She wasn’t dead. She’d been part of 77, part of the machine that tried to break us, and now she was back.
I should’ve been out there, tracking her, tearing through every rat hole from Charleston to Kabul until I found her. Not standing here, watching Portia Lane pretend she could tame a room full of killers.
“Large-scale entrances,” Portia said, her voice steady despite the chaos. “Possible maritime permits. Sky coordination. This is doable, but I need commitment?—”
“I don’t commit,” I said, cutting her off. The words came out harder than I meant, but I didn’t care. Every eye in the room snapped to me, and the air went still. Good. Let them remember who I was.
Portia turned, her gaze locking onto mine. Those eyes—dark, sharp, like she could cut through bullshit with a glance—hit me harder than they should’ve. She didn’t flinch, didn’t back down.
“Not a fan of weddings?” she asked, her tone light, like she was tossing a grenade and waiting for the boom.
I almost smirked. Almost.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales. And I don’t dress up for traditions that don’t mean anything.”
Her lips parted, just a fraction, and I caught the flicker of something—anger, maybe, or curiosity.
“Good news,” she said, flipping to a blank page on her tablet. “You can keep your armor. I don’t plan fairy tales. I plan events. Logistics. Schedules.”
Fuck, she was quick. I liked that. Too much. I pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the room, letting her feel the weight of me.
“That’s cute,” I said, low enough that only she’d hear. “But you’re selling stories. Just dressed up in white.”
She froze, just for a second, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. She didn’t believe in this shit either—marriage, love, the whole goddamn charade. Interesting. I could smell it on her, like gunpowder after a shot. She was playing a part, same as me. Difference was, I didn’t pretend to be anything I wasn’t.
I wanted to push her, see how far she’d bend before she snapped. Wanted to back her against that table, feel her pulse under my fingers, taste the lie on her lips.
But that was a rookie move, and I wasn’t a rookie. I had a job to do—find 77, find my mother, end this before it ended us. Portia Lane was a complication I didn’t need, no matter how good she’d look under me.
“I’m here for the coffee,” I said, brushing past her to the sideboard. Her scent hit me—something clean, like citrus and steel—and I clenched my jaw.
I poured a cup, black, no sugar, and felt her eyes on my back. Let her look. Let her wonder. I didn’t owe her shit.
My brothers were watching, too, their fiancées whispering now, probably about me. The Ghost. The one who didn’t play nice, didn’t smile, didn’t speak, didn’t fucking care.
Truth was, I wanted them happy—Marcus with his smartass grin, Atlas with his quiet strength, all of them. I’d bleed for them, kill for them, die for them.
But marriage?
That was a trap, a promise you couldn’t keep when the world was always one bullet away from breaking you. I’d seen what it did to our parents. To Mom. I wasn’t signing up for that shit.
I took a sip, the coffee burning my throat, and glanced at Portia. She was back to her tablet, talking about timelines, but her posture was tighter now, like she was bracing for a fight.
She’d survive this job. She was tough, tougher than she looked. But she didn’t know what she’d walked into. Dominion Hall wasn’t just a house. It was a fortress, built on secrets and bodies. My brothers might’ve found women to share it with, but me? I was the shadow in the corner, the one who made sure the monsters stayed dead.
And right now, the only monster I cared about was out there, wearing my mother’s face. I’d find her. I’d finish this. And no wedding planner, no matter how sharp her tongue or tight her ass, was going to slow me down.
3
PORTIA
It was barely noon, and I already needed a tranquilizer.
Or a nap. A very long one. With blackout curtains and maybe a mild coma.
I was staying just down the road at a boutique hotel called The Palmetto Rose—all crisp linens and rose-scented hallways, the kind of place where even the bellhop looked like he knew secrets.
I’d heard that Isabel worked there in some kind of executive capacity, which raised a whole new set of questions—especially since the place was owned by the Danes. Former military men turned billionaires running luxury real estate and private security firms? Sure. But hospitality? That felt … unexpected. I made a mental note to ask Isabel about it later, if I could get her alone. There was a story there. I could feel it.
