Chapter 1 #2
For the next hour, we move through the halls together, setting up perimeter checks and mapping guest access points.
Nolan peppers me with history lessons I didn't ask for, and I counter with practical details.
It's a kind of verbal fencing—each strike met with a parry, each thrust blocked and returned.
And beneath it all, the pull of sexual tension winds tighter.
Not just the professional clash. Something far hotter.
At one point, he leans over my shoulder to examine the mask's case. His breath ghosts against my ear, his voice low. "You don't have to believe in curses to feel the weight of one."
I hold my ground. "Maybe, but you don't have to believe in bullets to feel the weight of one, either. Guess which I'd rather face."
His chuckle is dark, intimate. "You're going to be trouble."
"Count on it."
Our eyes meet, and for a second, I swear the mask glimmers brighter, as if it knows exactly what kind of fire we've struck.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the moment.
A staff member enters, nervous, reporting that one of the catering vans has gone missing from the hard-packed sand lane that leads towards the beach road.
I snap back to business, issuing quick instructions.
Nolan watches me, his expression unreadable.
When the staffer leaves, he speaks again, voice quiet but edged with command. "And so it begins."
I roll my eyes, though my pulse hasn't slowed. "It begins when I say it does. And right now, it begins with me proving you wrong."
Nolan leans closer, his breath warm, his words a promise and a warning all at once. "Careful, Allison. You'll find I'm rarely wrong."
I tilt my chin, keeping my smile sharp. "The same could be said of me."
We circle back to the ballroom, where staff arrange tables and polish silverware until it gleams. Nolan walks beside me like a shadow, his stride deliberate, his presence impossible to ignore. He tosses me another sidelong glance.
"You're not from Florida."
"Brilliant deduction," I retort. "What gave it away, my accent or my disgust with the humidity?"
"The accent," he says, lips twitching again. "Though the humidity suits you. Adds a flush to your cheeks."
I bite back a retort. I will not blush because some arrogant art historian thinks he can charm me with an observation. "Don't flatter yourself, Porter. It's heat stroke, not attraction."
"Keep telling yourself that." His tone is silk wrapped around steel.
We pause near the stage, and he leans against the railing with casual arrogance that makes my stomach flip. "Tell me something, Allison. Why did Fitz send one of his wounded warriors to guard a cursed treasure?"
I stiffen. "I'm not wounded."
His gaze drops, unapologetic, to where my blouse hides the bandaged graze. "You're healing. There's a difference. But you're not at full strength. So why you?"
"Because I don't fail," I snap. "Because Ryan Murphy is an old friend, and because Fitz trusts me."
"Or he knows you won't listen and will throw yourself into danger regardless. Better to keep you on a leash."
I bristle. "I don't do pet play, and you don't know me well enough to make that sort of assumption."
"Maybe not yet, but I think I'm starting to." His eyes gleam with challenge, daring me to deny it.
After settling my bags in one of the guest suites, the house grows quieter.
I piggyback onto Murphy's security system and run another sweep of the grounds.
Nolan follows, relentless as a shadow. We trade quips about the grotesque gargoyles perched along the roofline, about the ridiculous opulence of the wine cellar, and the even more impressive collection of single malt.
Somewhere between the sarcasm and tension, laughter slips free.
It surprises me, sharp and bright, and Nolan's answering grin hits me harder than I'd like.
We step onto a terrace, moonlight spilling silver across the lawn that rolls gently towards the dunes.
The ocean crashes in the distance, the salt tang of the air clinging to my skin.
Palm fronds rustle, mixing with the constant hush of waves against the hard-packed sand beyond the seawall.
The faint call of a night heron drifts across the water, the sound eerie and grounding all at once.
Nolan stops close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.
"Tell me the truth," he says softly. "Why did you really take this assignment?"
"Because Fitz ordered me to."
"Not good enough."
I exhale, eyes on the horizon. "Because I needed space. Because nearly dying changes things. Because guarding a mask is easier than guarding the people I've already lost."
Silence stretches. Then Nolan says, "There it is. The truth under all that sass."
I glance up sharply. "Careful, Nolan. You dig too deep, you might not like what you find."
His expression turns serious, commanding. "I always like what I find. Especially when it's worth the fight."
Heat coils in my belly, sudden and overwhelming. For a moment, I imagine closing the distance, tasting him, letting him pin me against the stone balustrade and prove every ounce of dominance burning in his gaze. I swallow hard, stepping back before the temptation wins.
The moonlight casts Nolan’s profile in sharp relief. He’s too close, shoulder brushing mine, his voice steady but edged with command.
"I always like what I find," he says.
The banked embers of arousal I’ve been feeling burst into an open flame.
For a reckless heartbeat, I don’t just imagine closing the distance—I do it.
My mouth finds his, defiant and hungry, and the sound he makes is pure possession.
He hauls me tight against him, his chest hard and unyielding beneath my palms. The kiss is raw, brutal in its honesty, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, the world tilts.
The balustrade digs into my back as he presses me against the stone. One of his hands fists in my hair, angling my head just the way he wants it, the other sliding beneath the hem of my blouse. His fingers find bare skin, warm and rough, and my breath shudders in his mouth.
"Tell me to stop," he growls, his voice low, torn between threat and plea.
"You’d hate it if I did," I whisper back. My nails rake down his back, daring him to prove me wrong.
He does. His thigh wedges between mine, forcing them apart, and when he rocks against me I nearly forget why I’m here.
The scrape of his stubble against my throat as he nuzzles and kisses me leave me feeling somehow marked and claimed.
The surge of arousal that follows is undeniable.
My hips grind against him, shameless, and he curses, hot and desperate.
"Trouble," he mutters against my skin. "God, you’re going to wreck me."
I don’t answer. My body does, arching into him, begging for more.
The ocean roars beyond the seawall, salt air sharp in my lungs, but all I taste is him—heat, want, command.
His fingers skim higher beneath my blouse, finding the lace that hides nothing, and when his thumb circles my nipple I gasp, biting down on his shoulder to keep from crying out.
The mask gleams in the glass case just inside, catching moonlight like a watching eye. Its jeweled gaze feels too knowing, too present, but I can’t stop. Won’t stop. My hands fumble at Nolan’s belt, pulling him closer, reckless enough to forget why we’re here in the first place.
The terrace door creaks. Footsteps. A voice calling for Murphy. We break apart like guilty teenagers, chests heaving, lips swollen, heat crackling between us.
"Later," he promises, voice ragged, eyes dark enough to drown me.
And God help me—I want later more than I want air.
"Don't flatter yourself," I manage. "You're still insufferable."
His smile is slow, wicked. "And you're still mine to unravel."
Somewhere inside Saltmoor House, laughter and music drift as preparations continue.
But beneath the surface, tension winds tight, dangerous and electric.
And I know, as surely as I know Nolan Porter is both my greatest irritation and my most magnetic distraction, that this masquerade will be the sort of night people whisper about long after the candles burn out—and the sort that could get us both killed.