Chapter 5
ALLISON
M orning sunlight pours through the tall windows of Saltmoor House, gilding the edges of the room in deceptive warmth.
A sea breeze pushes through lace curtains stirred by the movement.
I lie awake on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling and replaying every touch, every kiss, every reckless second of last night.
My body hums with memory, treacherously eager.
My mind? Less cooperative. It chants the same refrain on repeat: mistake, mistake, mistake.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, groaning softly.
"Bloody brilliant, Bennett. The boss sends you here to protect a priceless mask, and you decide to screw the historian who keeps poking at you.
" I rub my hands over my face and then stand, forcing myself into motion.
Doubt sticks like cobwebs, but I shove it aside. I have work to do.
The corridors are quieter in the morning.
The glitter of the masquerade has been swept away, though stray feathers and a half-crushed mask still linger in corners, ghosts of last night's glamour.
Staff move with deliberate care, carrying trays, polishing glass, rolling away carts of empty bottles.
Their hushed tones feel like reverence, or perhaps fear.
My boots click over polished stone as I head toward the exhibit room.
Nolan is nowhere in sight, thank God. I need a moment to breathe without his grin or those soft, full lips clouding my judgement.
The room is cool, the mask resting inside its glass case, gleaming with predatory allure.
Sunlight filters through high windows, streaking across the plinth and throwing fractured shadows on the marble floor.
I check the locks, the sensors, the lines of sight.
All standard. Then I notice the control panel along the wall, its display blinking red where it should be steady green.
A quick inspection confirms my suspicion: someone tampered with the climate controls.
I mutter a curse. Too much humidity, even by a fraction, could damage the artifact. More than that, it tells me someone was here after hours, with intent. This isn't about curses whispered in the dark. It's deliberate sabotage.
"Find something interesting?"
I whirl, hand halfway to my sidearm before I register Nolan leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me. Of course. He looks irritatingly composed, as though last night he didn't just rock my world and leave me second-guessing my career choices.
"Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?" I demand.
"Only you." His grin is maddening. "So, what's wrong with our pretty display?"
"Climate controls were tampered with," I say crisply. "Someone's been in here. And they weren't after the champagne."
He steps closer, scanning the panel. "That's deliberate. Subtle enough not to trip alarms, but dangerous over time. Someone's patient."
"Which means they'll try again," I reply. "And I'd like to catch them before they ruin a million-dollar artifact."
"Artifact," he repeats, as though tasting the word. "Or relic cursed by centuries of ritual and blood?"
I groan. "Not this again."
"Yes, this again," he counters smoothly. "History isn't neat lines in a catalogue, Allison. Sometimes it's messy. Sometimes it's alive."
"Sometimes it's just sabotage," I shoot back. "No ghosts required."
Our eyes lock, the same electric current sparking as last night. My chest tightens, my body remembering exactly how close we'd been, how warm and right his body had been against mine. I step back, breaking the connection.
"Stay in your lane," I warn.
"Thought we agreed last night that our lanes overlap."
I grit my teeth. "That was adrenaline."
"That was you wanting me as much as I wanted you."
A rush of heat shoots through me, leaving my skin too tight for my bones. "You're insufferable."
"And you're gorgeous when you're trying not to admit the truth."
Hours pass in a blur of checks and countermeasures.
Staff move under my direction, security doubles its patrols, and every angle of the exhibit room is recalibrated.
Nolan trails me like a shadow I never asked for but can't seem to shake.
Every time I look up, he's there, watching, helping, provoking, being gorgeous.
When I stop to reposition a camera, he angles in beside me. “That corner’s uncovered.”
"I did not."
"Yes, you did. Here." He points, his shoulder brushing mine. Heat blooms between us, distracting and unwelcome.
"Back off," I mutter.
"Make me."
I turn, meeting his gaze full-on. "You really don't know when to quit."
"Not when I've found something worth the chase."
The air thickens between us, charged and volatile. For one reckless second, I imagine kissing him again, losing myself in the storm we started. Instead, I force myself to step away.
"Focus on the job, Porter."
"Trying. You keep distracting me."
I glare, but a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself. He sees it and his grin widens.
By late afternoon, the investigation yields a troubling picture.
The climate controls were tampered with more than once, suggesting a pattern.
Someone has access, someone patient enough to play the long game.
And someone bold enough to use the mask's legend as cover.
Everyone is focused on the mask, and whilst I won't deny it's priceless, there are other artifacts and treasures in this collection that could be just as valuable, if not more so.
Is the mask and this weekend just a distraction for the real objective?
I walk out onto the terrace and lean against the balustrade, taking a deep breath.
It might have been refreshing had it not been for Nolan practically crashing into me, the impact sudden and unyielding.
Morning's brightness has shifted to afternoon haze, the horizon blurred.
He doesn't say anything, just stands beside me.
"The tampering has to be deliberate."
"Agreed," he says. "It's starting to form a pattern."
"It isn't random."
He nods slowly. "Someone is using the legend to mask their real objective."
"Exactly."
He glances at me then, eyes sharp. "Which means we're back on the same team, whether you like it or not."
I cross my arms. "For the record, I don't."
His smile is slow, confident. "Your body disagrees."
I turn to face him. "Look, I'm not going to tell you I didn’t enjoy myself. I did. But the truth is I was sent here to do a job, a job I'm good at, and you’re getting in the way is problematic."
A betraying flush rises, prickling beneath my skin, but I lock my jaw and keep my focus on the horizon.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "You can tell yourself last night was a mistake all you want. But mistakes don't feel like that."
My breath hitches, traitorous and shallow, as memory sparks in every nerve. I should push him away. I should shut this down. Instead, I find myself leaning just slightly toward him, drawn by a force I can't deny.
"Careful, Porter," I whisper. "You're starting to sound like a man who wants more."
