Chapter 3 - Ash on Gaston Street
Morning did not bring sunlight to Savannah; it brought a heavy, suffocating coastal fog that clung to the moss-draped branches like gray gauze.
Clare woke in a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton, feeling every single muscle in her body ache as if she had danced an entire season of *The Nutcracker* in a single night. She was wearing an oversized silk shirt that smelled faintly of lavender—courtesy of Mrs. Gable, the quiet, stone-faced housekeeper who had tended to her with clinical gentleness before dawn.
She threw back the duvet and walked to the window. Outside, the sprawling lawn stretched toward the dark ribbon of the salt marsh. Two German shepherds paced the grass beside a guard in civilian clothes holding a submachine gun.
This was not a nightmare. It was her life now.
She threw on the black trousers and cashmere sweater that had been laid out for her and marched down the grand staircase. She found Marcus in the glass-enclosed conservatory at the back of the house. He was seated at a wrought-iron table, a cup of black coffee before him, reading a stack of printed surveillance reports. He had traded his evening suit for dark denim, an open-collared navy shirt, and boots, yet he managed to look just as lethal.
Across the table stood Dominic and three older men whose cold, impassive faces carried the unmistakable stamp of veterans of violence.
"—he pulled the crew from Atlanta," Dominic was saying. "Vance promised them twenty percent of the river terminal cargo if they took Marcus out before the city council vote on Friday."
"The city council vote will not happen if Vance is in a ditch," one of the older men rasped.
Marcus didn't blink. He took a sip of his coffee, turned a page, and spoke with terrifying softness. "Vance will not die quickly in a ditch, Michael. A quick death is a mercy for old friends. Vance was never my friend. Cut off his supply line at the rail yard. Burn the warehouse on River Street. Let him understand that every breath he takes today is an overdraft on a debt he cannot repay."
"And the girl?" Michael asked, his voice flat. "She's a liability, Marcus. If Vance grabs her—"
"Finish that sentence," Marcus said, setting his cup down with a soft *clink* that echoed like a gunshot in the silent room, "and you will not leave this room on your feet."
A chill dropped over the conservatory. Michael dipped his head slightly, acknowledging the boundary he had nearly crossed. "Understood, boss."
"Get out. All of you."
The men filed out silently, Dominic giving Clare a respectful nod as he passed. Clare stepped into the conservatory, the heels of her borrowed boots clicking against the flagstone.
"Listening at doors, Miss Bennett?" Marcus asked without turning around.
"You left the door open, Mr. Vale."
Marcus turned his head, his gaze sweeping over her. A subtle shift occurred in his features—the iron relaxed, just a fraction, revealing the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. "You slept poorly."
"People were planning executions outside my door," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't usually find that conducive to eight hours of rest."
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Mrs. Gable made biscuits and poached eggs. You need to eat."
"I don't want eggs. I want to go to my studio."
Marcus picked up his silver pen, twirling it between his long fingers. "Your studio is closed, Clare."
"You don't have the authority to close my business!"
"I do when someone threw an incendiary device through your back office window at four-fifteen this morning," he said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection.
Clare froze. The room seemed to tilt beneath her feet. The oxygen in her lungs felt like glass. "What?"
Marcus sighed, tossing the pen onto the paperwork. He reached across the table and caught her hand before she could pull away. His fingers were warm, steady, an anchor against the freefall in her chest.
"The sprinkler system suppressed the flames," he said, holding her gaze with fierce intensity. "The main dance floor is undamaged. The mirrors are intact. But your office was scorched, and two of Vance’s foot soldiers were spotted taking photos of your student roster."
"My students..." A cry of pure anguish tore from her throat. "Marcus, those are children! Seven-year-old girls! What kind of monster—"
"The kind I intend to eliminate," he said, standing up and pulling her toward him. He didn't ask; he simply drew her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her trembling form. "They won't touch those children. I’ve already placed two plainclothes men at every home on that registry. Nothing will happen to them, Clare. I swear this to you on my mother’s grave."
Clare buried her fists into his shirt, her forehead resting against his breastbone. She was trembling with a fury so intense it made her teeth ache. Her life’s work. Her sanctuary. The place she had built to heal her broken spirit after Grant had thrown her away like garbage.
"Take me there," she whispered, her voice venomous.
Marcus frowned down at her. "Clare—"
"Take me there, Marcus!" she demanded, looking up into his eyes, her gaze blazing with a cold fire that made his pulse jump. "I am not going to hide in this palace like a frightened child while some lowlife burns down the only thing I have left. Take me to my studio, or I swear to God I will steal one of your cars and drive there myself."
Marcus looked at her for a long, silent moment. For the first time, she saw something raw and reverent flicker in the depths of his storm-gray eyes. Respect. True, unadulterated respect.
"Dominic!" Marcus shouted toward the hall.
Dominic reappeared in the doorway within seconds. "Sir?"
"Ready the motorcade. Miss Bennett wishes to inspect her property."
"Boss, Vance has scouts all over the historic district—"
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"Then tell the escort to bring their heavy rifles," Marcus said, his eyes never leaving Clare’s fierce, tear-streaked face. "And let Lorenzo Vance know that if he wants to dance, I am standing in the middle of the floor."
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