Page 29 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

T he sun broke over Charleston—gold bleeding through mist, casting long, reverent shadows across cobblestone streets still slick from the night.

I slipped from Charlie’s bed while he still slept, the curve of his arm stretched across where I’d been. I watched him for a moment—the man I once might have dismissed with a smirk and a sip of champagne. And now? He was my anchor.

I showered quietly in the same glass-walled space where we’d made love just hours earlier, steam curling around me like a memory I didn’t want to lose. My fingers trailed the tile he’d braced me against, the water hotter than I needed, but not as hot as last night.

Fresh clothes waited for me on the counter—leggings, a soft tee, even a sports bra in my size. Isabel, Ryker’s fiancée, had left them folded neatly beside a new toothbrush and a handful of toiletries, right down to the comb and detangler.

Thoughtful. Precise. A silent offering.

I hadn’t met any of the fiancées yet, but I felt them here. In the details. In the welcome they extended without words. A kind of quiet solidarity, like they knew what it meant to be drawn into this world and stay anyway.

Downstairs, the brothers were already at the table in the ops room, a map of the city spread across the surface like a battlefield blueprint. Coffee steamed. Guns gleamed. Tension hummed.

They barely looked up when I entered—just a nod from Ryker, a grunt from Atlas, Elias’s eyes flicking to mine with that sharp, calculating gleam. Marcus offered a crooked grin, of course. “Morning, Princess Carnage.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. Just poured my coffee, black now—no cream, no sugar. Another habit that had fallen away like the rest of the old me.

By the time I was ready to leave Dominion Hall, Charlie met me near the front door. Dressed in black, jaw tight. A man on the edge of war. “You sure about this?”

“No,” I admitted, slipping on my sweater. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

His jaw flexed. “You could call them. Safer.”

I looked up at him, heart hammering, throat thick. “If this is goodbye ... it doesn’t happen over the phone.”

Silence stretched between us. Then he exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching. “One of my guys will go with you. Keep eyes on. You don’t argue that.”

“I don’t plan to.”

He kissed me like a man starved for time. Like this might be the last kiss we got. Maybe it was.

Juneberry cafe sat tucked beneath a row of live oaks on Broad Street, its white awning fluttering in the breeze like a signal flag. I chose it because it was public, open-air, near the police station. Safe.

Safe-ish.

I arrived early, stepping out of my Uber then waiting outside the wrought iron gate that bordered the terrace. The hostess smiled. “Good morning!”

And for the first time, I smiled back. “It is.” Then I added, quietly, “Thank you for being here so early.”

Her eyebrows lifted, like she didn’t expect that. Neither did I. But something in me had changed.

It showed again when I passed a pair of street cleaners in orange vests dragging trash bins along the curb. “Good morning,” I said. “Thank you for keeping our city beautiful.”

They stared like I was from another planet. I didn’t blame them. A month ago, I would’ve stepped over them without a glance. Now? I saw them. All of them.

Marshall had said I was leverage. That I was a piece on the board. But maybe I could be more than that. Maybe I already was.

My parents arrived ten minutes late.

Daddy first—still towering, silver-haired and scowling, dressed like he was headed to court even though he was a real estate investor, not an attorney. Momma followed, draped in blush silk, oversized sunglasses shielding her expression, though I could feel the tremor in her presence.

We sat beneath a striped umbrella, the table set with white linen and tiny glasses of sparkling water I didn’t touch. I let them order first—he wanted eggs, she wanted nothing. As always.

Then I leaned forward and said it.

“If something happens to me, I need you to know I love you.”

They both stilled.

“Something’s going to happen?” my mother asked, her voice high, brittle.

“Maybe. I hope not. But I’m not stupid. I’m involved now.”

My father’s eyes narrowed. “Involved in what?”

I glanced around. My shadow—a Dominion man named Hal—stood two tables over, pretending to text. I lowered my voice anyway. “Something bigger than I ever imagined. Things Granddaddy was part of. Things you never told me.”

Mom’s mouth dropped open. “Sloane?—”

“I know he didn’t die by accident,” I cut in, calm but cold. “I know about Department 77. And I’m done being a pawn in someone else’s game.”

My father leaned in, eyes sharp now. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Don’t I?” I asked. “You both kept me blind. Spoiled me, yes. But also used me. Protected me, maybe—but only enough to keep me ignorant.”

My mother shook her head, her hand trembling as she reached for her water. “We wanted to keep you safe. That’s all.”

“Then tell me the truth,” I said. “Right now. Before it’s too late.”

Daddy’s gaze didn’t waver. “If it was too dangerous to tell you before, what makes you think now is any different?”

I sat back. “Because now I might die without ever knowing what really happened. And I’d rather face that truth head-on than be buried in lies.”

They stared at me, silent. Not cold. Not cruel. Just caught in the tangled web they’d spent decades trying to keep me out of.

The server came with coffee. I thanked her. Looked her in the eyes. She smiled, just faintly.

Across the table, my mother blinked, surprised. “Well, that’s new,” she murmured, reaching for her cream. “You used to act like the help didn’t exist.”

I didn’t rise to it.

“Maybe I just started seeing people,” I said softly.

