Chapter 7
PORTIA
I pulled him inside before I could talk myself out of it. The door clicked shut behind us, sealing the air between us—hot, heavy, laced with something rawer than lust.
Silas didn’t move.
He just stood there, six-foot-something of tension and shadow, like he wasn’t sure if I’d slam the door in his face or climb him like a ladder.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said, voice low, rough at the edges.
“Then why are you here?” I crossed my arms, heart pounding like I’d just sprinted up the damn staircase.
His gaze dropped, then lifted—slow, deliberate. Like he was memorizing the way I looked in silk.
“I was wrong,” he said. “About the photos. About trying to push you out. I know how hard you’ve worked for this.”
I arched a brow. “Do you?”
“I do now.”
There was a beat of silence. And then—God help me—I laughed. Not a happy laugh. Not a soft, flirty one. A sharp sound, brittle and disbelieving.
“So that’s it? You blow up my professional boundaries, try to erase my presence from the biggest job of my career, and then show up here like some kind of tortured antihero with an apology and sad eyes?”
His jaw flexed. “It’s not like that.”
Oh, but it felt like that.
And maybe that was the worst part. Because I hadn’t just let Silas Dane touch me—I’d wanted it. Needed it. I’d softened for him like I had nothing to lose, climbed onto him and surrendered every inch of myself like it wouldn’t come back to haunt me.
The way he’d pulled my panties aside like he didn’t have time for anything else.
The way his mouth had dragged over my skin—hungry, reverent, feral.
He didn’t just take me. He wrecked me. Lifted me over the worktable, shoved my skirt up, and gripped my hips like I was something to be claimed.
My back had arched into him before I could stop it.
I’d come apart faster than I ever had in my life.
It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t tender.
It was possession.
And I’d let it happen. Let him see me like that—raw, breathless, begging with my body even when my mind tried to stay in control.
Afterward, when my knees were still shaking and my lipstick was somewhere on the floor, I’d looked up at him, expecting—what? A smile? A word? A sliver of acknowledgment that he’d just touched something deeper than skin?
Now he was standing in my room, and I was furious.
He just stood there, watching me with those stormcloud eyes, like he was the one who had something to lose.
I stepped forward, fury buzzing under my skin. “Do you even understand what this job is? What it costs me to be here?”
I didn’t wait for a response.
“I have spent years—years, Silas—building something from the ground up. No funding. No famous last name. No legacy to ride on. Just me. Hustling, making magic happen with nothing but a spreadsheet and a damn good poker face. And you wanted me to walk away from the biggest event of my career?”
My voice cracked, but I didn’t back down.
“This job? It’s not just six weddings. It’s a fucking symphony of logistics and beauty and diplomacy. And yeah—your brothers want parachutes and stealth boats and smoke grenades, but the women? They want elegance. Meaning. Magic. And I’m the only one in this damn country who can give them both.”
I jabbed a finger toward him.
“And that deserves to be in my portfolio, Silas. On my website. In magazines. In the hands of every A-list bride.”
My chest was heaving, hands clenched.
“I thought …” He looked away. “I thought it would be safer if you left.”
“For who?” I asked. “Me? Or you?”
That made his gaze snap back to mine. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I took a step closer. “Ask the questions you won’t answer?”
Another step. Close enough now that the heat between us was magnetic, dragging, dangerous.
“You want to protect me?” I whispered. “Then don’t make me collateral damage.”
He grabbed my wrist. Not rough. Not gentle. Just enough to make my breath catch.
“You’re not collateral.”
And then he kissed me.
Hard. Hot. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he hated himself for it.
I didn’t stop him.
I should’ve. But my mouth opened under his like it had been waiting for him. Like it remembered how he tasted, how he moved. How he’d broken me open in that workshop and rebuilt me with his hands.
He backed me into the wall, one arm braced beside my head, the other sliding around my waist. I clutched his shirt, tugging him closer, needing the contact like air. His mouth moved over mine with brutal precision—hungry, desperate, full of things we didn’t know how to say.
But then?—
“Wait.” I broke the kiss, panting.
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“I’m still mad at you.”
His lips brushed my jaw. “You’re allowed.”
“And I’m not someone you can just fuck into silence.”
His body stilled against mine, but his voice—his voice was a fire set low. “I don’t want you silent.”
“Then what do you want?” I shoved lightly at his chest. Not enough to make him move. Just enough to make a point. “Because one minute you’re storming around like I don’t belong, and the next you’re showing up at my door like you can’t stay away.”
He stepped back.
“I don’t know what I want,” he admitted. “Except you. And I hate that.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Well,” I said, pushing off the wall, “that makes two of us.”
His mouth flattened. “I didn’t mean?—”
“I know what you meant,” I snapped. “You want me when it’s convenient. When no one else is looking.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is having my reputation on the line because some broody soldier with commitment issues thinks I’m a distraction.”
His eyes darkened. “You are.”
My heart slammed in my chest.
“You’re the only thing I can’t get out of my head,” he said, voice like smoke. “When I should be thinking about work. About the threat. About her?—”
He stopped short.
