Page 33 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

T he plantation house was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels staged. Like a horror movie set right before the first scream.

Even the air seemed wrong. It was thick, damp, and smelled faintly of old wood, mold, and something metallic. Blood? Maybe. I didn’t want to know.

I sat on a sofa with a cracked leg, wrists zip-tied in front of me, my body still aching from the crash. My clothes were damp and clinging, and my hair felt like a matted bird’s nest down my back. A shard of pain pulsed behind my left eye, but I kept my breathing steady.

I’d been in worse positions.

No. That was a lie.

I’d never been in anything like this.

The walls were tall and yellowed, hung with oil portraits of dead white men in suits and smug expressions. Everything in the room reeked of history—but not the good kind. The kind that got swept under the rug and left to rot.

Two armed men stood by the door. Not in suits like Marshall.

These were grunts. Dressed in tactical gear, guns slung lazily across their chests, eyes hidden behind dark glasses even though the plantation was dim and it was black dark outside.

I didn’t know their names. I’d started calling them Lefty and Righty in my head just to cope.

They hadn’t spoken much. Just grunted and barked orders. But they were human. That’s all I needed.

Because I was still breathing. Still thinking. And if I could think, I could win.

I shifted on the sofa, wincing. “You guys always work for psychopaths, or is this just a side gig?”

Righty didn’t move. Lefty’s jaw shifted, almost like he wanted to laugh but remembered he wasn’t allowed to.

“Nothing? That’s disappointing,” I said, leaning back like I wasn’t handcuffed and terrified. “You should know, I’m pretty good at reading people. Comes with the job.”

Righty adjusted his grip on his rifle. “Shut up.”

Bingo.

I tilted my head. “That’s not very customer-service-friendly.”

He looked at me, finally. Just a flash of his face beneath the glasses. Young. Late twenties maybe. And definitely not immune to me.

“I mean,” I continued, channeling every brand pitch I’d ever given, “if I were running this operation, I’d make sure the hostages felt, you know, safe. Heard. Maybe even pampered a little. It’s all about emotional management. People are more cooperative when they feel seen.”

Lefty let out a low grunt. That time, it was a laugh.

“I’m serious,” I said, pressing in. “It’s literally neuroscience. Oxytocin, cortisol, mirror neurons—there are studies. I’ve given talks on it. At swanky conferences.”

Righty crossed his arms. “And what the hell do you do, give TED Talks on how to sell lipstick?”

“No,” I said smoothly. “On how to sell anything. Influence is about psychology, not product. Make someone feel like you understand them, like you’re on their side, and they’ll buy whatever you’re selling. Even if it’s a lie.”

I let the last line hang in the air. Let them hear it.

Even if it’s a lie.

Lefty shifted. Righty studied me harder.

“Look,” I said, softer now, dialing the performance to low heat. “I know you’re not the ones making decisions. You’ve got orders. Probably bills. Maybe a kid. Or someone at home you don’t want to disappoint.”

Lefty flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it.

I leaned forward, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I’m not asking you to turn into some kind of hero. I’m just saying … you don’t have to be him. You don’t have to be Marshall.”

“Enough,” Righty snapped.

He stepped toward me, rifle still in hand. I didn’t move.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.

“No,” I whispered. “I think it’s war. And I think maybe—deep down—you’re tired of being on the wrong side.”

The silence was heavy again. He looked like he wanted to say something. Lefty looked like he wanted to disappear.

I decided to go for it. At this point, what did I have to lose?

Realistically? Not much.

My odds of making it out of this alive were …

bleak. And that was me being generous. I didn’t know where I was.

I didn’t know how long I’d been here. I didn’t even know if Charlie was still breathing.

The crash had been bad—really bad—and Department 77 didn’t exactly have a track record of mercy.

If they’d been willing to orchestrate a near-death abduction in open water, what else were they capable of?

Everything in me screamed this is bigger than you realized . Marshall wasn’t just some asshole with power and charm—he was connected to something vast, well-funded, and terrifying. These weren’t just men with guns. They were operatives.

Trained. Programmed. Dead-eyed.

If Charlie had survived, he’d be coming for me. I believed that. I had to believe that.

But if he hadn’t?

Then I was alone. And if I was alone, I needed to be smarter than everyone in this house. Fast.

“You know,” I said, lips curling into the ghost of a smile, “I once convinced an entire tech company to rebrand using nothing but a TikTok trend and a spray bottle. If I can do that, I can make you believe you’re not a villain.”

