Especially her.
Because she was the one who knew how to survive.
This time, she wasn’t running.
28
SILAS
The night came like a blade, sharp and cold, slicing through the haze of Charleston’s heat. I stood in my room at Dominion Hall, my weapon on the table, the red ribbon still in my pocket, a weight I couldn’t shake.
Portia was asleep in my bed, her curls spilling across the pillow, her breathing steady after the ambush at The Palmetto Rose, after Monte’s blood on the flagstone, after I’d told her I loved her and she’d said we were on the same page. After the hours and days she’d put into the weddings.
My chest ached, her fire the only thing keeping me grounded, but the phone in my hand buzzed, and I knew it was time.
“Silas,” my mother’s voice—Caroline Dane—came through, low and urgent. “It’s time.”
I glanced at Portia, her silhouette soft in the dim light, and my jaw tightened. “I’m bringing her.”
A pause, heavy with disapproval. “Portia? No, Silas. That’s a mistake.”
“I promised her,” I said, my voice firm. “She’s in this now. Monte died for her. She wants to face the bad man at the top of the totem pole, and I’m not breaking my word.”
Caroline’s sigh was sharp, edged with frustration. “Operational security, Silas. You know how this works. Bringing a civilian into this is reckless.”
“I love her,” I said, the words raw, unyielding. “She’s not just a civilian. She’s with me.”
“That’s exactly why she needs to stay out,” Caroline snapped, her voice cold. “Love makes you vulnerable, makes you stupid. This mess that’s coming—it’s not a place for promises.”
I clenched my fist, my voice low, steady. “I promised, Mom. I keep my promises.”
Another pause, longer this time, and when she spoke, her voice was softer, tinged with something bitter. “I wish your father had done the same.”
The line went dead, her words a kick to my chest. I stared at the phone, my mind spinning.
My father, Byron Dane, who’d left Department 77 to protect us, who’d never spoken of her after she vanished. What promises had he broken? What secrets had they buried?
The ribbon burned in my pocket, and I pushed the questions down, my focus snapping back to Portia. I had to get her, had to move, had to face whatever storm my mother was leading us into.
I crossed to the bed, my hand gentle on Portia’s shoulder.
“Wake up,” I said, my voice low. “It’s time.”
Her eyes fluttered open, dark and sharp, already alert.
“Now?”
I nodded, my jaw tight.
“My mom called. We’re meeting her.”
Portia sat up, her curls wild, her face resolute.
“I’m ready.”
I raised an eyebrow as she slid from the bed and crossed to a duffel bag near the wall—one I hadn’t noticed until now. She unzipped it with practiced ease and pulled out an outfit: black leggings, a fitted long-sleeve shirt, black boots, and a black cap just the right size to tuck her hair under.
“My operational outfit,” she said, half-teasing, half-serious, her eyes glinting with defiance.
