Let him stew.
“I’ll come along,” Monte said, stepping forward, but Portia cut him off.
“Recheck the shoreline, Monte,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s the weak spot. I need it locked down from the paparazzi.”
He hesitated, his eyes flicking between us, but she was already moving toward the house, her dress swaying with everystep. I didn’t look at Monte as I passed, but I felt his fury, a heat wave at my back.
Let him try something. I’d bury him.
Inside, the foyer was cool, the air heavy with polish and power. Portia walked ahead, her heels clicking on the hardwood, and I followed, my eyes on the sway of her hips, the bare skin of her shoulders.
We were alone now, the hum of staff distant, and the tension between us crackled like a live wire. Then she stopped, turned, and flipped the script again.
“Why are you giving Monte shit?” she asked, her voice low, sharp. “He’s a key part of my team. I thought we had a deal.”
I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms, my pulse thudding.
“Deal’s fine. But it’s not professional when your security guy’s dying to sleep with you.”
Her eyes widened, a flash of shock, then she scoffed, but it was forced. I’d hit a nerve. Her cheeks flushed, and I saw it—the truth she didn’t want to admit. Monte wanted her. She knew it, deep down, even if she’d never let it happen.
Relief hit me, quick and sharp, because I knew then they’d never fucked. Never would. She was too professional, too fierce, to cross that line with her guard dog.
“You’re out of line,” she snapped, stepping closer, her finger jabbing the air. “Maybe you should worry about your own shit instead of butting into my life. You’ve got enough ghosts to chase, Silas.”
The words cut, personal and raw. She wasn’t wrong.
My Silas.
My mother’s message, Department 77’s shadow, the war I couldn’t escape—it was all there, clawing at me.
But I bit back, my voice low, edged with heat. “Don’t act like you’re not in my head, Portia. You’re the one wearing that dress, playing games.”
Silence fell, heavy and awkward, our breaths loud in the empty foyer.
Then she surprised me again, her lips curving, her eyes glinting with something dangerous. “Tell me what you really think of the dress, Silas.”
I blinked, caught off guard, and the truth spilled out before I could stop it. “Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her grin widened, slow and wicked, and I felt my own lips twitch, a real smile, rare and unguarded.
She stepped closer, her scent—citrus and steel—flooding my senses. “I need to see the guest rooms,” she said, her voice low, suggestive. “Maybe we should inspect the durability of the mattresses.”
My heart thudded, loud enough to drown out the world. Department 77, my mother, Monte’s glare—all of it faded, burned away by her fire.
I didn’t speak, just nodded, leading the way up the grand staircase, my footsteps heavy, my blood singing.
She followed, her heels a soft echo, and I knew I was lost, but for once, I didn’t care.
11
PORTIA
The door clicked shut behind us, a soft sound that landed like thunder.
I stood just inside one of the guest suites—third floor, corner unit, French doors leading to a Juliet balcony. The bed was king-sized and made with military precision. The walls were painted dove gray. The air smelled like lavender and linen.
Silas leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest like he needed a barrier between us. He hadn’t taken a step closer. But he didn’t need to.
