used to hate that feeling—being told what to do, being protected. It had always struck a nerve in me, the spoiled, stubborn girl who wanted to prove she could handle anything.

But something had shifted. Maybe it was the way Charlie looked at me—not as something fragile, but as something worth defending. Or maybe it was the way the ground kept moving under my feet and he was the only thing that felt steady.

Whatever it was, I wasn’t the girl I used to be.

The one who relied on money, status, and charm to skate through the world.

That version of me wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in this storm.

But this version—the one at Charlie’s side, heart racing, back straight—she was learning to trust. To fight.

To stand still when it counted. And to reach for someone who wasn’t afraid to reach back.

It felt good. Scary, but good.

As we approached, Marshall turned slowly, that smug smile already in place. He was dressed like he always was—too polished, too perfect. Like a banker dressing up as a villain for Halloween. Hard to believe I ever dated him.

“Charming view, isn’t it?” he said.

Charlie didn’t flinch. “Cut the bullshit.”

Marshall lifted a brow, then nodded toward me. “You brought her. Good. She deserves to hear it, too.”

“Hear what?” I asked, voice flat.

Marshall clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the water for a long beat, like he was composing poetry instead of planning our destruction.

“Department 77 wants their money back.”

Charlie snorted. “You’re late to the party. Elias already hit them. If this is about the hack?—”

“It’s not,” Marshall said, turning with a shark’s grin. “Not that hack. Not your brilliant brother and his magic fingers. I’m talking about the original theft.”

Silence stretched between us like a loaded wire. I had zero idea what they were talking about.

Charlie’s brows pulled tight. “What original theft?”

Marshall chuckled, slow and mean. “Where do you think your daddy got all those billions?”

The breath caught in my throat.

Charlie’s jaw flexed. “Contracts. Training. Defense.”

“Oh, sure,” Marshall said with a nod. “But seed money matters, Charlie. Foundations matter. And Byron Dane’s foundation was built on Department 77’s dime.”

For a second, Charlie didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The words hung in the air like a loaded gun, and I watched them hit him—square in the chest.

His breath left him in a sharp exhale, shoulders going rigid.

His jaw flexed, that muscle twitching in the way I’d come to recognize as restraint barely holding.

But it wasn’t just fury I saw there. It was betrayal.

Cracks spiderwebbing beneath the surface.

Not just in his faith in his father—but in the story he’d spent his whole life believing.

I reached for his hand without thinking, fingers curling around his.

He didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on Marshall like he could set the man on fire with a glance. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.

Because this wasn’t just a twist. This was a rewire of everything he thought he knew. The mythology of Byron Dane fracturing right there in front of us.

When Charlie finally did speak, his voice was low. Dangerous.

“You’re lying.”

“No.” Marshall stepped closer, voice cooling. “I’m not. Byron was their golden boy. Handpicked. Trained. Funded. Positioned to create a front organization that would do their dirty work while keeping their own hands clean. Everything was going great—until your mother showed up.”

Charlie blinked. “What the hell does my mother have to do with anything?”

Marshall smiled. “Ask your father. Oh, wait, you can’t. Better yet … ask Sylvia Carrington.”

My blood iced.

Charlie glanced at me, then back to him. “What does Sylvia have to do with this?”

Marshall exhaled like this bored him. “She was your father’s first love, or maybe just lust. Sylvia’s daddy was high up in Department 77—one of the architects. He vouched for Byron. Gave him access. Gave him Sylvia.”

“Jesus,” Charlie muttered.

“But then along came Caroline Hilliard, who would become Caroline Dane. The sweet-faced young woman with perfect manners and no ties to the shadow world,” Marshall went on.

“Byron married her. Left Sylvia behind. Broke the alliance. Broke Sylvia’s father’s trust. And shortly after that? Sylvia’s father turned up dead.”

I couldn’t breathe.

My grandfather—Sylvia’s father—had died before I was born.

I’d only ever known him through old photographs and the soft-filtered stories my mother occasionally told when she was feeling nostalgic or sentimental or had one too many martinis.

In those photos, he always looked serious but kind, his hand resting protectively on Momma’s shoulder or holding her little hand.

She’d been his only child, and he’d adored her. That much was clear.

He’d been in intelligence—something adjacent to the military, I’d always been told. There were medals in a case, locked away in one of the upstairs closets. I’d never known the full story. Just that he died young. Too young. My mother had never talked about how. Or why.

Now, with Marshall’s words still echoing in my ears, the silence around his death felt less like grief and more like conspiracy.