Momma sniffed, unimpressed. “Be careful. That kind of softness has a cost.”

Daddy glanced at me, then back at her. “Or maybe it’s not softness at all. Maybe it’s strength.”

Momma didn’t answer. Just stirred her coffee like she was trying to disappear into it.

Maybe I wasn’t the girl they’d raised anymore. Maybe I’d finally become the woman I was meant to be.

And I wasn’t afraid. Not of the truth. Not of the fight.

I sipped my coffee, eyes on the street.

The meeting with Marshall was coming. The storm was already overhead. And I was walking straight into it—head high, heels steady, heart steel.

We lingered over coffee, and eventually, Daddy ordered the sweet potato hash with bacon and eggs. I got eggs and toast. Momma still wouldn’t eat, just dabbed her napkin at the corners of her mouth like she was attending a funeral instead of a breakfast.

When the plates came, I cut a bite and asked quietly, “Did you love him? Byron?”

Momma didn’t flinch. Didn’t pretend not to know who I meant.

“I did,” she said after a long moment. Her gaze was fixed just past me, on the creeping ivy clinging to the brick wall behind our table. “More than I should have. More than was good for me.”

Daddy’s fork stilled on his plate.

“I was supposed to marry him,” she said, her voice soft and bare. “An alliance, if you will. Power and legacy, all very romantic in a twisted sort of way. But I loved him, Sloane. Not just what he could do for my father. I loved the man.”

“And then he married Charlie’s mother.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Yes. He chose Caroline. The sweet, sweet socialite with her pearls and her friends and her spotless reputation.” She lifted her coffee, took a sip. “He broke me.”

“I didn’t know,” I said.

“No. You didn’t.”

Beside her, Daddy cleared his throat but didn’t speak. The weight of history hung between them.

“But I love your father, too, of course,” Momma said, glancing sideways. “Just ... not quite the same way.”

Daddy’s jaw flexed, but he nodded, eyes glassy. “I know.”

“You’ve kept me safe,” she whispered to Daddy. “You’ve built a life where I could feel whole again. And that’s love, too. The kind that lasts.”

I looked at them—these flawed, messy people who’d raised me inside a bubble of privilege and secrets. And for the first time, I saw not titans or ghosts but a woman grieving the past and a man who’d stood by her anyway.

“I love you both,” I said. “Even when I didn’t understand you.”

Neither spoke, but my mother reached across the table and brushed my hand with her fingertips. Just once.

Daddy broke the silence first.

“So,” he said carefully, “this boy. Charlie.” His tone was cautious. “Is it serious?”

I met his eyes. “It is.”

He studied me, like he was seeing something in me he hadn’t noticed before. “You always did run headfirst into things.”

“Not like this,” I said. “This is different. He’s different.”

Momma gave a soft, skeptical hum, but she didn’t argue. Not outright. “He’s Byron’s son.”

“I know.”

She tilted her head. “And you’re not worried about what that means? What kind of damage you’re dragging through your bloodline?”

“Every bloodline has damage,” I said. “Even yours.”

That earned a pause. Then she looked down, fiddling with her hem.

Daddy cleared his throat again. “Will you be going back to Palm Beach when all this is over?”

I hesitated. A bird sang overhead, sweet and unbothered, as if we weren’t sitting beneath the weight of decades and secrets.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m not sure that version of me fits anymore. I don’t want to go back to taking selfies with curated lattes and pretending every overpriced serum is the secret to eternal youth.”

My mother frowned. “That was your career.”

“It was a mask,” I said gently. “A way to hide in plain sight. But I think I’m done hawking designer bullshit for people who care more about filters than what really matters in life. If I make it through this … I might stay in Charleston.”

Daddy leaned back slightly, a slow breath leaving his chest.

Momma looked at me hard. “You’ve changed.”

“I’ve grown,” I said.

She was quiet a moment, then added, “I’m sorry I tried to push you and Marshall together. I didn’t mean to manipulate you. I didn’t know you’d dated before. I just …” Her lips pressed together. “I felt like I had no choice. We were running out of time.”

“I believe you,” I said. And surprisingly—I meant it.

We sat with that for a while, the clink of cutlery and hum of conversation around us filling the gaps.

Eventually, Daddy looked over his cup and asked, “Sloane, what are you and the Danes planning?”

I glanced down at my hands, then up at him again. “Something necessary. We’re going to expose Marshall and anyone tied to him. Whatever happens next … it’ll be dangerous.”

“You need to be careful,” he said. “More than careful.”

“I will be,” I promised. “But I won’t be passive.”

I looked at Momma.

“And what about Byron?” I asked, soft again. “Is there anything else I should know? Anything I haven’t heard yet?”

Momma’s lashes swept down. She was silent for a long time before she answered.

“There isn’t much more I’m ready to say right now,” she said. “But I’ll dig out some old papers. Letters. Photographs. If you want to see them later … they’re yours.”

I nodded. “I want to see everything. I want to understand.”

“Then you will.” Her voice cracked on the last word, but she lifted her chin. “Just make it back to us. That’s all I ask.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “But if I don’t—know that I went in with my eyes open.”

Daddy reached across the table this time. His palm was warm against mine.

“We see you now, my girl,” he said.

I believed him.