“I like you.”He sets down his brush and crosses to my lounger, crowding onto the narrow space beside me.“Actually, that’s a lie.I’m falling for you.And I’m going to keep saying it until you’re sick of hearing it.”
“I’ll never be sick of hearing it.”
He kisses me then, slow and deep, tasting like salt and sunshine and promises.
That night, we lie tangled together in the massive bed.The ocean breeze drifts through the open windows, making the ivory organza curtains dance in the darkness.The silk sheets caress my skin.Shelby’s heart beats steadily beneath my ear.
“I don’t want to go back to the real world tomorrow,” I admit to the darkness.“I want to stay here forever, in this bubble where nothing can touch us.”
His fingers trace lazy patterns down my spine.“Me too.”
“But we can’t.”
“No.”He presses a kiss to the top of my head, inhaling deeply.“We can’t.Your father’s victims need someone to fight for them.We can’t hide from that responsibility, no matter how much we might want to.”
He’s right.The evidence, the operation, the justice those victims deserve: none of it will happen if we stay in this paradise forever.
But for tonight, I let myself pretend.
“Whatever comes next,” I say, echoing his words from the other day, “we face it together.”
“Together,” he agrees.“You and me against the world.”
I lift my head to look at him.In the moonlight flooding the room, his features seem stitched in silver.The sharp line of his jaw.The fullness of his lips.Those blue eyes that penetrate straight through to my soul.
“Whatever happens with my father, I’m not walking away from this.From us,” I promise.
He pulls me closer, tucking me against his chest.“We’re going to burn it all down together.And then we’re going to build something beautiful on the ashes.”
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me.
For the first time in my life, I allow myself to believe in the future, that two broken people can find healing in each other’s arms.And here we are, in this paradise we’ve stolen for ourselves, planning a future I never dared to dream of.
Tomorrow, we’ll fly back to Boston.We’ll return to the war, to the dangerous dance with my father and his allies.The darkness will be waiting for us, patient and relentless, as always.
But tonight, wrapped in Shelby’s arms with the sound of the ocean as our lullaby, I let myself be happy.
22
Shelby
The Ferguson & Arpels tower rises against the Boston skyline like a curved blade of glass and steel.Twenty-three stories of architectural ambition that house our family’s hotel empire on the lower floors and something far more dangerous at the top.From the street, it looks like any other Seaport District high-rise.Sleek.Modern.Legitimate.
The Syndicate’s headquarters occupies the entire top floor.
I pull into the underground garage and kill the engine, taking a moment to collect myself before heading up.The weekend in Brazil still hums through my veins like a drug I never want to quit.Serena’s laughter.The salt on her skin.The way she looked at me when she said yes to marrying me again, for real this time.
Twelve hours ago, I was the happiest I’ve been in years.
Dave’s text this morning was terse, even by his standards.Syndicate HQ.Now.No explanation.No context.Just the summons that pulled me out of bed and away from my wife’s warmth before dawn had fully broken.
I cross the lobby, nodding to the security team stationed near the private elevators.They know me.They know better than to ask questions.One of them, a broad-shouldered ex-Marine named Connors, presses a button, and elevator D slides open with a soft chime.
“Mr.Boyle.”He inclines his head.
“Connors.”I step inside.“Busy morning?”
“Your brothers arrived about twenty minutes ago.And there’s a guest.”
