Chapter 4
SILAS
I hadn’t planned on running into Portia Lane on that damn dock. I’d gone out there to clear my head, to shake off the war room’s stench of coffee and compromise. But there she was, clipboard in hand, her long legs, her caramel skin glowing like she’d been poured from the sun itself.
That cut on her palm, small but sharp, had drawn my eye, and her stare—defiant, like she could burn me down with a glance—had hit me like a slug to the chest.
For a split second, I felt it again. That pull. Like a wire tightening around my ribs, urging me to step closer, to see how far I could push her before she broke.
Fuck that.
I didn’t need distractions. Didn’t want them. If I wanted to fuck, Charleston was crawling with women who’d spread their legs for a nod and a whiskey shot. One-nighters were easy—clean, no strings, no breakfast conversations.
Portia wasn’t that. She was trouble, the kind that stuck in your head like shrapnel.
I’d seen it in her eyes, that mix of fire and calculation, like she was sizing me up the same way I was her.
I didn’t have time for games, not when Department 77 was out there, licking their wounds, and my mother—alive, I knew it—was slipping through the shadows like the ghost they named me after.
As I walked away from the dock, my boots crunching on the gravel path, I made a decision.
Portia had to go. She was too sharp, too present, too goddamn distracting.
My brothers and their fiancées would be pissed, sure, but they’d get over it.
Hire some middle-aged planner with gray hair and sensible shoes, someone who wouldn’t make my blood hum or my dick twitch.
Someone safe. Portia Lane was a lot of things, but safe wasn’t one of them.
I stopped, turned, and headed back toward the dock. She was still there, scribbling on her clipboard, her brow furrowed like she was planning a fucking invasion. I clenched my jaw and closed the distance.
“Forgot something,” I said, my voice low, cutting through the harbor’s hum.
She looked up, her dark eyes narrowing, that cool mask sliding into place.
“Let me guess, another brilliant idea from your brothers? Revolutionary groomsmen? A tank for the ring bearer?”
I almost smirked. She thought she had me pegged.
“Contract change. Last-minute addition.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she kept her tone even, professional.
“Fine. What is it?”
I stepped closer, just enough to make her feel me without touching. I’d seen her from the moment she walked into Dominion Hall—her fake Atlanta polish, her small-town drawl buried under years of practice. She was a liar, but a good one. I knew her kind. Knew how to break them.
“The wedding is private.”
She tilted her head, unfazed.
“I know. Exclusive guest list, no press. It’s in the contract.”
“No.” I let the word hang, sharp and final. “Private as in no photos. No public shots. No portfolio for you to plaster on your fancy website.”
Her mask cracked. Just for a second, but I saw it—disappointment flashing in her eyes, quick and raw, before anger flooded in to cover it.
Her jaw tightened, and her fingers gripped the clipboard like she wanted to snap it in half.
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“That’s bullshit.” Her voice was still controlled, but the edge was there, sharp as a blade. “This is my work. My reputation. Six weddings in a month, executed flawlessly, and you think I don’t get to show it? You think I’m here for fun?”
“You’re here to do a job,” I said, keeping my tone flat. “Not to build your brand on our backs.”
Her eyes blazed, and she stepped forward, closing the gap between us.
“I’ve spent years earning my place. Years. I don’t need your name to make mine. But this? This is a career-defining job, and you’re trying to kneecap me because—what? You don’t like me? You don’t trust me? Or is it just because you can?”
I didn’t answer. Let her stew. Let her think she’d get a rise out of me.
She was close now, close enough that I could see the pulse hammering in her throat, the flush creeping up her neck. She was pissed, and it looked good on her. Too good.
“You don’t get to decide what I’m worth,” she snapped, her voice rising, still professional but teetering on the edge. “I’ve dealt with egos bigger than yours, Silas Dane. I’ve handled clients who thought they could push me around. You’re not special.”
I turned and started walking, cutting her off mid-sentence. The lawn stretched ahead, green and manicured, leading away from the house toward the shop—a low, steel-roofed building where we tinkered with vehicles and modded weapons.
She’d back off. They always did. Women like her talked a big game, but when you pushed, they folded.
She’d be gone in an hour, tail between her legs, and I’d be free to focus on what mattered: finding 77, finding my mother, ending this war before it burned us all.
Except she didn’t stop. Her heels clicked on the path behind me, her voice chasing me like gunfire.
“You think you can just walk away? I’m not done, Silas. You don’t get to screw me over and act like it’s nothing. You want to play hardball? Fine. I’ll call your brothers. I’ll call their fiancées. You think they’ll be happy when they hear you’re sabotaging their weddings just to prove a point?”
I kept walking. She was relentless. I liked that, even if I shouldn’t have. Her anger was a live wire, sparking in the air, and part of me wanted to turn around and grab it, see how much it’d burn.
But I didn’t.
