She didn’t need his protection, didn’t need mine.
But the thought of her with him—or anyone—made my blood boil. I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t do jealous. I did missions, kills, clean exits. So why was I picturing her in that silk robe, her lips swollen from my kiss, telling Monte to check on her like he had a right to her life?
I pulled into Dominion Hall’s gates, the iron swinging open without a sound. The house loomed ahead, a fortress built on our blood. My brothers were inside, planning weddings, laughing with their fiancées, living lives I’d never touch.
I wanted them happy—Marcus with his smartass grin, Atlas with his quiet strength, all of them. I’d die for them. But I couldn’t join them, couldn’t let myself want what they had. Not with Portia, not with anyone.
My Silas.
My mother’s voice was a chain, pulling me back to a war I’d never finish.
I parked, killed the engine, and sat in the dark. The phone was in my jacket, dead but heavy, like it carried her ghost. I needed to move, to act, to hunt. But all I could think about was Portia’s hand in mine, her voice saying I didn’t have to go.
I’d gone to war to forget, to bury the past in blood and ash. But now, I was remembering everything—her face, her fire, the way she’d broken me open and left me raw.
I was The Ghost, but tonight, I felt like a man, and I hated it.
9
PORTIA
Dominion Hall gleamed like it knew it was about to host a dynasty’s worth of weddings.
I pulled up the long drive just after seven, the soft golden haze of morning light spilling across the manicured lawns and curling around the grand front columns. The pavement hummed beneath my tires in a rhythm that felt almost ceremonial—another step deeper into the lion’s den.
Monte opened my door before I could reach for the handle. Always one step ahead.
“You sure about this dress?” he asked as I stepped out.
I flashed him a look. “Why? You think it’s too much?”
He didn’t answer. Just blinked, once, slowly. Then muttered something under his breath about sins and distraction.
The dress was deliberate.
A delicate silk slip in ivory champagne, bias-cut and whisper-light, it skimmed my body like it had been poured onto me. The neckline dipped low enough to hint, but not reveal. Spaghetti straps crossed at the back, baring the soft line of my shoulders. The hem fluttered just past my knees, revealing glimpses ofthigh with every breeze that slipped beneath the fabric. On my feet, a pair of nude heels with barely-there straps wrapped around my ankles, adding just enough height to sharpen my posture.
No panties.
That was the part I hadn’t told Monte. That was for me.
Or rather—for him.
Silas.
I didn’t plan to corner him. I didn’t even know if he’d show today. But when I’d stood in front of the mirror this morning, cool-toned sunlight slanting across my skin, I’d thought of his hands. His mouth. The way he touched me like he’d been born to ruin me.
So I left the panties in the drawer. Just in case.
Monte scanned the exterior with sharp eyes as we approached the front entrance. “Security looks tight from a distance. But those side cameras are too high. You get someone with a ball cap and a cause, they’re slipping right under the line of sight.”
I nodded. “I’ll talk to Ryker about access to their private feed.”
We stepped into the grand foyer—arched ceilings, oil paintings, and enough dark wood to make Versailles feel rustic. A few early staffers moved around quietly, polishing railings and arranging florals like it was just another day, not the lead-up to six high-profile weddings hosted by a family straight out of a black-ops fairytale.
Monte’s eyes swept the space. “It’s quiet. Too quiet.”
“Good,” I said. “Let’s keep it that way.”
