Page 6 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

CHARLIE

I spent the day dodging my own reflection, wandering Charleston’s fringes like a man with nowhere to be. The hangar was waiting, that Cessna’s elevator hinge still misaligned, but I couldn’t muster the give-a-damn to go back. It wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was I—not today.

I kept my phone close, checking it every half hour, praying Marcus would call with a reprieve.

“Forget the ball, little brother,” he’d say, his voice crackling with that smug grin I’d grown up hating and loving. “I got this.”

But the screen stayed blank, mocking me with its silence.

So I drifted, nursing a coffee in a diner that smelled like burnt toast and regret, then a beer in a dive bar where the jukebox coughed up Johnny Cash like it was doing me a favor. I told myself I was biding my time, strategizing, but I was just procrastinating, putting off the inevitable.

I avoided Dominion Hall as long as I could.

My suite was a trap, that tux and mask lying in wait like a noose tailored to my measurements.

The mask was a nice touch, though—dark olive drab green, a nod to the years we Dane brothers spent crawling through mud and blood in the service.

His idea of a joke, no doubt, but it hit me harder than I wanted to admit.

Those days had shaped us, sharpened us into the kind of men who didn’t flinch at a fight, but they hadn’t prepared me for the kind of warfare that involved crystal flutes and forced smiles.

I’d rather take a bullet than a canapé, but Marcus had roped me into this, and Danes didn’t back out of promises, even the stupid ones.

Six p.m. rolled around like a punch I should’ve seen coming. No call from Marcus, no last-minute save.

I dragged myself back to Dominion Hall. My suite was too quiet, the air heavy with the scent of leather and polished wood. The tux lay across the bed, black and crisp, a corpse of formality I had no choice but to resurrect. The mask sat beside it, its green hue daring me to put it on.

I showered slow, letting the hot water scald away the day’s resistance, each drop a reminder that I was about to play a part I despised. Shaving was a chore, the razor scraping my jaw like it was punishing me for agreeing to this.

By 6:45, I was suited up—black tux, white shirt, cufflinks that cost more than my first truck. The mask felt heavy in my hand, a piece of my past I wasn’t sure I wanted to carry tonight. I looked like a man who belonged at a masquerade, but I felt like a soldier walking into a trap.

My phone buzzed, a video call from Marcus. I propped it on the dresser and answered, his face filling the screen with that thirteen-year-old grin he never grew out of, the one that meant he was about to give me shit.

“Well, damn, little brother,” he drawled, leaning back in some hotel room with a view I didn’t care to place. “You clean up nicer than I expected. Thought you’d show up in camo and a bad attitude.”

“Fuck you,” I said, tugging at my tie like it was strangling me. “This is your fault, asshole.”

He laughed, loud and unapologetic, the sound bouncing off the walls of my too-quiet room.

“You look like James Bond’s pissed-off cousin. Loosen up, Charlie. It’s a party, not a firing squad.”

“It’s a circus,” I shot back, “and I’m the trained bear. You owe me for this, Marcus. Big.”

“Trained’s generous,” he said, smirking. “Just don’t deck anyone in the first hour. After that, I’ll give you one free swing.”

“Real generous,” I muttered, checking my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a stranger—polished, dangerous, but still me under the mask. “If I have to hear one more prick talk about his portfolio, I’m setting the place on fire.”

“Noted.” He leaned closer, eyes glinting with that mix of mischief and command he’d always had. “Seriously, though—behave. Flash those dimples, charm the ladies, and keep your eyes peeled for anything that smells like Department 77. Lydia Langford’s got ties that make my skin crawl.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ll play nice. But you’re buying me a bottle of the good stuff when this is over.”

“Deal,” he said, grinning wider. “Oh, and Atlas is on call if you need to bolt. Ready to whisk you away like the diva you are.”

I snorted. “Tell Atlas to keep his superhero cape on. I’ll survive.”

“Doubtful,” Marcus said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “You’re gonna trip over your own ego and cry to me later.”

“Keep talking, and I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill for this tux,” I said, pointing at the screen.

He laughed again, then raised a finger like he’d just remembered something. “One last thing—don’t fuck the hostess. Lydia’s trouble, and not the fun kind.”

I flipped him the bird. “Go to hell.”

“Love you, too,” he said, and the call ended, his laughter lingering.

I stared at the blank screen, shaking my head.

