“And I bench press Buicks,” came Stephen’s snarky reply.
Marshall shifted his jaw and continued his way toward the lobby. His focus should have been absolute—clean, sharp, professional.
But it wasn’t clean tonight.
Every time he blinked, he saw the smear of mascara under her eye as she’d crouched on her bedroom floor holding her shaking cat. He heard her shaky inhale when he’d wrapped hisarms around her. He saw the flicker of relief-pain-relief when she found him dozing on her couch in the sunrise.
It wasn’t just a protective instinct.
What hit him tonight was older than that, carved into him long before he ever learned to draw a weapon. Something he’d tried—unsuccessfully—to bury a dozen times over the last fifteen years. He loved her.
It wasn’t love in some soft, storybook sense like he’d felt as a seventeen-year-old boy. This was a love sharpened by anger. Love weaponized into vigilance. Love that made the idea of anyone threatening Norah feel like a fault line cracking through his ribs.
He let the anger settle low and cold, where it wouldn’t interfere with the job. Anger was fine. Anger sharpened him. But it couldn’t show on his face—not tonight.
Not when he was walking into a Syndicate gala where every smile hid ulterior motives.
Marshall stepped into the hotel lobby from the garage entrance just as the doorman opened the main door to let someone in.
And for one suspended second, Marshall forgot how to move.
She was wearing black satin that draped and glinted like moving water, hair swept up with a few loose curls brushing her neck. Elegant, poised, breathtaking in a way that made the whole glittering space dim around her.
He’d seen her under string lights, office fluorescents, and morning sunlight on a ruined couch. None of that prepared him for this.
He drew in a breath, slow and quiet.
Stephen whistled in his ear. “Dang. Okay, yeah, I get it now.”
Marshall turned down the comm volume before he said something he would regret.
Norah’s eyes swept the lobby—alert, scanning like he taught her—and then she saw him.
She smiled and something in her posture loosened, almost imperceptibly.
Something in his chest did the opposite.
He shoved a hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, and stepped forward to meet her. Regardless of what this night became—political theater, Syndicate trap, Hale’s victory lap—one thing was already, irrevocably true. He couldn’t look away from Norah Winslow.
He met her in the middle of the lobby, offering a small nod. He would be controlled and professional even though the sight of her had unsettled every line of discipline in him.
“You clean up nice,” she said softly.
It was almost teasing. Almost normal.
“You look . . .”
He had to pause. Swallow. Find a word that wouldn’t give him away. He couldn’t.
“Incredible,” he finished.
Her cheeks bloomed a lovely pink, and he fought the urge to run a thumb down the soft curve. “Thank you.”
He gestured toward the huge foyer that held the ballrooms. “Shall we?”
Norah’s fingers tighten around her clutch. “I’m ready.” Brave little kitten.
He offered his arm because it looked natural. Because it kept him between her and anyone else.
