My hands shook, rage and guilt clawing at me. Monte, the man I’d hated, the man who’d loved Portia, was dead, and I was holding her, alive but broken, in a pool of blood and shadows.
I scooped Portia into my arms, her body light, her head lolling against my chest.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, my voice rough, my eyes scanning the treeline for more threats. The night was quiet now, too quiet, the candles flickering like nothing had happened. I carried her to my truck, parked a block away, my mind a storm.
Monte’s death was a weight, his blood on my hands, even if I hadn’t pulled the trigger. He’d been right—I’d brought this danger to her, my mother’s ghost, 77’s shadow.
My Silas. Soon.
The words mocked me, a promise of more blood, more loss.
I laid Portia in the passenger seat, buckling her in, her breathing steady but shallow. Dominion Hall was the only safe place now, its steel and stone a fortress for my brothers, their fiancées, and now her.
I drove fast, the streets blurring, my knuckles white on the wheel. Monte’s face flashed in my mind—his steady eyes, his love for her, his final act. I’d hated him, wanted to break him, but he’d fought for her, died for her, and I couldn’t hate him anymore.
I glanced at Portia, her face pale in the dashboard light, and my chest ached. I’d promised to open up, to tell her everything—my mother, 77, the war I’d signed up for—but now, with Monte’s blood on the ground, I wasn’t sure I could. Not without breaking her more.
Dominion Hall loomed ahead, its gates swinging open as I pulled up. I carried Portia inside, the house quiet, my brothersasleep or out. The war room was empty, its monitors dark, and I took her to my bedroom, laying her on the bed.
Her pulse was stronger now, her breathing deeper, but she didn’t wake. I called our private physician who said he’d be there in ten minutes.
I sat beside her, my hand on hers, my eyes on the door, my pistol within reach. Whoever had come for her—77, my grandfather, my mother’s enemies—was still out there, and I’d be ready. I’d kill them all to keep her safe, but Monte’s death was a warning: I couldn’t outrun this war, and neither could she.
My mother’s plan—to carve out 77’s heart, to kill her father—loomed over me, a mission I’d sworn to join.
But Portia was here, fragile, alive, and I didn’t know how to keep her safe from the storm I’d brought.
I leaned down, brushing a curl from her face, my voice a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” I said, the words heavy, useless.
Monte was dead, Portia was broken, and I was The Ghost, built for blood, not love.
But I’d fight for her, whatever it took, even if it meant losing myself.
25
PORTIA
Iwoke with my mouth dry, the taste of something chemical lingering on my tongue. My eyelids felt like they’d been sewn shut with wire, and when I finally forced them open, the world came back in fragments.
Cool sheets. A low hum of distant voices. Dim light.
Then the scent hit me. Not cologne, not artificial. It was him.
Silas.
I shifted, and pain whispered through me. I was in a bed—king-sized, firm mattress, crisp white linens with navy trim. A wool throw half-tucked around me. My dress was still on, wrinkled and clinging to my skin. Someone had taken off my shoes. Someone had been gentle.
My breath caught.
Where was I?
I sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark. Shadows loomed everywhere—tall bookcases filled with leather-bound spines, a decanter half-full of amber liquid, a wall of monitors powered off but still humming. A side table with three phones. Two watches. One gun.
Not a hotel room.
Not my suite at The Palmetto Rose.
