Page 34 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

Literally.

The antique hinges tore from the frame with a violent screech as the door slammed against the wall, and standing in the smoky light was a figure I’d know anywhere.

Charlie.

He was soaked through, blood at his temple, jaw cut and clenched, gun drawn and pointed straight ahead like it had never left his hand.

My heart slammed into my ribs.

Alive.

He was alive.

And God help anyone who tried to stop him.

“Get away from her,” Charlie growled, voice like gravel and thunder.

Lefty froze.

Righty hesitated for half a heartbeat too long.

And that’s when Marshall walked in.

Smiling.

Smirking, actually.

“Oh, Charlie,” he said, voice lilting like he was greeting an old friend at a cocktail party. “You really have a gift for ruining the mood.”

Charlie didn’t blink.

He didn’t speak.

He just raised the gun?—

And shot him square in the face.

Blood and bone sprayed across the doorway. Marshall crumpled backward like a marionette with its strings cut.

The room fell deathly still.

Lefty let out a sharp breath and raised his hands.

Righty dropped his rifle.

Charlie didn’t even look at them. He crossed the room in three strides, fell to his knees in front of me, and grabbed my face like he couldn’t believe I was real.

Behind him, Quentin stepped into the room, weapon drawn, eyes scanning every corner like he’d been trained for this moment his entire life.

His jaw was tight, his movements precise—silent backup with a soldier’s steadiness.

He gave a sharp nod to Charlie, then moved to cover the guards, keeping them in check while Charlie stayed locked on me.

“Sloane,” Charlie said, voice breaking. “Jesus. Are you hurt?”

I was shaking, mouth open, but no sound came out.

“Did they touch you?” he asked, frantic now. “Did they?—?”

“No,” I choked. “Just scared. Just—” My voice cracked.

And then I was in his arms, sobbing into his shoulder, the scent of salt and blood and Charlie wrapping around me like a shield.

Alive.

We were both alive.

And Marshall?

Wasn’t.

Not anymore.

“I tried,” I whispered into Charlie’s chest, voice thick with tears. “I tried to convince them. Like I do with brands, with people. I used every trick I know—psychological mirroring, emotional leverage, empathy plays. I even brought up oxytocin.”

His hand slid up the back of my head, cradling me gently, protectively. “Sloane …”

“But it didn’t work,” I said, breath hitching. “They didn’t crack. They didn’t care. And I felt—” My throat squeezed. “Helpless. Like I was nothing. Just a girl in zip ties with a big mouth and no power at all.”

Charlie leaned back just enough to look at me, his eyes wild and glassy. “You are not nothing.”

“You weren’t here,” I said, almost childlike, like the admission itself shamed me. “And I didn’t know if you ever would be again. If you were still?—”

He cupped my face again, firmer now. “I’m here. I’m alive. And I swear to God and everything that’s holy, I will never let them take you from me again.”

My body shook as his words wrapped around me, as real as the arms that held me. For once, I didn’t try to make a joke, didn’t twist my fear into something palatable. I just nodded, pressing my forehead to his and breathing in the weight of what we’d just survived.

“I believe you.”

Footsteps thundered on the porch.

More voices. More movement.

And then the door burst wider, and in came the rest of them.

Ryker. Marcus. Atlas. Noah. Elias. One I didn’t recognize who looked like the others. Silas, apparently.

Even Quentin, already inside, gave a nod of respect. The Dane brothers didn’t just arrive—they charged. Armed and furious and ready to raze the entire plantation if Charlie so much as asked.

“About time,” I murmured, a shaky laugh escaping me.

“You think we were gonna let him go alone?” Atlas growled, pulling a knife from his belt like it was personal. “That’s cute.”

Noah gave me a wink. “Glad you’re still breathing, princess.”

“You okay?” Elias added, scanning me up and down like he could assess trauma by eye contact alone.

“I am now,” I said.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “We clear?”

Charlie nodded. “Cleared enough. She’s priority.”

Ryker stepped forward and cut the zip ties from my wrists with a quick flick of his blade, his expression soft. “Let’s get you out of this godforsaken house.”

We moved fast. Charlie never let go of my hand, even as he guided me past the downed body of Marshall, still pooling red against the floorboards. For a flicker of a moment, I looked down.

There was nothing left of the man I once feared. No menace. No control.

Just ruin.

The humid night air hit me like a wave when we stepped outside. I gasped—grateful, dizzy, free.

The wraparound porch glowed under dim lights, casting eerie shadows across the columns. The Spanish moss drifted with the breeze, soft and mournful.

Charlie’s hand tightened around mine as he led me down the steps. “You good?”

“I think so,” I said, legs trembling as they carried me forward. “I’ll believe it when we’re far away from here.”

And then I saw her.

A figure.

Moving at the edge of the tree line. Not running. Not hiding.

Walking away.

Slow and straight-backed, with long, dark hair cascading down her back and a white dress fluttering like a ghost.

“Wait,” I said, tugging Charlie to a stop. “Who is that?”

Charlie turned.

And froze.

His entire body went rigid, blood draining from his face. “No …”

“What?” I asked, heart slamming into my chest. “Who is she?”

He stared, eyes locked on the disappearing figure. “I think that was my mother.”

The world stopped.

The wind stilled.

And the shadows swallowed her whole.