Chapter 18
MARSHALL
Marshall hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time all week.
That’s what happened, apparently, when a man spent a week sleeping on the same couch every night—boots on, gun holstered, half-dreaming through the quiet creaks of a Georgetown walk-up while its owner pretended she didn't notice him standing guard.
The fatigue was there, as were the subtle aches caused by too little sleep on an unsupportive sofa.
His team said he was obsessed. He’d called a crew over on Sunday and put her house back in order. She’d been overwhelmed but he hadn’t felt like there was any other option. Watching Norah pick through the destruction one item at a time before she’d given up and escaped to church had been torture.
Obsessed? That wasn’t the right word. Restless, maybe. Coiled. Intense. What he was feeling was something sharper than anything the Army or Black Tower taught him. No amount of training prepared you to watch someone you cared about pretend they weren’t afraid in their own home.
And Norah had been doing exactly that. Even the new furnishings couldn’t dispel the fear.
And beneath all of it—threading through every sleepless night—was the growing sense that he wasn’t steering this anymore.
A lack of control he hated. A pull in his gut he didn’t trust. A whisper he refused to acknowledge.
Trust me. Follow me. Surrender this to me.
He clenched his jaw against it. He didn’t hand things over. He handled them. He fixed what broke. He stood between danger and the people who needed him.
But the harder he held on, the more everything slipped sideways.
By the time the gala arrived, he was operating on caffeine, instinct, and a level of protective focus Miranda started calling Marshall Mode.
Stephen’s voice crackled in his ear. Stephen had been working with Black Tower for a few months, ever since Joey brought him in.
She still sometimes called him by his hacker name, Vertigo, but Marshall felt ridiculous doing so.
Nicknames in the Army were one thing. Computer geeks with aliases?
He didn’t get it. “You’re early. You okay? ”
No.
But okay was a luxury he hadn’t indulged in since the night he found Norah shaking in her ruined apartment, just like her cat had been. He had the indescribable urge to fold Norah into his jacket like a kitten, one he could wrap completely in his safety.
“Yep,” he said instead, stepping out of the black SUV in the parking garage. He pulled his jacket straight, adjusting the fall of the charcoal tux that felt unfamiliar and restrictive compared to armor. What a strange life he had led, that he preferred the feel of Kevlar to wool with satin accents.
Other than Stephen watching the hotel’s security feeds from Black Tower HQ, Marshall was on his own tonight. Joey had been assigned to Geneva, and much of the team—including Jackson—was there.
Ten minutes until Norah arrived.
Ten minutes until he would have to pretend he hadn’t memorized the sound of her footsteps in the morning, or the scrape of her mug on the counter, or the soft way she said his name when the fear slipped through her control.
Stephen hummed in his ear, a habit he had when he was studying multiple screens at once. “You’ve got a whole floor of DC’s finest and enough old-money donors to start their own country. Try not to punch anyone before Norah shows.”
“Not planning on punching anyone,” Marshall muttered, scanning the service corridor that fed into the ballroom.
The hotel was a labyrinth of marble floors, gilded wall sconces, and strategically placed cameras.
He knew the layout as well as the Secret Service who was sure to be present.
He was going to have to leave the safety of the service corridors and go to the lobby eventually.
But his thoughts kept sliding back to Norah.
“Joey said to tell you Norah’s going to look incredible,” Stephen added. “Just mentally preparing you.”
Marshall closed his eyes for half a second. It didn’t help. He had been preparing all week.
“It doesn’t matter how she looks,” he said.
“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 his arms 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.
Because it was the only touch he could get away with.
Straight ahead, across the tile floors of the lobby, they made their way into the section of the hotel that held events.
A barrier had been set up, and they followed other guests through the metal detectors and Norah gave her name so they could be admitted to the secure area.
Marshall bemoaned the lack of his own sidearm.
He’d considered trying to stash one in the hotel earlier in the week, but judging by the amount of security, it was a good thing he hadn’t.
The foyer had white marble floors accented with black tiles.
At least a dozen Christmas trees with gold ornaments lined the foyer in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors interspersed with towering white paneled doors.
The doors to the Grand Ballroom were wide open, with security in black suits standing at each door.
Arm in arm, they walked into the ballroom.
Light fractured across crystal chandeliers and reflected off gaudy gilded corbels at the top of the two-story columns supporting the balcony of the enormous room.
Senators and CEOs mingled in curated clusters.
Security staff glided along the periphery, earpieces glinting.
The air smelled like flowers and expensive whiskey.
Glittering danger.
“Norah.” The man’s voice cut cleanly through the hum of conversation. “You look stunning.”
Marshall turned with her. Hale had found them before Marshall could finish his first sweep.
