Frowned.
“What the hell is that?” His voice was low, sharp.
I blinked. “What?”
He was already moving. His fingers skimmed down my body, then lower—tracing the edge of the heel I’d left half-kicked beneath the chair. His jaw clenched.
“Portia,” he said, tight. “Someone stitched a tracker into your shoe.”
“What?”
He yanked it free, a tiny black square no bigger than a dime. He held it between two fingers like it burned.
And then his face changed.
Darkened.
His whole body went still.
“Who gave you these shoes?”
“I—I don’t know. I’ve had them?—”
“When did you wear them last?”
“Today. At Lustre. I took them off when I got back here.”
He stood so fast the chair rocked back.
“Son of a bitch,” he breathed. “Monte.”
“What?” I rose to my feet, heart pounding.
Silas was pacing now, the tracker crushed in his palm. “He’s watching you. Tracking you.”
I grabbed his arm. “Wait—Silas, stop. Monte was here earlier, yes, but—he said it was to protect me.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was a growl. “He’s obsessed with you.”
I froze.
And then, like the night was choreographed by chaos itself, Monte stepped from the shadows.
“I’m here,” he said simply.
I gasped. “Monte—what the hell?”
He looked at me, then at Silas. “You found it.”
“Don’t play coy,” Silas spat. “You’ve been following her. Stitching trackers into her damn shoes?”
“I didn’t put it there,” Monte said evenly.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect her to.”
Silas stepped forward, chest heaving. “You don’t get to pull that. You don’t get to pretend this is about loyalty. You’re in love with her.”
