2
Serena
Iwake up with my cheek pressed against Shelby Boyle’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
For a moment—one beautiful, suspended moment—I let myself pretend this is normal.That I’m the kind of woman who can fall asleep in a man’s arms without calculating the political ramifications.That he’s the kind of man who doesn’t carry ghosts in his eyes.That we’re just two people who want each other, uncomplicated and free.
Then reality reasserts itself, the way it always does.
I’m Serena DiLorenzo, daughter of one of the most powerful men in the Syndicate.Shelby Boyle is a trained killer with a serious case of PTSD and a death wish.And last night, we crossed a line we can never uncross.
I should regret it.
I don’t.
Shelby shifts beneath me, and the slight tension in his muscles, the change in his breathing, tell me he’s awake.His arm tightens around me briefly before he seems to catch himself.
“Morning,” he says, his voice rough.
I lift my head to look at him.God, he’s gorgeous!Dark hair mussed from sleep, curling slightly at the ends in a way I’ve never seen when he’s in full Syndicate mode.His intense blue eyes, the same shade as his father’s, see too much.But while Jack’s stare has been mellowed by his losses, Shelby’s carries ghosts.Pain and guilt and something fierce that he tries to hide behind military discipline and tactical thinking.
The overgrown beard hides the sharp cut of his jaw and frames lips that kissed me last night with a desperation that matched my own.He’s all lean muscle and controlled power—broad shoulders, defined arms, the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his T-shirt sleeve.The kind of body earned through years of Marine training, not hours in a gym.The bandage on his left shoulder is a stark white against his skin, a reminder of how close I came to losing him before I ever had him.
In the early morning light filtering through the windows, he looks younger somehow.Less haunted.
He’s beautiful and broken and dangerous, and I want him in ways that have nothing to do with strategy or survival.
“Morning.”I sit up, immediately missing his warmth.My dress is wrinkled, my carefully styled hair is a disaster, and I’m still wearing last night’s makeup.“What time is it?”
He checks his phone on the coffee table.“Just past seven.”
Which means I need to leave.Now.Before I do something inane like fucking Shelby Boyle, my brother’s best friend.
But as I reach for my coat, my own phone buzzes in my clutch.I fish it out and see three missed calls from my father and a text message that makes my blood run cold.
Father:Family breakfast.8 AM.Do not be late.
“Shit,” I breathe.
“What’s wrong?”
I show him the message.Shelby’s expression darkens as he reads it.
“Family breakfast” is code.My father doesn’t summon us unless he’s making an announcement or issuing orders.Neither option is ever good for me.
“I have to go,” I say, standing and smoothing my dress futilely.“I need to go home, change, and?—“
“Serena.”Shelby catches my hand.“Whatever this is, be careful.”
I look down at our joined hands, his rough and scarred, mine smaller and softer.“I’m always careful.”
“I mean it.”His blue eyes are intense, worried.“Your father doesn’t do family breakfasts unless something big is happening.”
“I know.”I squeeze his hand once, then pull away.“I’ll text you after.”
He walks me to the door, and for a moment we just stand there, the weight of what we’ve done pressing down on us both.
“About last night—“ he starts.
