I reached his door, pounding hard enough to crack the wood. It swung open, and Monte was there, his suit unbuttoned, his eyes wide with surprise.
I didn’t wait.
I was on him, my hand wrapping around his throat, squeezing, slamming him against the wall. His hands clawed at mine, but I was stronger, my rage a tidal wave.
“You hurt her,” I growled, my voice deadly, my grip tightening. “I’m gonna kill you for it.”
Fear flashed in his eyes—real, raw fear—and I liked it, savored it. His face reddened, his mouth gasping, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t shake his head. I wanted to see him break, to feel his bones crack under my hands. He’d touched her, hurt her, and he’d pay.
But I wasn’t stupid. Killing him here, in a hotel full of witnesses, would bury me.
I threw him to the floor, his body hitting hard, and he raised his arms, palms up, surrendering. I couldn’t believe it. This prick, this polished bastard, folding like a cheap suit.
“You’re not getting off that easy,” I snarled, looming over him. “Try taking on a man instead of hurting a woman.”
Monte stood, slow, his composure creeping back, his eyes steady despite the fear.
“You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice hoarse, ready to explain something, but I didn’t give him the chance.
I pounced, my fists hammering—left, right, left—catching his jaw, his cheek, his ribs. He blocked a couple, but he was no match. Blood sprayed, his nose crunching under my knuckles, and I saw red, a haze of rage that drowned out everything.
Then someone screamed my name—“Silas!”—and I thought it was my mind, my mother’s voice, haunting me. But it was real, sharp, desperate.
Something hit my back, small but fierce, and I almost flipped them off, my instincts kicking in.
Then her scent hit me—citrus and steel, Portia—and I froze, horror clawing at my chest. I looked down at Monte, his face a mess, blood soaking his shirt, his eyes dazed.
Portia was on me, her arms around my neck, sobbing, begging—“Stop, Silas, please, stop!”—and I did, my fists dropping, my breath ragged.
We stood there, awkward, her holding me, her sobs shaking us both. I stared at Monte, his nose definitely broken, blood dripping onto the carpet.
I backed up, easing Portia to the ground, her body trembling against mine. She was mumbling something, words I couldn’t catch, her voice a broken mess. My head was a mash of thoughts, emotions, turmoil—rage, guilt, fear, all crashing together.
I tried to understand her, to pull her words from the chaos, but it was Monte who deciphered it, his voice low, pained.
“She saysshekissed me.”
The words didn’t register at first, like a language I didn’t speak.
I blinked, my eyes on Portia, her face buried in her hands, her sobs quieter now.
Then it hit me, a slug to the chest.She’dkissedhim.
Portia, my Portia, had kissed Monte. Not him hurting her, not him forcing her—just her, choosing him.
My world tilted, my heart cracking, and I backed away, slow, dazed, my dragging.
I’d wrecked it. Forever.
I’d thought I was protecting her, saving her, but I’d been wrong, so fucking wrong. I could never come back, never face her. Never.
I turned, stumbling out of the room, my vision blurring, my chest hollow. The hallway stretched endless, the lights too bright, the air too thick.
I’d lost her—not to Monte, not to violence, but to my own fucked-up soul.
I was The Ghost, built for shadows, not love, and I’d proven it, leaving blood and broken hearts in my wake.
17
