I opened my mouth to argue—and then stopped.
Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.
And because I suddenly couldn’t remember what I was supposed to say.
I hated men like him. The quiet ones. The sure ones. The kind that didn’t bluff, didn’t apologize, and didn’t need to raise their voice to make a woman forget why she was in the room.
I hated the way he looked at me like he already knew I didn’t believe in marriage either. Like he’d smelled it on me the moment I walked through the door.
I hated that I wanted to know what he’d say next.
“I’m here for the coffee,” he added, walking past me without another glance. “Don’t mind me.”
But I did.
God, help me—I did.
2
SILAS
Ileaned against the war room’s doorframe, arms crossed, watching the circus unfold. My brothers—six oversized bastards who’d faced down death with me in deserts and jungles—sat around that polished oak table, pretending to give a shit about wedding plans.
Marcus had his feet up, smirking like he was humoring Claire. Noah looked half-asleep, probably dreaming of blowing someone’s brains out. Ryker stared out the window, likely plotting how to swim to the other side of the harbor. Elias, and Charlie weren’t much better, tossing out dumb ideas like parachutes and raider crafts. Fucking clowns, all of them.
I wanted to laugh, but my chest was too tight. They were happy. That was the problem. Happy men let their guard down, and I’d spent my life making sure the Dane brothers didn’t die for stupid reasons. Like love. Like marriage. Like believing in forever when the world was built on blood and lies.
Portia Lane stood at the head of the table, all sleek lines and cool control, her tablet glowing like a weapon. She was tall, lean, with skin like caramel under the chandelier’s light, hercurls pinned up like she’d planned every strand. Her voice was smooth, professional, cutting through my brothers’ bullshit with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
She was good. Too good. The kind of good that screamed she’d clawed her way up from nothing and wasn’t about to let anyone see the cracks.
I saw them anyway.
She said Atlanta, but her accent had a faint drawl, the kind you pick up in a nowhere town with dirt roads and dollar stores. Podunk, USA. Not Peachtree Street. The way she held herself—shoulders back, chin high—screamed overcompensation. Like she’d spent years practicing how to walk into rooms like this, where wealth and power hung thicker than gunpowder.
I’d bet my left nut she’d grown up with hand-me-downs and a chip on her shoulder, not silver spoons and debutante balls. She was a liar, but a damn pretty one.
Not that I cared.
She could be Helen of Troy, and I wouldn’t give a shit. My dick moved when she’d snapped back at me about fairy tales, her eyes flashing like she wanted to slap me or fuck me. Maybe both.
Didn’t matter.
I didn’t have time for tangling sheets with a woman who looked like she’d demand breakfast and a conversation after. I had bodies to drop and shadows to chase. They called me The Ghost for a reason—bad guys never saw me coming, and I didn’t stick around for the cleanup.
The war room smelled of coffee and tension, the kind that builds when too many alphas are in one place being forced to do something they don’t want to do. Portia was trying to wrangle them, talking logistics and timelines like she was briefing a battalion.
My brothers humored her, but I caught the glances they shot each other. They’d already decided this was women’s work. Letthe fiancées pick flowers and cakes. They’d show up, say the words, and get back to running our empire.
I didn’t blame them. Weddings were a distraction, a soft target for enemies to exploit. And we had enemies. Always had.
Department 77 was out there, or what was left of it. The shadow organization that’d tried to burn us to the ground. We’d gutted them—thought we had. But Charlie swore he’d seen her at the end of our last op.
Our mother.
Alive. Her figure gliding along the treeline, older but unmistakable, before she vanished like smoke.
My brothers thought Charlie was cracking. I didn’t. I felt her in my gut, like a blade that never stopped twisting.
