Page 16 of The Viper
“Absolutely not,” I lied.
6
LUCAS
Iwasn’t ashamed of what I’d done at Pelicangate. The aviator had it coming—slipping something into Lexi Montgomery’s drink like a lowlife predator. My fist meeting his sternum had been justice, swift and clean. Maybe I should’ve broken his leg, too.
My only regret was walking away after, leaving her to fend for herself in that chaotic swarm of phones and shouts. I’d been trained to secure a situation, not abandon it. But her presence—those eyes, that electric jolt when my arm brushed hers—had scrambled my senses. For the first time in years, common sense had deserted me, replaced by an urge to run. Not from danger, but from her.
I’d met celebrities before. The good ones had gravitas, a weight that filled the room. Politicians, generals, even a few actors—they carried themselves like they knew their place in the world.
But Lexi Montgomery? She had something else, something I couldn’t pin down. It wasn’t just beauty, though she had that in spades. It was the way she moved, like she was holding a storminside her, all that light and chaos barely contained. It had hit me like a flashbang, and I’d bolted before I could process it.
Back in my room at The Palmetto Rose, I tried to shake it off. Another shower, hoping the hot water would clear my head.
It didn’t.
Her face kept flickering behind my eyes—her shock, her anger, the way her voice softened when she asked why I’d helped her.
I turned the dial to cold, full blast, and stood under the icy spray until my teeth chattered. The shock gave me a couple minutes’ respite, my mind blanking out under the assault. But when I stepped out, toweling off in the dim bathroom light, she was still there, burned into my skull.
I dressed for bed—boxers, nothing else—and lay on the crisp sheets, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come easy. My body was still on China time, my blood humming with adrenaline and unanswered questions.
Who was Noah?
Why Charleston?
And why the hell couldn’t I stop thinking about a woman I’d known for all of five minutes?
I forced my eyes closed, willing my heart rate to slow. Eventually, exhaustion won, dragging me under.
Morning came too soon. My phone buzzed at 0500, a habit from years of ops. I slipped to the gym for a hard workout, then was back, showered, dressed in jeans, a gray t-shirt, and my jacket to cover the pistol at my waist. The same driver from last night was waiting outside at 0700 sharp, the black SUV gleaming in the early light. I slid into the back.
“Where to?” I asked, my voice rough from lack of sleep.
“Dominion Hall,” he said, pulling onto the road.
“What’s that?”
He glanced at me in the rearview, a faint smile tugging his lips. “You’ll see.”
The drive took us through Charleston’s historic heart, past cobblestone streets and pastel row houses, then South of Broad where the city gave way to estates. The harbor flanked the road, its surface glinting like polished steel under the rising sun. Spanish moss hung heavy from live oaks, swaying in a breeze that carried the scent of salt and earth. I’d seen a lot of places in my line of work—deserts, jungles, war zones—but this place had a pulse, like it was alive and watching.
Dominion Hall came into view as we turned onto a private drive. I wasn’t often impressed, but this was something else. The mansion rose like it had grown from the ground itself, its stone walls and sprawling verandas rooted in a way that felt ancient, unyielding. It was massive, sure, but it wasn’t just size. The place had weight, like it carried secrets in its bones. Ivy climbed the walls, and the windows gleamed with a modern edge that didn’t quite match the antebellum grandeur. Security was subtle but unmistakable—cameras tucked into eaves, probably motion sensors blending with the landscaping.
This wasn’t just a house; it was a fortress.
I stepped out of the SUV, my feet hitting the ground with a soft thud. The air was thick, humid, already warm despite the early hour. I felt small for a moment, not a sensation I was used to. Dominion Hall didn’t just stand there; it loomed, like it was sizing me up as much as I was sizing it up. There was power here— money, influence, the kind of place where deals were made that reshaped the world. My gut told me I was walking into something bigger than I’d expected, and I didn’t know if that excited me or pissed me off.
Noah, the guy who’d brought the personal invite back in China, was waiting at the front door, leaning against a column like he owned the place. He was in jeans and a black polo now,still carrying that operator’s ease, his eyes sharp despite the casual smile.
“Morning, Lucas,” he said. “Flight treat you okay?”
“Long,” I said, not in the mood for small talk. “Why am I here?”
He chuckled, undeterred. “Straight to it, huh?” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and turned it toward me. A grainy video played—Pelicangate, last night. The crowd, the aviator, my fist slamming into his chest. Lexi’s face, half-hidden by her cap, frozen in shock. “Busy night,” Noah said, his tone light but pointed.
My temper flared. “You following me?”
