Chapter 7
ALLISON
T he slam of Saltmoor's front doors still echoes through my head as I prowl the east wing with a pair of security guards at my back.
Nolan follows close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and relentless, like he's welded himself to my shadow.
We found no one in the foyer after the doors slammed closed.
No breeze to blame it on, no staff foolish enough to admit to slamming them.
Which means it wasn't an accident. Someone is trying to tell us something.
I hate indirect messages. If you want to tell me something, just bloody tell me without the drama.
By the time I step into the secure wing, my nerves are wound tight.
This corridor is meant to be off-limits to everyone but the Murphys, vetted staff, myself, and Nolan.
Motion sensors, reinforced locks, double cameras—Saltmoor's best attempt at a vault within its gothic bones.
Yet the closer we get, the stronger the wrongness twists in my gut.
A guard fumbles the key code and the door sighs open.
Cold air washes out, biting against my skin.
Inside, the room is still as a tomb. The hush presses close, broken only by the faint tick of an old clock on the mantel and the dim glow of shaded sconces.
Mahogany display cases line the walls, their brass fittings gleaming in the low light.
And right in the middle of the polished table lies the thing that makes my stomach drop.
A replica mask waits on the polished table, its surface split from crown to chin in a single brutal stroke. The cut runs clean and merciless, a wound that makes the whole thing gape as if it had been killed in effigy.
The cut isn't ragged. It's surgical and deliberate—the sort of incision meant to slice confidence as cleanly as cloth.
I lean closer, expecting only the hum of the AC, but a colder breath slips from the gap.
It bites at my skin like a dare, as if the mask resents being opened.
For a heartbeat I think I hear laughter buried in the quiet.
The torn edges curl away, sharp and deliberate, like a lip pulled back to show teeth. Whoever breached the secure wing went to the trouble of leaving this for me: a reminder, a warning, a promise.
For a long moment I stand rooted, breath caught, chest tightening as the truth sinks in. This isn't just about the mask anymore—it's a warning. The message is clear, sharp as the slice through cloth: stand down, or there will be consequences.
Nolan's hand hovers at the small of my back.
He doesn't touch me, not yet, but his presence anchors me when I want to snarl, scream, maybe even break something.
I bend closer to the ruined mask, scanning for residue, for fingerprints, for any mistake the intruder left behind.
Nothing. They were careful. Too careful.
The guard beside me swallows. "Ma'am, the cameras..."
"Showed nothing, right?" My voice is harsher than I intend. "Someone looped them."
Nolan crouches, his face close to the shredded replica. His dark eyes flick up, steady and unreadable. "They wanted us to find this."
"Obviously." I rub the back of my neck, fighting the chill crawling over me. "It's intimidation."
"It's possession," he corrects, his voice low. "They're telling us they own the night. They can move wherever they want, leave whatever they want, and we won't catch them unless they want to be caught."
My temper spikes, cutting through me like glass. "I don't accept that."
His gaze never wavers. "You don't have to accept it. You just have to face it."
I straighten, bristling. "What I have to do is keep this collection safe, keep Murphy's guests breathing, and keep the staff from losing their bloody minds. I don't have the luxury of indulging ghost stories."
He rises, his presence towering, his voice quieter but carrying more weight. "Then stop pretending this doesn't bother you."
When the room is empty, Nolan steps closer, finally laying his hand against the small of my back. The warmth of his palm is steady, grounding, infuriatingly gentle. I tense, but I don't pull away.
"You're allowed to feel it, Allison," he murmurs. "Fear. Anger. The need for someone else to take the weight."
I snap back before I can stop myself. "I don't need you."
"Liar." His tone isn't mocking. It's firm, unyielding, a wall I crash against. "You're strong. Smarter than anyone in this house. But even you can't stand watch every second. You don't have to."
I turn on him, fury and need tangled too tightly to separate. "What exactly are you offering, Porter? Backup? A warm body to soak up bullets? Or something else?"
He leans in, his mouth so close my breath falters. "All of it. Because I don't give you choices when it comes to your safety. You'll fight me on everything else, but not this."
Something cracks inside me, dangerous and unrelenting. My chest feels too tight, my throat dry, my body humming with adrenaline and heat. I want to shove him away. I want to climb into him. Instead, I whisper, "You're infuriating."
"And you're trembling." His hand slides up, catching my wrist, pressing my palm flat to his chest. His heartbeat thunders steadily beneath my touch. "Feel that? That's how certain I am."
I close my eyes, just for a second, and let myself feel it. The solid strength of him. The heat. The certainty I can't muster on my own. When I open them, his gaze has softened, but the steel remains.
"You don't get to run from this," he says.
By the time we reach my room, the house is quiet.
Staff move in hushed steps. Guests laugh faintly behind closed doors, unaware of how close danger prowls.
My hand trembles on the knob, and I hate it.
Nolan sees, of course he does. He nudges the door open and ushers me inside like he owns the place.
"Don't get comfortable," I warn, my voice hoarse. "You're not staying."
He closes the door behind us with deliberate calm, then turns the lock. "Try and make me leave."
I whirl on him, ready to unleash every retort in my arsenal, but the words die as he closes the distance.
His mouth crashes onto mine before I can resist, hot and fierce, stealing my breath and my balance in the same instant.
My hands fist in his shirt, meaning to shove him back, yet instead I drag him closer until our bodies collide.
The taste of him drowns every protest—salt and heat and raw command rolled into one, his tongue teasing mine, claiming and coaxing until all I can do is answer, hungry and trembling.