I pushed through the shop’s door, the smell of oil and metal hitting me like home. One of our guys—Vince, a wiry ex-Ranger—was fiddling with a carburetor. He looked up, saw Portia’s glare, and left without a word. Smart man.
“I’ve got work to do,” I said, heading for a workbench littered with gun parts. A half-assembled rifle sat there, waiting for a new trigger group. I picked up a tool, focusing on the task, willing her to take the hint and leave.
“Work?” Portia’s voice was a whipcrack. “Is your work being an asshole? Because you’re putting in overtime.”
I set the tool down, slow and deliberate, and turned to face her. She was a vision of fury, her cheeks flushed, her eyes burning like twin flames. The color had crept from her neck to her face, and fuck, it was beautiful.
She slammed the shop door behind her, the bang echoing in the cavernous space, and stalked toward me, her finger pointed at my face like a loaded gun.
“You don’t get to dismiss me,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to act like I’m some disposable vendor you can screw over and send packing. I’m the best at what I do, and you’re not going to ruin this for me.”
I almost laughed. Almost shoved past her.
She was close now, so close I could feel the heat radiating off her, smell that citrus-and-steel scent that made my blood hum.
I opened my mouth to tell her to get out, to take her clipboard and her attitude and go cry to someone who cared. But then she did something that stopped me cold.
Her hand shot out, fast as a snake, and grabbed my crotch. Her fingers closed around me through my jeans, firm and unapologetic, and I froze, every nerve in my body screaming.
She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear, her breath hot and sharp.
“If I’m going, Silas,” she hissed, “I might as well take my own party favor … to go.”
My brain short-circuited. One second, she was gripping my cock, her nails digging in just enough to make me inhale. The next, she tugged me closer, and I was done.
I didn’t know how it happened, didn’t care.
My hands found her ass, lifting her like she weighed nothing, and her legs wrapped around my waist, tight and demanding.
She shoved at my jeans, her fingers on a mission, grabbing my cock like she owned it, and I felt her heat through the thin fabric of her panties as she guided me inside.
“Fuck,” I growled, my voice raw, as I slammed into her.
She was wet, tight, and perfect, her body clenching around me like she’d been made for this. For me.
I backed her against the workbench, tools clattering to the floor, and thrust hard, each movement a war I didn’t want to win.
Her nails raked my shoulders, her moans sharp and determined, and I felt like I’d met my match.
Like she was fire and I was gasoline, and we were both too stupid to care about the explosion.
Her lips found mine, and it wasn’t a kiss—it was a fight. Teeth clashing, tongues battling, her taste flooding my senses like a drug.
I gripped her hips, angling her to take me deeper, and she arched against me, her head falling back, her throat exposed. I wanted to bite it, mark it, claim it.
She was relentless, matching every thrust, her legs tightening around me like she’d never let go. I didn’t want her to. Not now. Not ever.
The shop was a blur—metal and oil and heat, the world narrowing to her body, her sounds, the way she broke me apart without trying.
I felt the pressure building, too fast, too much, and I growled against her neck, trying to hold on.
“Portia,” I rasped, her name a curse and a prayer.
“Shut up,” she growled back, her hands fisting my shirt, pulling me closer.
She came first, her body shuddering, her cry laced with grim satisfaction.
It undid me.
I followed, hard and brutal, my vision whitening as I spilled inside her, my hands bruising her hips, my heart pounding like I’d run a marathon.
We stayed there, panting, her legs still wrapped around me, my hands still on her ass. The air was thick, heavy with what we’d done. I didn’t move, didn’t want to. She’d fucked me up, and I wasn’t ready to admit it.
Then she did.
Portia slid down, slowly, her heels hitting the floor with a soft click. She adjusted her skirt, smoothing it like nothing had happened, and grabbed her clipboard from the workbench. Her eyes met mine, cool and unreadable, like she hadn’t just turned my world inside out.
“Good luck with your work,” she said, her voice steady, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
She turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind her. I stood there, my cock still throbbing, my chest heaving, shock rooting me to the spot.
She’d taken me apart, piece by piece, and left me standing in the wreckage. I’d wanted to put her in her place. Instead, she’d put me in mine.
I ran a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath. My brothers would lose their shit when they heard she was gone. Their fiancées would probably try to castrate me.
But that wasn’t what gnawed at me.
It was her. Portia Lane. She’d walked in here, seen through my bullshit, and matched me blow for blow.
I’d wanted her gone to focus on 77, on my mother, on the war that never ended.
But now, all I could think about was the way she’d felt, the way she’d looked at me, the way she’d left me standing here like a fucking idiot.
I grabbed the tool, my hands shaking, and tried to focus on the rifle.
Didn’t work.
Her scent was still on me, her heat still in my veins.
I’d fucked up. Big time.
And the worst part?
I didn’t regret it. Not even a little.