I’d slipped out of the pool area at The Palmetto Rose, leaving Portia on that lounge chair, her silhouette burned into my mind—barefoot, exhausted, her slip dress clinging to her curves. I needed to settle things with Monte, to draw a line, but as I moved through the hedge-lined path, the pool lights flickered—once, twice—then plunged into darkness.
My stomach turned, a cold knot of dread.
Portia.
I spun, boots grinding on the slate, and sprinted back the way I’d come, my heart pounding. The night was thick, the air heavy with gardenia and chlorine, but my instincts screamed danger.
I nearly collided with Monte, his figure barreling toward the pool, his face taut with the same panic I felt.
To his credit, he didn’t hesitate, his voice low, urgent. “Portia.”
Whatever feud burned between us—his love for her, my jealousy, the tracker—dissolved in that moment. We were soldiers now, brothers in a fight, running to save her.
The pool area came into view, the darkness swallowing the glow of candles, the water a black mirror. Portia was there, crumpling into the arms of a black-clad figure, her body limp, her dress slipping off one shoulder. Another figure stood nearby, a shadow in tactical gear, his posture coiled, ready. My blood roared, my suppressed pistol already in my hand.
Monte’s eyes met mine, a silent plan forming.
“You get Portia,” he whispered, his voice steady despite the chaos. “I’ll take the other guy.”
I nodded, my focus narrowing to the figure holding Portia. Monte moved left, low and fast, toward the second attacker. I crept forward, pistol leading, using the hedges for cover, my steps silent on the grass.
I needed to get close, needed to take the bastard down before he saw me. But two gunshots cracked the air—sharp, deafening—from Monte’s direction, followed by a scuffle, grunts, the dull thud of fists on flesh.
I glanced over, catching Monte cold-cocking his target, the man’s body dropping like a stone. Satisfaction flared in my chest—Monte was good, better than I’d given him credit for—but my eyes snapped back to Portia.
Her captor’s head turned, his eyes flicking from Monte’s fight to me, catching my shadow in the dark. Portia’s form slipped from his arms, hitting the ground with a soft thud, and my rage exploded.
I surged forward, pistol raised, and fired—two rounds to his chest, two more to his head, the silenced shots sharp and final before he could even take aim. He collapsed, blood pooling on the flagstone, his eyes blank in the moonlight.
I didn’t check him. I knew he was dead.
Monte’s voice cut through the dark. “Checking the treeline!”
I knelt beside Portia, my heart hammering, my fingers searching for her pulse. It was there, steady but slow, her breathing shallow. No blood, no wounds I could see in the dark, but her body was limp, her skin cool. Drugged, maybe, or knocked out—either way, she was out cold.
My chest tightened, fear mixing with fury. Who the fuck were these guys? Department 77? My mother’s people?
The pool lights blared back on, harsh and bright, and I blinked, shielding Portia’s face. Monte reappeared, his gun in one hand, the second attacker’s weapon tucked in his pocket. His face was pale, his breath fast.
“Secure your guy,” I said, my voice rough, my eyes on Portia.
“No need,” Monte said, his voice flat. “He’s dead.”
I nodded, understanding. Monte had done what he had to, same as me.
“How’s Portia?” he asked, stepping closer, his eyes flicking to her still form.
“She’s fine, I think,” I said, my hand on her cheek, her pulse steady under my fingers. “Drugged or knocked out, but no wounds.”
Monte grunted, then swayed, his knees buckling. “Get her to Dominion Hall,” he said. I looked up, catching the drain of color from his face, the blood dripping from his hand, pooling on the stone.
“Monte?” I said, my voice sharp, but he crumpled, his body hitting the ground before I could move.
His eyes were open, glassy, and I knew—before his head touched the earth—he was gone.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my chest caving in.
I knelt beside him, checking his pulse, knowing it was pointless. Blood soaked his shirt, a gunshot wound I hadn’t seenin the dark, hidden by his black clothes. He’d fought, killed, and died for her, for us, and I hadn’t seen it coming.
