Chapter 8
SILAS
I stood in Portia’s suite, the door’s click still echoing, my hand still warm from where she’d grabbed me. Her silk robe clung to her curves, her curls spilling wild, and those eyes—dark, steady, seeing too damn much—pinned me like a target.
For a second, I’d been weak. Spilled my guts about my mother, like some raw recruit begging for a pat on the head.
“The woman who gave birth to me.” Jesus, what kind of idiot said shit like that?!
I’d come to The Palmetto Rose chasing a feeling I didn’t have a name for, and now Monte’s knock had snapped me out of it.
Good.
I didn’t belong here, playing house with a woman who’d already fucked me up more than a bullet ever could.
“Everything’s fine, Monte!” Portia’s voice was high, too bright, and it grated on me.
She was acting strange—edgy, like she was hiding something. Was it Monte, this suit-wearing shadow who’d materialized like a goddamn guard dog? Or was it me, blabbing about my mother like a fool?
I didn’t know, and I hated not knowing. My balls were back now, though. I was done with this soft shit.
“I won’t get in your way,” I said, my voice flat, all business. I kept my eyes on the wall behind her, avoiding that gaze of hers. “You do your job. I’ll do mine.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t read—lips tight, eyes sharp, like I’d just kicked her puppy or spit in her coffee. Was she angry? Hurt?
I hoped it was anger. Anger I could handle. Hurt meant I’d gotten too close, meant she cared, and that was a minefield I wasn’t walking through.
Not now, not with Department 77 out there, not with my mother’s voice in my head— My Silas —twisting my gut like a blade.
“I should go,” I said, turning for the door.
Her silence followed me, heavy as a loaded mag. I didn’t look back. Couldn’t. I’d already made too many mistakes tonight—coming here, apologizing, letting her pull me inside like I was hers to keep.
I wasn’t. Never would be.
I was The Ghost, the shadow that moved through blood and betrayal, not some lovesick bastard chasing a wedding planner’s smile.
I stepped into the hallway, and froze. Monte was there, a few feet down, leaning against the wall, waiting.
Tall, broad, with a suit that screamed money and a face that screamed trouble.
His eyes locked onto mine, cool and assessing, like he was sizing up a threat. Fair enough. I was doing the same.
“Silas Dane,” he said, his voice smooth but hard, like polished steel.
“Ex-Delta Force. Honorable discharge. Private security contractor since. Net worth in the billions, thanks to your father’s estate.
Known associates: six brothers, all former special ops.
Reputation: doesn’t play well with others. ”
I clenched my fists, the urge to deck him surging like a tide. He’d done his homework, recited my bio like it was a rap sheet. Protective, sure, but this felt personal. Too personal.
“You got a point, or you just like hearing yourself talk?”
He didn’t flinch, just straightened, his posture loose but ready.
“My point is, I know who you are. And I know what you’re capable of. Portia’s my responsibility. Always has been.”
My gut churned, a hot, ugly feeling.
Responsibility? That’s what he called it?
I pictured him in that crisp suit, his hands on her. Her legs around him, her moans for him.
The thought made me want to puke—or swing. I couldn’t decide which.
Was he just her guard dog, or was there more? The way he said her name, soft but possessive, made my skin crawl.
“Portia doesn’t need a babysitter,” I said, keeping my voice low, dangerous. “She’s handled worse than me.”
“Maybe,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “But I’m not taking chances. Not with her.”
I stepped forward, close enough to smell his cologne—something expensive, probably picked to impress her.
“You implying something?”
“I’m saying she’s family to me. And I don’t let family get hurt.”
Family.
The word hit like a slug, but it didn’t ease the knot in my chest. Family didn’t mean he hadn’t touched her, hadn’t wanted her.
I’d seen the way men looked at Portia—her fire, her curves, her sharp tongue that could cut you down and make you beg for more.
Monte wasn’t blind. No way he hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t imagined her under him, her nails in his back.
I moved to walk past, done with this bullshit, but he stuck out an arm, blocking my path.
Big mistake.
“Move it,” I growled, my voice a warning shot, “if you want to keep it.”
He didn’t budge. To his credit, the guy had balls.
“I don’t scare easy, Dane. Portia’s safe with me. No matter what. You get that?”
I smiled, cold and sharp. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
We weren’t. Not even close. But I didn’t have time to play alpha dog with her security boy. I had a war to fight, a mother to find.
I shoved past him, my shoulder clipping his, hard enough to make him step back.
