Somewhere in his chest, something hot and territorial snapped its teeth.
A gala full of power brokers, foreign donors, political kingmakers, and Syndicate-adjacent operatives? Absolutely not. Not with Norah walking in unprotected. Not with her walking in on someone else’s arm. Not with her walking in at all.
He drew in a slow breath through his nose, trying to get oxygen into the places panic and possessiveness had carved hollow.
“So,” he said finally, voice gravel-low, “this imaginary man...” His eyes locked onto hers. “He’s still imaginary?”
Her pulse fluttered visibly at her throat.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Good. Good, because if she’d said otherwise?—
He swallowed the thought. Hard.
He focused back on the problem at hand. Black Tower needed to be at that gala. He needed to use the opportunity to move against them.
And the thought of her walking in with anyone else? Unacceptable.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something quiet and resolute. He stepped closer so she could hear him.
“Then I’m going with you.”
Her lips parted. “Marshall?—”
“It’s not a discussion.”
They’d drifted even closer, like their bodies were instinctively trying to recapture the closeness of the dance floor. His thumb brushed her waist under his jacket—barely a touch, almost an apology—but his tone was steel.
“You need someone at that gala who knows the terrain. Who knows what Morris is capable of. Who knows how men like Hale think when they want something.”
A beat. He didn’t drop his gaze.
“And Norah? I’m not letting just anyone stand next to you in that room.”
Something in her expression shifted—fear, relief, longing, all tangled together.
“But Marshall . . . as my boyfriend?” she whispered.
His throat flexed. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t be personal.
“That’s the cover,” he said evenly. “And it’s the only one that makes sense.”
The only one he’d allow.
Her lips parted, trembling. “This is about the mission.” There was only the smallest hint of a question in her words. Only the barest quiver that betrayed the possibility that she hoped it was about more than the mission.
Was it?
Yes. No. Mostly.
Not at all.
He swallowed hard. “It’s operationally sound.”
She searched his face, something unraveling in her eyes. “And emotionally stupid.”
His jaw flexed. “Probably.”