“Shut up,” Righty repeated. But it didn’t land the same way.

I leaned back, slow and steady. “You can shut me up, or you can listen. One of those ends with me screaming when the big boss gets bored and comes back. The other? Ends with you walking away from this with your soul still mostly intact.”

Lefty took a step toward Righty. Whispered something I couldn’t hear.

Righty muttered a curse and turned away.

That was all I needed. A crack in the armor.

Marshall thought he had me boxed in. Thought dragging me to some old-money tomb with a front porch and a body count would break me. But he didn’t know the version of me that crawled from the river. The one who’d surfaced gasping my love’s name.

Charlie.

My throat tightened, but I didn’t let it show.

I couldn’t afford to crack.

Not now. Not here.

Instead, I looked at the guards again, clearing my throat. “When he comes back, you should think about whether you want to be the one holding me down while he tries to make me his Stepford wife.”

No answer.

That was okay. The silence told me plenty.

They were thinking. Considering. Doubting.

And doubt was my new best friend.

The room around me felt less like a cage and more like a chessboard now. I was still down, sure. But not out.

Marshall might have dragged me here thinking I’d break.

But I’d spent years building an empire out of nothing but grit and likes and people underestimating me. I’d survived toxic agents, online hate, and parents who thought money could replace love.

If Marshall thought being scared was going to make me stop fighting, he didn’t know the first thing about the woman sitting on this cracked sofa.

I inched forward, testing the tension in the zip ties. My wrists throbbed. My back ached. But my mind was clear—sharpened by adrenaline and defiance.

“Let me guess,” I said, keeping my tone casual, almost breezy. “You two didn’t grow up dreaming of guarding a woman in a haunted mansion while your boss plays plantation cosplay, right?”

Righty’s head twitched, just a fraction. Lefty’s lips pressed together.

“I’m just saying,” I continued, “I know how stories get written. And the way you guys are cast right now? You’re not heroes. You’re not even good henchmen. You’re disposable.”

Lefty’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt. Righty paced, his steps creaking over the warped floorboards.

“I know spin. I know how to make villains into underdogs and mistakes into miracles. Hell, I’ve spent my whole career making companies that suck look like saviors. Let me tell you—your boss? He’s got about two weeks before his name leaks, and the whole world finds out what he’s doing.”

Righty froze.

“Yeah,” I said, seizing the shift in energy. “That’s the thing about rich men with secrets. They think they own the narrative. Until a woman like me decides to burn it all down.”

I stood—or tried to. The zip ties made it clumsy, and I winced as I got halfway upright. But I held their gazes anyway.

“You let me go, I’ll make sure you don’t get lumped in with him. I’ll spin it. You were the inside men. You saved me. Gave the right people just enough to track me. You’ll be anonymous heroes.”

Righty turned to Lefty, and for one brief, shining second, I thought I’d done it. I thought I’d found the opening.

Lefty shifted his weight. His mouth parted like he might speak.

But then Righty’s face hardened again—like a switch flipped. He muttered something under his breath, took two strides forward, and slammed the butt of his rifle against the wall just inches from my head. The thud echoed like a gunshot.

“Sit. Down.”

I flinched, heart hammering now. I hadn’t meant to—hadn’t wanted to show fear. But that closeness? That sudden crack in the calm? It rattled something deep.

I sank back onto the sofa, slower this time, pulse thudding in my ears.

“You think you’re clever,” Righty said, voice low and shaking with fury—or maybe something worse.

“You think you’re gonna play us? Manipulate us with your big words and little smirks?

This isn’t a chick flick where the witty debutante convinces the guys with guns that they should change careers. Grow up, bitch.”

Lefty didn’t say a word. He just looked down at the floor, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.

I swallowed hard, the heat draining from my face. My tactics had worked—too well. I’d pushed him past the edge of reason and into something scarier. Unpredictable.

Stupid, Sloane.

The silence returned like a weight dropped over the whole room. Even the chandelier seemed to sway with tension now, like the house itself was holding its breath.

And that was when I heard it.

A noise.

Small at first, like a creak.

Then louder.

Boots. Heavy. Moving fast. More than one pair.

The guards stiffened.

Righty turned toward the door, adjusting his grip.

Lefty reached for the radio clipped to his chest, but he didn’t get to speak.

Because the door exploded open.