He didn’t follow. Smart move. I’d have broken his arm if he’d tried.
I took the back stairs, the same way I’d come in. The night air hit me as I pushed through the exit, thick with humidity and the faint tang of the harbor. My truck was parked a block away, hidden in the shadows of a crepe myrtle. I walked fast, my pulse hammering, my mind a fucking mess.
What the hell had just happened?
I’d gone to Portia’s suite to—what? Fix things? Beg forgiveness? And instead, I’d spilled my guts, kissed her like a drowning man, and gotten cockblocked by Monte fucking Jones.
Now I was out here, feeling like a raw nerve, wishing I had someone to kill instead of this knot of emotions choking me.
Feelings. Too many goddamn feelings.
I’d gone to war to forget—forget my mother’s voice, my father’s death, the lies that tore our family apart.
War was clean. Clear. You had a target, a mission, a trigger to pull. No questions, no regrets.
But this? Portia, Monte, that phone with its two-word gut-punch— My Silas —this was a minefield. Every step risked blowing me apart.
I climbed into my truck, the leather creaking under me, and gripped the wheel like it could anchor my twisted soul. My mother was out there. Alive. I knew it in my bones, the same way I’d known Charlie wasn’t lying when he saw her in that treeline.
Department 77 was playing games, or she was, and I was the pawn they’d picked to move.
My Silas .
Why me? Why not Marcus, Atlas, any of them?
What did she want? Answers, or blood?
I thought of Portia, her eyes when I’d left, that look I couldn’t parse. Anger, I told myself. Had to be. If it was hurt, I’d fucked up worse than I thought. She didn’t need me complicating her life. She had Monte, her loyal shadow, her “family.”
The word tasted like ash. Family didn’t stop a man from wanting a woman, from imagining her naked, moaning his name. I pictured Monte’s hands on her again, and my knuckles whitened on the wheel. I wanted to go back, break his jaw, claim her in a way that left no question who she belonged to.
But she didn’t belong to me. Never would. I was The Ghost, not a husband, not a lover. I was built for killing in quiet, not keeping.
I started the engine, the rumble grounding me. I needed to get back to Dominion Hall, lock myself in the war room, and figure out what that phone meant. Elias could pull the chip, maybe find a trace.
But I hesitated, my hand on the gearshift. Telling my brothers meant opening a wound I wasn’t ready to share.
My Silas .
It was mine, a private cut, and dragging it into the light felt like betrayal. Not to them—to her. My mother. The woman who’d called me hers, then vanished into Department 77’s shadows.
I drove, the streets of Charleston blurring past—gaslit lanterns, cobblestone alleys, tourists laughing like the world wasn’t a war zone.
My mind kept circling back to Portia. That kiss in her suite, hard and desperate, like we were fighting for the same air.
Her voice, sharp and fearless, calling me out for trying to erase her.
She’d seen through my bullshit, matched my fire with hers, and left me burning. I’d wanted her gone to keep my focus, to keep her safe from the storm coming with 77. But safe wasn’t her style. She was a hurricane, tearing through my walls, and I was worried I was too weak to stop her.
Monte’s face flashed in my head, his cool stare, his arm blocking my path.
“Portia’s my responsibility.”
Fuck him.
She didn’t need his protection, didn’t need mine.
But the thought of her with him—or anyone—made my blood boil. I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t do jealous. I did missions, kills, clean exits. So why was I picturing her in that silk robe, her lips swollen from my kiss, telling Monte to check on her like he had a right to her life?
I pulled into Dominion Hall’s gates, the iron swinging open without a sound. The house loomed ahead, a fortress built on our blood. My brothers were inside, planning weddings, laughing with their fiancées, living lives I’d never touch.
I wanted them happy—Marcus with his smartass grin, Atlas with his quiet strength, all of them. I’d die for them. But I couldn’t join them, couldn’t let myself want what they had. Not with Portia, not with anyone.
My Silas .
My mother’s voice was a chain, pulling me back to a war I’d never finish.
I parked, killed the engine, and sat in the dark. The phone was in my jacket, dead but heavy, like it carried her ghost. I needed to move, to act, to hunt. But all I could think about was Portia’s hand in mine, her voice saying I didn’t have to go.
I’d gone to war to forget, to bury the past in blood and ash. But now, I was remembering everything—her face, her fire, the way she’d broken me open and left me raw.
I was The Ghost, but tonight, I felt like a man, and I hated it.