He drives me back until my spine meets the wall, his arms braced around me in a cage I don't want to escape.
His body presses flush to mine, every line of him unyielding, solid enough to steal my breath.
His mouth takes with ruthless hunger, coaxing and demanding, each stroke of his tongue pulling me deeper under.
Every rational thought splinters into sparks.
I answer with teeth and tongue, as fierce and frantic as he is, the clash of us raw and consuming.
Heat surges through my veins, molten and relentless, leaving me trembling and desperate for more.
He breaks just enough to rasp against my lips, "Say it. Say you need me."
I shake my head, defiant even as my body betrays me, arching into his. "I don't."
His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. His gaze burns into me, dark and commanding. "Then why are you trembling? Why are you letting me kiss you like this?"
I gasp, caught between fury and desperate want. "Because I want you too."
"No, because you're mine," he growls, his mouth descending again, swallowing my protest in a kiss that sears down to the bone.
The room dissolves into heat and frantic motion.
Clothes scatter across the floor, buttons pinging loose, fabric tearing in our reckless rush to get closer.
My jacket slides from my shoulders, his shirt ripped open a heartbeat later.
His skin burns against mine, hard muscle shifting beneath my hands as I clutch at him, greedy for more.
He scoops me up as though I weigh nothing, my thighs gripping his hips, my breath breaking as he drives us toward the bed, every step a promise of what comes next.
Release crashes over me in a violent rush, tearing a cry from my throat as my body bows into his, shuddering with the force of it.
Every nerve splinters into pleasure, my muscles seizing around him as I unravel completely.
He follows hard, his own release shaking through him as he drives deep and buries his face against my neck, groaning my name in a raw, broken sound that leaves me quivering beneath him.
For a long, breathless moment, we stay tangled, sweat slick and shaking. His weight pins me, his breath hot against my skin. And I don't want him to move.
Which is the most terrifying truth of all.
Later, when the room has gone quiet except for the faint crash of waves beyond the windows, I trace the line of his shoulder with my fingers. I should push him away, reassert control, rebuild my walls. Instead, I let myself linger.
"You're dangerous, Porter," I whisper.
His lips brush my temple. "So are you."
A knock shatters the quiet. Three hard raps at my door.
I freeze. Nolan's body goes rigid against mine, every muscle primed.
The danger hasn't passed; it's only just arrived.
We dress in a rush, weapons secured before we step into the hall.
The doorway gapes empty—no one waiting, no sign of movement.
Searching for whoever knocked, we move through the house, our footsteps muted by the heavy rugs.
Nolan doesn’t release my hand. I want to pull away, but I don’t.
His grip is steady, reassuring in a way I resent yet can’t quite refuse.
I break away and step forward, every muscle tense.
The object in front of us is unmistakable: another mask, heavier than the replicas, carved from wood darkened by age.
Crimson stains mar the surface, thick and ugly, seeping into the grooves of the design.
I don't have a way to test it forensically here at Saltmoor, but instinct and experience say it isn't paint or dye. It's blood.
The air seems to thicken, pressing down on me. My throat tightens, bile rising as I stare at the grotesque display. The guards shift uneasily, whispering about curses, about omens. I silence them with a look, though my own pulse is unsteady.
Nolan steps beside me, his jaw set, his presence solid as stone. He studies the mask with a calm I can't quite believe. "This wasn't just left here. It was staged."
I nod, my voice rough. "They wanted us to find it. To rattle us."
"Or to mark territory." His tone is grim. "In most ancient civilizations, blood is a claim. A warning."
My hands ball into fists, nails biting so deep it hurts. Rage scalds through me, raw and reckless. "Then we hit back harder. Hard enough they regret ever stepping into this house."
Nolan's hand covers mine, firm, steady. "We will. But not if you burn yourself out first."
I pull away, glaring at him even as my heart stutters. "I don't need you to tell me how to fight."
His gaze darkens, unreadable. "Maybe not. But I'm still here. And I'm not leaving your side."
The carved mask gleams dully under the gallery lights, blood catching the glow like a living thing. I square my shoulders, forcing strength into my spine. Whatever this game is, I won't let it break me.
With Nolan beside me, steady as bedrock, the truth hits hard. I'm not facing this fight alone anymore, no matter how much I want to pretend otherwise.
On the balcony I pull air deep and let the anger cool into something keener.
He does not outrank me and never will. Letting him call shots in the field would be surrender, and surrender is not in my vocabulary.
Every op I run proves control is the difference between mission and body bags, and the idea of giving any of it away knots my stomach.
Still, I can't ignore what I saw—how fast he reads a room and how clean his orders land.
Pride bristles, but my instincts register the precision I missed.
Trust isn’t surrender—it’s strategy. I turn to face him, my voice clipped but controlled. “Fine. We do this together. My command, your eyes. Don’t mistake the difference.”
His answering nod is sharp, without argument. It tells me he heard the terms and accepts them. This isn’t me giving up control. It’s me choosing the fight I can win. The other battles—the ghosts, the sabotage, the cursed mask—those will take both of us.
I grip the cold stone railing, steadying myself against the tide of adrenaline and want. He’s still watching me, measuring, weighing. For a second, heat flickers in his eyes before he shutters it. Good. Let him want. Let him wait. I’ve set the rules.
“My command,” I repeat, softer this time, but no less fierce.
“Understood,” he replies, and for once, there’s no trace of defiance in his voice.