Who set me on fire.
And who hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye.
16
SILAS
The week after that Verandelle brunch had been a blur of blood and shadows. I’d told my brothers I was tracking Department 77, chasing leads on their splinter cells, but that had been a lie. Sure, I’d shaken down informants, paid off rats, and scoured Charleston’s underbelly for any sign of my mother—My Silas, her words a knife in my gut—but it hadn’t been about them.
It had been about getting away. Away from Monte, that Annapolis prick with his clean suits and cleaner lies, before I pounded him into dust. That wouldn’t have done anyone any good, not my brothers, not their fiancées, not the weddings I’d sworn to protect.
And it had been about getting away from her. Damn Portia.
Why had she come now, with her burnt-honey skin and fire that burned me alive? Why had she walked into my war and made me want something I couldn’t have?
I’d driven out of Charleston that night, my truck roaring through the Lowcountry, the jasmine stench of Verandelle still in my nose. I’d told Marcus I’d be back in a week, that I had alead on 77’s network in Savannah. He’d nodded, his grin sharp but trusting, and I’d felt like shit for lying. Elias had offered to run digital traces, but I’d waved him off, saying I needed boots on the ground.
Truth was, I’d needed distance.
From Portia’s eyes, her jealousy over Marjorie, her hurt when I’d thrown Monte in her face. From the way she’d looked at me, like I could be more than The Ghost, like I could be hers.
The first day, I’d hit up a dive in Savannah, a shithole called The Gator’s Tooth where 77’s runners sometimes liked to crash. I’d leaned on a bartender with a rap sheet longer than my arm, slipped him a grand, and had gotten nothing but a shrug and a name—some spook called “Raven” who’d vanished months ago.
I hadn’t slept that night, just sat in a motel room, the neon buzz of the sign outside my window, picturing Portia’s silk dress, her thighs spread, her moans in that guest suite. I’d wanted to forget her, to drown her out in whiskey or blood, but she was there, louder, more urgent, her scent sharper in my mind.
Day two, I’d moved to Brunswick, shaking down a dockworker who’d once imported 77’s tech. I’d broken his nose when he lied, left him bleeding on the pier, but he’d had nothing. No Raven, no mother, no 77. Just empty promises and a busted face.
That night, I’d stayed awake, my cock hard, my thoughts carnal—Portia’s nails on my back, her voice commanding me to fuck her harder. I’d jerked off, hating myself, hating her, but it didn’t help. She was in my blood, a fever I couldn’t shake.
By day four, I’d been in Jacksonville, paying a hacker to crack old 77 comms. He’d come up empty, his screens dead, and I’d nearly smashed his rig.
My mother was out there—My Silas, her message burned into me—but she didn’t want to be found. Every dead end had felt like her laugh, her shadow slipping through my fingers.
And every day, Portia’s hold had tightened. I’d dreamed of her, woke sweating, my hands reaching for her curves, her heat. I’d wanted her gone, wanted my mind back, but she was stronger, her fire consuming me.
Day seven, I hadn’t been able to take it anymore. I’d found nothing—no mother, no 77, just a trail of blood and empty leads. My brothers had been texting, asking for updates, but I’d had none. All I’d had was Portia, her face in my head, her voice in my veins. I’d needed to see her, to end this. Tell her I was leaving for good, that I was no good for her. She deserved better than a ghost, better than a man built for killing, not loving.
I’d driven back to Charleston, the road blurring, my heart pounding. She’d been at The Palmetto Rose—I knew it from Bea’s chatter—and now, I needed to face her, to cut this cord before it strangled me.
I parked a block away, the night thick with humidity, the harbor’s tang sharp in my nose. My feet hit the pavement, heavy, each step a countdown. I slipped in through the back, using my master key, avoiding Sasha’s desk. The halls were quiet, the carpet muffling my steps as I climbed to Portia’s suite. My fist hovered over her door, my chest tight, but I didn’t knock. I didn’t need to. The door was cracked, light spilling out, and I heard her—a sob, soft and broken, like a blade in my ribs.
I pushed in, and she was there, a wreck. Her dress was wrinkled, her curls loose, her face streaked with tears. She stood by the window, her palm pressed to the glass, her shoulders shaking. My gut twisted, my rage flaring.
What the fuck had happened?
I stepped closer, my voice low, urgent. “Portia, what’s wrong?”
She turned, her eyes wide, red-rimmed, and met mine. Her lips trembled, and all she could say was, “Monte.”
The name hit like a spark on gasoline, and I saw red.
Monte.
That fucking prick had hurt her, broken her, and I was going to end him. My rage was a living thing, clawing at my chest, driving my legs.
I spun, storming out, Portia’s voice screaming behind me—“Silas, stop!”—but I didn’t hear it, didn’t care.
I knew Monte’s room, second floor, from the hotel’s layout. I took the stairs two at a time, my blood roaring, my fists itching for his face.
