Monte wanted that, too. I could see it in his posture, the way he hovered like he had a claim. My fingers tightened on the glass, and I forced myself to look away.
I played nice, or as close to nice as I got.
My brothers were scattered around the courtyard, their fiancées laughing, their hands intertwined. Marcus was by the fountain, tossing poker cards with Will, his grin sharp as ever. Atlas stood quiet, his arm around Anna, his eyes soft in a way I’d never seen before. Noah was with Hallie Mae, her head on his shoulder, her smile fragile but real.
I liked her, I realized, and it caught me off guard. Hallie Mae wasn’t like the others, didn’t look at me like I was The Ghost, some shadow to fear. She looked at me like a person, her eyes warm, her grief for her father raw but not hidden.
Maybe that’s what I respected—her willingness to carry that loss and still stand tall, still love Noah like the world hadn’t broken her. It stirred something in me, and I shoved it down, focusing on the crowd.
I’d managed to avoid Portia most of the morning, keeping my distance, letting the brunch’s chaos be my shield. But I couldn’t stop watching her.
She floated through the guests, her smile curated, her clipboard a weapon. Monte was always there, a step behind, his eyes flicking to her like she was his mission.
Monte Jones, Head of Security for Portia’s firm. Naval Academy. Served as admiral’s aide and then intelligence officer, clean record, now private sector.
Too clean, if you asked me. Guys like him didn’t get their hands dirty—they gave orders, stayed above the fray. Not like me, who’d bled in the dirt, who’d killed to keep my brothers alive.
Monte’s polish grated on me, made me want to smear it with blood.
The brunch dragged on, mimosas flowing, guests mingling, and I stayed on the edges, playing my part—nodding to Ryker, joking with Charlie, keeping my brothers’ fiancées smiling. They were good women, all of them, and I wanted this day to be theirs, not mine.
But my eyes kept finding Portia, her dress catching the light, her movements sharp and sure. She was talking to Leanne, Hallie Mae’s mother, her hand gentle on the older woman’s arm, her face soft with empathy.
It hit me hard, that softness, so different from the fire she’d thrown at me. I wanted to hate it, wanted to hate her, but all I could think about was her body under mine, her voice commanding me to stay.
Then she saw me.
Her eyes locked onto mine across the courtyard, and the air shifted, like a storm rolling in. She excused herself from Leanne, her stride purposeful, her floral dress swaying as she closed the distance. I braced myself, knowing this wasn’t going to be civil.
Portia came out swinging, her voice low but sharp, dripping with venom.
“Nice company you’re keeping, Silas,” she said, her eyes flicking toward where Marjorie had been. “What, you got a thing for big boobs and big curves now? That your type? All soft and sweet, ready to bake you cookies and call you honey?”
I wanted to laugh, wanted to let it spill out, but I kept my face blank, letting her go on. She was jealous, and it looked good on her—her cheeks flushed, her eyes blazing, her hands clenched like she wanted to slap me. I leaned against the trellis, casual, my glass dangling from my fingers, and let her burn.
“Keep going,” I said, my voice cool. “You’re on a roll.”
She stepped closer, her scent hitting me like a drug.
“Oh, I’m just getting started. You think you can stand there, flirting with some bombshell, acting like yesterday didn’t happen? Like you didn’t have me against a workbench, then in a guest room, like I wasn’t—” She cut herself off, her jaw tight, her eyes flashing with something raw. “You think you can just move on to the next curvy thing in a sundress?”
I let the silence hang, heavy and sharp, her words cutting deeper than I’d expected. She was hurt, not just angry, and it stirred something in me—guilt, maybe, or something worse. But I wasn’t ready to give her the truth, not yet. I wanted her to feel what I’d felt, watching Monte hover like he owned her.
“Funny,” I said, my voice cold, sly, “you’re so worried about my company, but what about yours? Monte, the stuck-up prick who’d love to stick his prick inside you. Don’t act like you haven’t seen it, Portia. The way he looks at you, follows you, says your name like it’s his fucking property.”
Her eyes widened, a flash of shock, then narrowed, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. She knew it was true—Monte’s want was written all over him, in every glance, every step he took to stay close.
Her lips parted, but no words came, and I pressed harder, my voice low, cutting.
“Maybe it’d be easier for all of us if that’s how it went. You with Monte, me left alone. Clean break, no mess.”
She flinched, her face paling for a split second before the fire came back.
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me out of your hair, off with some guy you can’t stand, while you’re fucking Miss Sunshine over there? Is she your lay for the night, Silas? Your new distraction?”
The words hit like a blade, cold and sharp, and my control wavered. My smile was slow, deliberate, anything but warm. I leaned in, close enough to feel her breath, to see the pulse hammering in her throat.
“That girl,” I said, my voice low, deadly, “is Marjorie. Widow of one of Marcus’s SEALs. Died saving Marcus’s life. She’s like family.”