Richard Hale wore his tux like he was born in it. His silver hair was perfectly combed, and his cufflinks caught the light. His smile was warm enough to thaw ice. Only his eyes didn’t match the temperature. They were bright and assessing, taking in everything at once.
“Thank you,” Norah said, shoulders straightening. It made her appear professional, composed, and just a shade more eager than she probably realized. “Richard, this is—”
“Marshall Kincaid,” Hale supplied, already extending his hand.
Norah’s head snapped toward Hale. “You . . . know Marshall?”
“Not formally,” Hale said smoothly. “But a man in my position makes it his business to know who the up-and-coming players are.” His hand stayed outstretched, the picture of urbane good humor.
“I believe you met with our Mr. Simmons not too long ago, is that right? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Kincaid. ”
Stephen hummed in Marshall’s ear. “Well, that’s not ominous at all.”
Marshall took the offered hand. Firm grip. Dry palm. No tremor. The guy was either ignorant of Marshall’s real identity or very used to lying.
He blinked once, keeping his expression neutral. “That’s right,” he said. “Simmons was very helpful. Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Hale,” Marshall said. “Norah’s told me a lot about you.”
Hale’s smile sharpened by a millimeter. “Has she?”
Norah flushed. “All good things,” she said quickly. “Marshall is very interested in corporate leadership principles.”
“I consult with companies during times of . . . transition.” Marshall knew that was corporate-speak for downsizing and mergers. “She speaks very highly of your mentorship over the years.”
Norah patted his arm. “Marshall’s been helping me . . . think through some important decisions.”
Hale’s attention flicked to her for a heartbeat, then back to Marshall. “Of course he has. That’s what boyfriends are for, isn’t it? Reassuring us we’re not walking into disaster.”
“Phone,” Stephen murmured in his ear. “Right front pocket, jacket. Dark case, iPhone.”
Marshall filed it away. Distance: three feet. Angle: off. Too many eyes.
“I make it a rule to keep Norah as far from disaster as possible.”
Hale chuckled, as if Marshall had said something charming instead of completely sincere. “Well, you’ve chosen a very capable woman to worry about. Norah’s one of the sharpest minds I’ve had the privilege to work with.”
“She is,” Marshall agreed. No argument there.
Norah’s fingers tightened around his arm. “Richard’s being generous.”
“He’s being accurate,” Hale said. He reached out, brushing an invisible speck of lint from her bare shoulder in a gesture that made Marshall’s jaw want to lock. “You’re an asset to this firm, Norah. Tonight is only going to showcase that.”
Stephen hissed in his ear. Marshall’s suddenly clenched fists agreed with the sentiment.
He shifted slightly, putting himself just half a step closer to Hale, as if adjusting for the noise level.
His gaze flicked over the older man’s shoulder, mapping the room, counting exits, noting the two private security types hovering just inside the periphery with the relaxed stance of men who could draw in under a second.
He forced his tone to be casual. “Big night for you, sir. Morris looks like she’s got every power broker in DC in this room.”
“Oh, this?” Hale’s modest laugh was pure performance. “This is just the prologue. When she takes that stage, you’ll feel the shift in the room. People are . . . ready for her.” He angled his head, studying Marshall. “And you? Are you here as her admirer or as Norah’s plus-one?”
“Both,” Marshall said smoothly. “A man can multitask.”
Norah shot him a tiny look—caught between exasperated and something softer. It hit him harder than it should.
Hale glanced between them, filing that away. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” His hand patted Marshall’s arm once, almost friendly. “It’s good for Norah to have someone . . . steady, while she navigates these currents. Politics can be . . . unforgiving.”
“So I’ve heard,” Marshall said.
For half a second, their gazes locked.
There it was—the flicker past the charm. A flash of calculation. Hale knew exactly how dangerous this room was. The question was which side of that danger he stood on.
Stephen again, softer now. “Marshall, you’re not picking that pocket in the middle of a meet-and-greet.”
“Speaking of currents,” Hale went on, shifting back to genial, “I should say hello to Senator Collins before he pretends he hasn’t seen me. Norah, I’ll need you at my side when Morris goes up. Meet me up front to the left of the stage.”
“Of course,” Norah said.
Hale’s attention returned to Marshall one last time. “Enjoy the evening, Mr. Kincaid. Try the bourbon. It’s older than half the room.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Marshall said.
Hale smiled, all teeth and polish, then moved away, already turning his charm on the next cluster of donors.
Marshall watched him go, every instinct humming.
Stephen exhaled in his ear. “Okay, so your girl’s boss gives me the creeps.”
Yeah, Marshall thought, eyes tracking the outline of Hale’s phone as the man blended back into the crowd. Get in line.
As he left, Norah exhaled deeply. “Excuse me. I’m going to go check my lipstick.”
Her lips looked more than okay to him on the multiple occasions he’d stared at them in the first fifteen minutes they’d been here. But Norah was already walking away from him.