Marshall looked at me, eyes gleaming. “She never forgave them, you know. Sylvia. She played nice for a while—stayed in the game. But she’s been waiting a long time to cash in her chips.”

“You’re saying she’s involved in this?” I asked. “That she’s helping this Department 77?”

“I’m saying,” he said slowly, “that she made a deal. Long ago. One that’s coming due.”

Charlie stepped forward, fury rolling off him. “If this is about the past, why come after Sloane?”

Marshall’s gaze dropped to me again. “Because she’s the last piece on the board. The one neither side can control. And now … well. Now we’ll see who she chooses.”

I stared at him, indignant. “This was never about me.”

“It was always about you,” he said. “You're the bloodline. The leverage. The question is—what are you willing to do to survive?”

Beside me, Charlie’s fists curled, knuckles white and trembling with restrained fury. “You son of a?—”

His voice broke like gravel under pressure, low and lethal, the kind of sound that made you brace for violence.

Marshall raised a hand. “Easy now, soldier. This isn’t personal. It’s legacy.”

The wind picked up, lifting the edges of my hair. For a moment, none of us spoke. Then I said it, loud enough to slice through the fog.

“I’m not choosing any of you.”

Marshall tilted his head. “You might not have a choice.”

Charlie stepped between us, voice deadly calm. “She does. And I’m making damn sure of it.”

Marshall’s smile vanished. “Then I suggest you get your affairs in order. Because if Department 77 doesn’t get what it’s owed—by money or blood—there won’t be anything left of Dominion Hall but ash.”

He turned, walked into the night like he hadn’t just lit the match.

I reached for Charlie’s hand. It was already there. And though my bones shook, my voice stayed steady. “Let’s go. Home to Dominion Hall.”

Charlie nodded once, jaw clenched, eyes full of fire.

As we walked away, I knew the truth. We’d just stepped into a war that started long before we were born.

When we arrived, Dominion Hall rose like a sleeping beast from the harbor’s edge—massive, elegant, and humming with a kind of barely-leashed power that made my stomach tighten.

The drive from the pier was mostly quiet.

Charlie gripped the wheel like it might be the only thing holding him together, and I didn’t interrupt.

I just stayed close, hand resting lightly over his on the console. No words were needed.

The gates opened on cue. No keypad, no guard. Just a silent command from somewhere unseen. Charlie’s brothers had eyes everywhere.

The truck wound its way through the long drive until the mansion emerged, haloed by soft up-lighting.

We climbed out, the air heavier here. Denser somehow, like history itself had weight.

I’d been here earlier, but this time was different. This time, I knew what waited behind those doors. Charlie hadn’t said exactly what he planned to share with his brothers, but I knew that what was happening was big. And now, it wasn’t just about me. It was about legacy. Betrayal. War.

“They’re waiting inside,” Charlie said, voice flat. “Just … don’t let them rattle you.”

I lifted my chin. “I don’t rattle.”

His mouth twitched like he almost smiled.

Inside, the ops room—a command center disguised as a lounge—was filled with tension. Five men stood at different points in the room, all of them tall, built, and watching me like I was a storm warning.

Charlie cleared his throat. “This is Sloane Carrington.”

One of the men stepped forward first. Broad shoulders, dark eyes, a grin that almost disarmed me. “Ryker,” he said. “I’m the charming one.”

“Don’t lie to her,” said another—blonde hair, sharper jawline. “That’s me. Marcus.”

A third just raised his hand. The biggest of the bunch. “Atlas.”

Then came Charlie’s nod toward the fourth and the fifth—quiet and thoughtful, eyes like they’d seen too much. “Noah. Elias.”

“And Silas is … gone. As usual,” Charlie added.

There was a pause. Ryker stepped closer, brow lifting. “So … is she yours?”

Marcus cut in, half teasing. “Or are you still playing the stoic protector role?”

Charlie’s jaw ticked. “She’s mine.”

That sent a ripple through the room. Not shock. Recognition.

Atlas was the one who finally said it. “Then she’s one of us.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Because these men weren’t just soldiers or brothers or even billionaires. They were a unit. A fortress. And I’d just been brought behind the gates.

But the weight of what we’d heard on the pier still pressed down.

Charlie turned toward the group, his voice all business now. “We’ve got a problem. Department 77 isn’t out of the fight. They’re coming, and they’ve made it personal.”

The air shifted again. Gone was the teasing. The room turned into a war room.

And I realized something else—something terrifying and thrilling all at once.

I wasn’t just along for the ride. I was in the fight.