Her face fell, the fire draining from her eyes, replaced by something soft, something broken. She opened her mouth, then closed it, her shoulders sagging.
“Silas, I?—”
“Don’t,” I said, cutting her off.
I should’ve felt good, watching her deflate, watching her realize she’d fucked up. But I didn’t. My chest ached. I’d wanted to hurt her, to match her jab for jab, but now, seeing her like this, it felt wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small, her eyes dropping to the ground.
She turned to walk away, her heels soft on the brick path, and my hand shot out, grabbing her arm, needing to stop her, to keep her here.
But Monte appeared, stepping between us like a goddamn wall. His eyes were hard, his posture all business, but I saw the fire in him, the same rage I’d sparked by the dock.
“Back off, Dane,” he said, his voice low, steady.
I almost snapped. My fist clenched, ready to bury itself in his jaw, to wipe that Annapolis polish off his face.
I felt eyes on us—Marcus by the fountain, Noah with Hallie Mae, Atlas watching from the corner. My brothers wouldn’t careif I decked him. They’d probably cheer. But their fiancées—Claire, Hallie Mae, Anna—they’d care. This was their day, their moment, and I wouldn’t ruin it for them. Not for Monte, not for Portia, not for my own fucked-up heart.
I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter, the glass cool in my hand, and took a sip, forcing a smirk.
“Nice suit, Monte,” I said, my voice dripping with disdain. “Hope it’s bulletproof.”
I didn’t wait for his comeback. I turned, walking away, my steps heavy on the brick, my blood screaming for violence.
I needed a fight, a kill, something to wipe away the memory of Portia’s face—her jealousy, her hurt, her fire that burned me alive. I needed blood to drown out the ache, to erase the way she’d looked at me, the way I’d wanted to pull her close instead of letting her go.
Department 77 was out there, my mother’s ghost waiting, but all I could think about was her. And I hated it.
I pushed through the crowd, the laughter too loud, too bright. My truck was parked out back, my escape from this gilded cage. I needed to move, to hunt, to bury this feeling in action.
Violence was clean, clear, a mission I could complete.
Portia was a war I didn’t know how to fight, and I was losing.
15
PORTIA
Aweek passed.
Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes.
Not that I was counting.
Not that I noticed.
Not that I cared.
Because I didn’t.
I didn’t.
While Silas disappeared into whatever shadows he came from, I buried myself in the one thing I could still control: the weddings.
In the last seven days, I’d fit Hallie Mae into her custom gown—lace over crepe, a low back to show off her strength, delicate embroidery that made even her mother cry. I’d selected floral palettes for Anna and Isabel—Anna wanted winter whites with dusky blue thistle, Isabel leaned toward wild jasmine and honey-colored roses. Vivienne’s cake tasting was a disaster turned triumph after we convinced the French pastry chef to add a bourbon glaze. Claire’s candlelit ceremony plans now includeda string quartet flown in from New York. And Sloane? Sloane just wanted it all—gold accents, rose petals down the aisle, and her grandmother’s ring sewn into the hem of her dress.
I delivered.
