Dominion Hall

There’s safe. There’s dangerous. And then there’s Ryker Dane. Most men can walk the line between light and dark. They know when to stop, when to let go. Ryker? He was never one of them. I knew from the start that he was the kind of man you stay far away from. Silent. Ruthless. Cold as the steel he carried under his jacket. The problem? I didn’t want to stay away. For fans of dangerous love, anti-heroes who live by their own rules, and the women who bring them to their knees.

There’s chasing the truth. There’s hunting down a story. And then there’s walking straight into a war. Marcus Dane is not a man to be investigated. He’s the shadows in a city full of secrets. Silent. Unforgiving. The kind of danger that doesn’t make noise until it’s too late. I came to Charleston for answers. The explosion at Folly Beach Pier was no accident, and I’m going to prove it. My editor says to be smart, to keep my distance. But that’s hard to do when Marcus keeps showing up—shoving me against walls, growling threats in my ear, daring me to dig too deep. The real problem?

I came to Charleston for music, not men. This city is just another stop on my way to something bigger. A few months of playing, then I’m gone. No attachments. No complications. Then I see him. Atlas Dane. Silent. Watchful. Built like a warrior, dressed like a king. He doesn’t belong at an event like this, hulking in a tuxedo while I play for people who sip champagne and pretend they understand Bach. But he’s not pretending. He watches my hands like he already knows what they can do. He speaks in low, measured words that make my breath catch. And when I trip—because I always do—he’s there.