Portia wasn’t that. She was trouble, the kind that stuck in your head like shrapnel. I’d seen it in her eyes, that mix of fire and calculation, like she was sizing me up the same way I washer. I didn’t have time for games, not when Department 77 was out there, licking their wounds, and my mother—alive, I knew it—was slipping through the shadows like the ghost they named me after.
As I walked away from the dock, my boots crunching on the gravel path, I made a decision. Portia had to go. She was too sharp, too present, too goddamn distracting. My brothers and their fiancées would be pissed, sure, but they’d get over it. Hire some middle-aged planner with gray hair and sensible shoes, someone who wouldn’t make my blood hum or my dick twitch. Someone safe. Portia Lane was a lot of things, but safe wasn’t one of them.
I stopped, turned, and headed back toward the dock. She was still there, scribbling on her clipboard, her brow furrowed like she was planning a fucking invasion. I clenched my jaw and closed the distance.
“Forgot something,” I said, my voice low, cutting through the harbor’s hum.
She looked up, her dark eyes narrowing, that cool mask sliding into place.
“Let me guess, another brilliant idea from your brothers? Revolutionary groomsmen? A tank for the ring bearer?”
I almost smirked. She thought she had me pegged.
“Contract change. Last-minute addition.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she kept her tone even, professional.
“Fine. What is it?”
I stepped closer, just enough to make her feel me without touching. I’d seen her from the moment she walked into Dominion Hall—her fake Atlanta polish, her small-town drawl buried under years of practice. She was a liar, but a good one. I knew her kind. Knew how to break them.
“The wedding is private.”
She tilted her head, unfazed.
“I know. Exclusive guest list, no press. It’s in the contract.”
“No.” I let the word hang, sharp and final. “Private as in no photos. No public shots. No portfolio for you to plaster on your fancy website.”
Her mask cracked. Just for a second, but I saw it—disappointment flashing in her eyes, quick and raw, before anger flooded in to cover it.
Her jaw tightened, and her fingers gripped the clipboard like she wanted to snap it in half.
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“That’s bullshit.” Her voice was still controlled, but the edge was there, sharp as a blade. “This is my work. My reputation. Six weddings in a month, executed flawlessly, and you think I don’t get to show it? You think I’m here for fun?”
“You’re here to do a job,” I said, keeping my tone flat. “Not to build your brand on our backs.”
Her eyes blazed, and she stepped forward, closing the gap between us.
“I’ve spent years earning my place. Years. I don’t need your name to make mine. But this? This is a career-defining job, and you’re trying to kneecap me because—what? You don’t like me? You don’t trust me? Or is it just because you can?”
I didn’t answer. Let her stew. Let her think she’d get a rise out of me.
She was close now, close enough that I could see the pulse hammering in her throat, the flush creeping up her neck. She was pissed, and it looked good on her. Too good.
“You don’t get to decide what I’m worth,” she snapped, her voice rising, still professional but teetering on the edge. “I’ve dealt with egos bigger than yours, Silas Dane. I’ve handledclients who thought they could push me around. You’re not special.”
I turned and started walking, cutting her off mid-sentence. The lawn stretched ahead, green and manicured, leading away from the house toward the shop—a low, steel-roofed building where we tinkered with vehicles and modded weapons.
She’d back off. They always did. Women like her talked a big game, but when you pushed, they folded.
She’d be gone in an hour, tail between her legs, and I’d be free to focus on what mattered: finding 77, finding my mother, ending this war before it burned us all.
Except she didn’t stop. Her heels clicked on the path behind me, her voice chasing me like gunfire.