Brothers. Couldn’t live with them, couldn’t bury them in the marsh without someone noticing.

I grabbed the mask, slipped it under my arm, and headed downstairs.

Driving myself felt too normal, too grounded for the shitshow I was walking into.

If I had to play this game, I’d do it my way.

I called the garage, ready to tell them to prep the Rolls-Royce—might as well show up fancy—but then a better idea hit.

“Get the chopper ready,” I told the staff. “I’m going in style.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply, no hesitation. “ETA fifteen minutes.”

I smirked. A helicopter. Fuck it. If I was going to be miserable, I’d make an entrance that’d shut up the gossip for a hot minute. Danes didn’t do subtle, and tonight, I was leaning all the way in.

The chopper ride was quick, Charleston’s skyline blurring below in a haze of lights and marsh. I knocked back two shots of whiskey from the onboard bar, the burn settling my nerves, warming my blood. The mask was on now, snug against my face, its olive drab green blending with the shadows.

By the time we touched down on the Langford estate’s sprawling lawn, it was nearly eight—late enough to make a statement, early enough to avoid a full-blown scene.

The rotor wash kicked up dust as I stepped out, the chopper lifting off behind me like a beast retreating to its lair.

Heads turned—hundreds of them, masked faces swiveling like I was the night’s main event. Women in glittering gowns sized me up, their eyes lingering on the cut of my tux, the breadth of my shoulders. Men straightened, sensing a threat.

I ignored them, striding toward the mansion with a purpose that made people step aside. Danes always got looks. It wasn’t vanity—it was just how it was.

The Langford estate was a monument to excess—huge columns, manicured gardens, chandeliers that could light a small country.

Inside, the ballroom was a sea of masks and money, the air thick with perfume and ambition.

Crystal flutes clinked, laughter rose and fell, and a string quartet played something expensive and forgettable.

I made a beeline for the bar, weaving through Charleston’s elite like a predator through prey. The bartender, a wiry guy with a goatee, raised an eyebrow as I slid a hundred across the counter.

“Keep the drinks coming,” I said, leaning in close. “I was coerced into this bullshit, so I need a friend who’ll get me drunk enough to forget I was ever here.”

He chuckled, pocketing the bill with a sleight of hand that’d make a pickpocket jealous.

“Got you, man.”

He poured me a double bourbon, neat, and I downed it in one go, the heat spreading through my chest like a welcome guest. Another followed, and the room started to soften, the edges blurring into something I could almost tolerate.

Charleston was out in force—gaggles of women with legs for days, dresses cut so low they were practically an invitation. They eyed me like I was dessert, their masks doing little to hide the hunger.

I ignored most of them, scanning the crowd for anything that screamed Department 77—shifty glances, hushed whispers, a vibe that didn’t fit.

But mostly, I was looking for a distraction.

A quick, no-strings fuck to burn off the night’s frustration.

The bourbon was helping, warming me from the inside, loosening the knot in my gut.

Two women caught my eye, both in tight black dresses, their rhinestone masks glittering like they were advertising. They were fucking me with their eyes, practically offering a two-for-one deal.

I smirked, considering it, when a flash of red across the room stopped me cold.

Her.

The woman in red was a goddamn knockout. Her dress clung to every curve, the slit high enough to start a riot, the neckline daring enough to end one. Her mask was black lace, delicate but fierce, like she’d spun it from secrets.

Every head turned as she moved, her presence a quiet command. Men stared. Women whispered. She didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she didn’t care. Her walk was liquid, confident, like she owned the room and everyone in it.

I swallowed the rest of my drink, the bourbon searing a path to my gut. The bartender slid me another without asking, and I grabbed it, my eyes locked on her. The women in black were forgotten. This was the one. I needed her—needed to feel her under me, to taste the fire I knew was there.

For a second, Sloane’s face flickered in my mind, her sharp tongue and sharper glare. I shoved the thought away. Sloane was a one-off, a memory I didn’t need. This woman was now.

I moved toward her, cutting through the crowd like a lion through sheep.

An older guy with a paunch and a gold mask was leaning in, his eyes glued to her cleavage like he was committing it to memory. I stepped between them, smooth as whiskey, my shoulder brushing his just enough to make him back off.

“Pardon,” I said, voice low, polite, but with an edge that said he was done here. “Didn’t see you there.”

He blinked, opened his mouth, then thought better of it and shuffled off, muttering about his drink.