Page 39 of The Viper
“Even now?”
His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how close I am.”
My laugh came out shaky. “Then maybe stop talking and?—”
A shout cut through the air.
We both froze. The energy shifted.
Another shout, louder this time, followed by the crunch of gravel near the parking area. Crew members started running toward the sound.
Lucas was gone before I could blink—one second pressed against me, the next striding down the path, every line of his body switching from heat to readiness.
I straightened my clothes, still dizzy, and followed.
When I rounded the corner, chaos met me. Benji stood by the security tent, shirt torn, face scraped, a cut blooming red across his cheekbone. One of his bodyguards was talking to the local cops, and another hovered near him like a nervous shadow.
“Jesus, Benji,” I said, rushing to his side. “What happened?”
He gave me a sheepish smile, wincing when the motion tugged at his split lip. “Some lunatic decided he didn’t like my face. Told me I was a sinner selling lust.”
“Charming,” I said, my heart still racing.
Benji shook his head, the movement small and careful. “Happened outside my rental,” he said quietly. “Guy was just there—waiting. I went out on the back deck to drink my coffee, and he came out of nowhere. Ranted about Hollywood filth, about how I was ‘leading good women astray.’ My security heard the noise and chased him off, but not before he got a few hits in.” He gestured toward his face, then his ribs, grimacing. “Didn’t even take anything. Just wanted to make a point, I guess.”
Lucas was already talking to one of the officers, calm but sharp, his tone clipped and professional. Whatever he said made the man straighten immediately.
Benji followed my gaze. “Your new shadow’s intense. I like him.”
“Yeah,” I said under my breath. “He’s good at what he does.”
More squad cars pulled up, lights flashing across the lot. Franklin stormed out of the director’s tent, cursing about insurance and schedules. Crew members huddled in clusters, whispering. Someone from production was already spinning this into a “security incident,” which sounded much tidier than attack.
A uniformed officer approached, his badge catching the sunlight. He was tall, maybe early forties, with the kind of easy confidence that comes from being both local and respected.
“Ms. Montgomery? Mr. Dawes?” he asked. “I’m Officer Eric Norton, Charleston PD.”
I nodded. “Lexi’s fine.”
“Benji, too,” Benji added.
The officer smiled faintly. “Heard a lot about you two. My wife’s a fan.”
“That sounds dangerous,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Not as dangerous as today’s situation,” he said, flipping open his notebook. “We’re just gathering statements right now. I understand Mr. Dawes was assaulted by an unidentified male.”
Benji nodded, grimacing. “Yeah. Security’s pulling footage. Big guy, ball cap, weird accent. Eastern European maybe? Hard to tell—he was yelling half the time. Came at me on my back deck like he’d been waiting for me to open the door. Said something about sin, about how we were ‘poisoning people’s souls.’ I thought he was a drunk neighbor at first, but then he hit me. Hard.”
He touched his jaw lightly, wincing. “My team was inside getting breakfast, heard the commotion, and came running. The guy bolted before they could grab him. No car in sight, no plates, nothing. Just disappeared into the marsh like a damn wild animal.”
Norton scribbled something, then looked at Lucas, who had appeared by my side. “You’re Dominion Hall, right?”
Lucas gave a short nod. “I am.”
“Good,” Norton said, lowering his voice slightly. “Noah asked me to keep tabs. Said you might need local support.”
That name hit something in my memory—a conversation on set, a faint reference I hadn’t paid attention to. Dominion Hall. Whoever these people were, they had reach.