I blinked. “Her?”
My brain scrambled, heart skidding into my ribs like it had slammed the brakes.
Her?
Who the hell was she?
A sharp pang knifed through my chest, swift and hot, and I hated how fast my mind conjured images—some long-legged blonde with a soft voice and a family name that opened yacht club doors.
Maybe someone from his past. Someone he’d never quite let go.
Someone who had the right pedigree for a man like him, with a fortune at his feet and secrets in his blood.
A woman who wouldn’t care if he was distant or dangerous or disappeared for days at a time without a word.
One of those cold, perfect types who could wear pearls with a straight face and didn’t flinch at the mention of a burner phone.
The idea gutted me.
My voice dropped, bitter and low. “So that’s what this is. You got some woman tucked away in the wings and decided I was too much trouble.”
He flinched. Flinched. Just enough for the spark in my gut to ignite into full-on fire.
“Jesus,” I hissed.
Silas dragged a hand down his face like he wanted to scrape the frustration off his skin.
“It’s not—she’s not—” He let out a breath like it burned. “It’s not what you think. It’s not romantic. It’s family.”
I froze, words catching in my throat.
Family?
He met my eyes again, and this time, there was no armor. Just something raw.
“This isn’t about some woman I used to love,” he said quietly. “It’s about the woman who gave birth to me.”
The words hit me like a cold splash of water, snapping the fury right out of my veins. I stared at him, my mind still stuck in the heat of my assumptions.
He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. “She’s alive. I think. After all these years, she might actually be out there. And if that’s true—if someone’s using her to get to me or my brothers—then every person near me is a liability.”
We stood there, chests heaving, the room vibrating with everything we weren’t saying.
I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand how I got here.
I’d met Silas Dane less than twenty-four hours ago.
Twenty-four hours. That was it. I’d barely had time to unpack, to set up a timeline grid, to orient myself to the landscape of Dominion Hall—and here I was, practically nose to nose with a man I’d fought, fucked, and now stood yelling at like he was my ex-husband who forgot our anniversary.
The sheer heat of our argument had burned through my restraint, dragging out parts of me I didn’t even show friends.
My voice didn’t sound like mine. My hands shook.
My chest felt like it was being pulled in two opposite directions—fight or fall.
It didn’t make sense.
None of this made any sense.
We were strangers. I didn’t know what he liked in his coffee, if he believed in fate, or how many times he’d been hurt. I didn’t know what scared him. I didn’t know how he took his bourbon. I didn’t even know if he smiled for real, or only when he was playing pretend.
And yet, it felt like I’d known him forever.
There was something about him that peeled me open, pulled the sharpest parts of me to the surface and made me throw them like daggers, just to see if he could take the hit.
And he could. He did. He caught every word like it was foreplay.
Pushed back like he wanted me wild. It was terrifying.
Addictive. Like being seen for the first time and recognized for something you didn’t know you were hiding.
Why did he get under my skin like this? Why did my body betray me the moment he walked in, tense with fight and flushed with want?
Why did his silence make me want to scream?
I should’ve walked away. Should’ve thrown him out the second he stepped into my room. I didn’t need this. I didn’t do this.
But here I was.
Wrecked and furious and wanting him again like he’d wired himself into my bloodstream.
And then, suddenly?—
A knock.
We both froze.
Silas reached for his waistband instinctively, his body going still like a soldier mid-mission.
Another knock. This one louder.
“Portia?” came a voice. “It’s Monte.”
Silas’s head snapped toward the door.
My stomach plummeted.
Monte Jones. Loyal, steady, always-there Monte.
He’d been with me from the beginning—back when my company was three clients, one assistant, and a desperate pitch deck I’d designed myself. Over the years, he’d become more than just part of my staff. He was my right hand, my fallback plan, my human firewall.
Officially, he was Head of Security and VIP Guest Coordinator, a title we’d made up after one too many close calls with paparazzi and drunk best men.
But Monte was so much more than that. He was the one I trusted with my most high-profile clients, the one who kept my name from being dragged into gossip blogs, the one who knew how to silence a scandal before it ever reached the bouquet.
And on a job like this—six high-powered, heavily scrutinized weddings, not to mention ex-military grooms with enough classified history to make the FBI sweat—I needed him more than ever.
When I called him and told him I needed him on-site in Charleston for the entire month, he didn’t hesitate. No complaints, no questions. He’d packed a bag, locked down the Atlanta office, and driven all day. Because that’s who Monte was. Unshakeable. Discreet. The calm in the storm.
He would be staying the duration—coordinating VIP arrivals, managing discreet transportation for sensitive guests, keeping the press at bay, and ensuring no overzealous cousin ended up on TMZ with an NDA violation.
And now here he was. On cue. Because something in his bones had told him I might need him.
“I saw a man come up the back staircase. Just wanted to check if you were all right.”
Shit.
“Everything’s fine,” I called, my voice higher than it should’ve been. “Thanks, Monte!”
Silas turned toward me, eyes narrowing.
“Who the hell is Monte?”
I stared back, defiant and still catching my breath.
“None of your damn business.”