I hoped it was anger. Anger I could handle. Hurt meant I’d gotten too close, meant she cared, and that was a minefield I wasn’t walking through.
Not now, not with Department 77 out there, not with my mother’s voice in my head—My Silas—twisting my gut like a blade.
“I should go,” I said, turning for the door.
Her silence followed me, heavy as a loaded mag. I didn’t look back. Couldn’t. I’d already made too many mistakes tonight—coming here, apologizing, letting her pull me inside like I was hers to keep.
I wasn’t. Never would be.
I was The Ghost, the shadow that moved through blood and betrayal, not some lovesick bastard chasing a wedding planner’s smile.
I stepped into the hallway, and froze. Monte was there, a few feet down, leaning against the wall, waiting. Tall, broad, with a suit that screamed money and a face that screamed trouble. His eyes locked onto mine, cool and assessing, like he was sizing up a threat. Fair enough. I was doing the same.
“Silas Dane,” he said, his voice smooth but hard, like polished steel. “Ex-Delta Force. Honorable discharge. Private security contractor since. Net worth in the billions, thanks to your father’s estate. Known associates: six brothers, all former special ops. Reputation: doesn’t play well with others.”
I clenched my fists, the urge to deck him surging like a tide. He’d done his homework, recited my bio like it was a rap sheet. Protective, sure, but this felt personal. Too personal.
“You got a point, or you just like hearing yourself talk?”
He didn’t flinch, just straightened, his posture loose but ready.
“My point is, I know who you are. And I know what you’re capable of. Portia’s my responsibility. Always has been.”
My gut churned, a hot, ugly feeling.
Responsibility? That’s what he called it?
I pictured him in that crisp suit, his hands on her. Her legs around him, her moans for him.
The thought made me want to puke—or swing. I couldn’t decide which.
Was he just her guard dog, or was there more? The way he said her name, soft but possessive, made my skin crawl.
“Portia doesn’t need a babysitter,” I said, keeping my voice low, dangerous. “She’s handled worse than me.”
“Maybe,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “But I’m not taking chances. Not with her.”
I stepped forward, close enough to smell his cologne—something expensive, probably picked to impress her.
“You implying something?”
“I’m saying she’s family to me. And I don’t let family get hurt.”
Family.
The word hit like a slug, but it didn’t ease the knot in my chest. Family didn’t mean he hadn’t touched her, hadn’t wanted her.
I’d seen the way men looked at Portia—her fire, her curves, her sharp tongue that could cut you down and make you beg for more.
Monte wasn’t blind. No way he hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t imagined her under him, her nails in his back.
I moved to walk past, done with this bullshit, but he stuck out an arm, blocking my path.
Big mistake.
“Move it,” I growled, my voice a warning shot, “if you want to keep it.”
He didn’t budge. To his credit, the guy had balls.