"I do," he answers simply.
Before either of us can break the moment, my comm crackles to life. "Allison, you'd better come quick. We've got something in the east wing you'll want to see."
I exhale, stepping back, dragging my focus to the job. "Saved by the proverbial bell."
Nolan's grin is wicked. "For now."
Together, we head toward the east wing, the pull between us as undeniable as the danger waiting in the shadows.
The further we go, the quieter the house becomes.
The opulence gives way to storage halls and narrow servants’ corridors, dimly lit and cooler than the rest of the estate.
A faint draft snakes along the corridor, chilling against my skin.
One of the sconces flickers, though no airflow should touch the wiring here.
At the far end of the east wing, two guards stand stiff-backed beside a half-open door. One glances at me, relief in his eyes. "Ma'am, it's in here. We found it when we did our sweep."
I push the door wide and step inside. The room is meant for unused furniture, stacks of chairs and side tables draped in white sheets.
In the center, clear against the dusty floor, is a single footprint.
Not from one of ours. The sole is cut differently, modern tactical tread, not staff shoes.
Beside it, a strip of velvet the exact shade of the replica masks.
Nolan crouches, brushing a finger just above the print, not touching. "Fresh. Whoever left this was here less than an hour ago."
A shiver crawls along my spine. "They're still watching us. Testing boundaries."
He lifts his eyes to mine. "Or leaving us a message." He holds up the velvet strip. "This was no accident. They want us to know they can move anywhere in this house."
I crouch, studying the tread. Wide forefoot, heavy heel strike, slight inward roll.
Taller than average, carries mass with confidence, not a shuffler.
Fresh dust displaced at the edges tells me he paused, assessing.
A faint crescent of grit clings to the heel, pale and fine, not from this room. Courtyard sand, most likely.
"Local," I say. "Or someone who's been outside recently. Came in fast, stopped here on purpose."
"Now what?" he asks, his gaze steady and unreadable.
"Now we wait for them to show themselves again. And we make sure we're ready."
Later, I find that sleep is elusive, and I finally make my way down to the exhibit room.
I want to check on the mask, but something about the way the house feels when everyone is asleep is unsettling.
I tell myself it's just the unfamiliar setting, the way shadows pool differently in the corners, but my instincts scream otherwise.
I've done countless midnight security sweeps, but this feels like walking into a predator's den.
The mask gleams in its case, catching starlight from the tall windows. Beautiful and terrible, like a weapon disguised as art. I approach slowly, every nerve alert.
The temperature hits me first—a bone-deep cold that has nothing to do with air conditioning. My breath mists as I lean closer to the case, and I can swear the jeweled eyes track my movement.
"Just nerves," I mutter, but my voice sounds thin in the sudden quiet.
That's when I hear it: drumming. Faint but rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing from somewhere deep in the house's bones. The sound raises goosebumps along my arms, familiar yet alien, as if my body recognizes something my mind refuses to accept.
The case glass reflects my face alongside the mask's golden features, and for one disorienting moment, they seem to merge. My reflection wavers, and I see myself with painted cheeks, bone ornaments threaded through my hair, eyes dark with knowledge I don't possess.
No. I step back, hand moving instinctively to my weapon. "Stress reaction. Exhaustion. Nothing more."
But the drumming continues, and now I hear voices—chanting in a language that predates any European tongue. The sound comes from everywhere and nowhere, as if the house itself remembers songs sung centuries before its foundation stones were laid.
Against every tactical instinct I possess, I press my palm to the case glass.
The vision hits me like a physical blow.
Water. Dark, cold water rushing over sun-bleached sand. Bodies floating face-down, metal armor dragging them toward the depths. Spanish voices screaming prayers that go unanswered.
And rising from the wreckage, figures in dugout canoes. Calusa warriors, painted for battle, retrieving what the sea has claimed. But they move wrong, too fluid, as if the boundary between living and dead has dissolved in the salt water.
One warrior holds the mask, and when he turns toward me, his eyes are holes filled with starlight. "Keeper," he says in perfect English. "You will choose. Protect or destroy. Guard or abandon. The hungry ones grow stronger with each moon."
The scene shifts. I see Nolan, but different—older, wearing the paint and bone ornaments of a tribal shaman. He reaches for me across an impossible distance, his mouth forming words I can't hear over the roar of rising water.
"The blood remembers," the warrior continues. "His blood, your blood. All blood that has touched these shores. The mask knows its guardians."
I yank my hand back, gasping. The exhibit room snaps back to normal—warm air, electric humming, the ordinary sounds of a house at rest. But my palm tingles where I touched the glass, and when I look down, I see a perfect handprint glowing faintly on the surface.
As I watch, the print fades, leaving only clean glass and my own shaken reflection.
My tactical radio crackles. "All stations report in. Status check."
I force my voice steady. "Central post, all clear."
But it isn't clear. Nothing about this is clear. I've experienced combat stress, sleep deprivation, even mild hallucinations during long ops. This is different. This feels like someone else’s memory—not mine, but inherited from somewhere deeper than conscious thought.
Walking back toward the door, I notice my footsteps echo strangely, as if the floor remembers other feet, other purposes. The portraits on the walls seem to watch me pass, and I catch glimpses of movement in my peripheral vision that vanish when I turn.
Only when I reach the main corridor does the oppressive weight lift from my shoulders. But even then, I feel observed, measured, as if something ancient and patient has taken my inventory and found me... interesting.
In my room, I strip off my gear and stand before the bathroom mirror. My reflection looks normal—tired, alert, human. But for just a moment, I could swear I see paint on my cheekbones, the ghost of patterns that belong to a warrior culture that died centuries before my birth.
"The blood remembers," I whisper, and shiver at how right the words feel on my tongue.