Chapter 11
PORTIA
T he door clicked shut behind us, a soft sound that landed like thunder.
I stood just inside one of the guest suites—third floor, corner unit, French doors leading to a Juliet balcony. The bed was king-sized and made with military precision. The walls were painted dove gray. The air smelled like lavender and linen.
Silas leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest like he needed a barrier between us. He hadn’t taken a step closer. But he didn’t need to.
His presence filled the room, anyway.
That body—coiled tension in all black. That face—cut sharp enough to wound. That mouth?—
God. That mouth.
He didn’t speak. Just watched me like he was trying to memorize the way I breathed.
I wasn’t better. My pulse hammered behind my ribs, and I hated that he knew it. That he could see it. The dress didn’t help—ivory silk clinging to every curve, whisper-thin and unapologetic. It showed everything. Every rise of my breath, every shift of my thighs.
I’d thought about putting on panties this morning. Thought about coverage. Modesty. Control.
And then I didn’t.
Because some reckless, ruined part of me wanted him to see. Wanted to hear him gasp when he felt me.
I turned away, made a show of adjusting the window sheers. “You didn’t come up here to admire the upholstery.”
“I didn’t come up here at all,” he said, voice low. “You brought me.”
I ignored the heat that crawled up the back of my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“No flattery. Just facts.”
I turned then, finally facing him. “Is that what you’re calling this? Facts?”
He pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate, crossing the room in three easy strides. He didn’t touch me, but he got close. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
And suddenly, all I could think about was how he made me want to fight.
Not just argue— fight . He poked at the sore places, dragged things to the surface I’d spent years burying.
With Silas, every glance felt like a dare, every breath a negotiation.
He didn’t speak softly or sidestep the sharp edges.
He met them head-on and somehow made me want to meet him right there in the middle of the storm.
Would people hear us if we lost control in here?
If we snapped and clawed and tore into each other with words?
Would the staff freeze behind their flower arrangements?
Would Monte come pounding on the door like he had at the hotel last night, trying to break apart something that neither of us had the will—or the sense—to stop?
A flicker of heat passed down my spine. Not just at the idea of being caught. But at the deeper fear: that no one could stop us. Not really. Not when we were like this.
One look, and I was already burning.
“I don’t believe in marriage,” I said abruptly, like a line I’d been rehearsing.
His brow lifted, but he didn’t look surprised. “Neither do I.”
I blinked. “You don’t?”
“Nope.” He leaned one shoulder against the window frame, his gaze steady. “It’s a contract dressed up like devotion. Built on timing and paperwork. Half the people who do it don’t know what they’re signing. The other half are lying to themselves.”
It shouldn’t have made me feel anything. But somehow, it did.
I crossed my arms. “You’re even more cynical than I am.”
“I’m realistic.”
I blinked. “Do your brothers know that’s how you feel?”
He didn’t flinch. “They know enough. We’re different people. But I show up. Always will.”
I studied him for a moment, reading between the lines. “So what—you don’t believe in marriage, but you’ll still stand at the altar with them? Help them tie knots you wouldn’t ever tie yourself?”
His eyes flicked to mine, steady. “I love my brothers. That’s the only vow I’ve ever needed. They want this—ceremony, tradition, the works. I won’t ruin it for them.”
That stopped me. Because I knew men who used excuses like realism to avoid connection, responsibility, anything that looked like vulnerability. But this wasn’t that. This was loyalty. Fierce, bone-deep loyalty that wouldn’t bend just because he didn’t share their dreams.
Still, I pushed. “What do you think of the fiancées?”
His mouth twitched, but not into a smile. “They’re strong. They’ve seen things most women haven’t. Hell, most men haven’t. I don’t know if I believe in fairy tale endings, but if anyone’s got a shot, it’s those six.”
I let the silence hang between us. Let the air thicken.
“I plan weddings for a living,” I said eventually. “Six in the next few weeks, and they’ll all be perfect. But me? I’ll never walk down that aisle. Not in white. Not in any color. It’s not in me.”
“Why?” His voice was gentler now, but not soft. Silas Dane didn’t do soft.
I shrugged, pretending not to care. “Because I don’t trust forever. Because love is messy and people change. Because I’ve seen too many women lose themselves in the promise of something that was never real to begin with.”
Silas was quiet for a beat. Then he said, “Yeah. That tracks.”
I tilted my head. “You don’t think I’m wrong?”
He stepped closer, something flickering behind his eyes. “No. I think you’re the only honest one in the room most days.”
I didn’t know what to do with that.
Suddenly I felt too exposed. My dress was still clinging to every curve, my skin too warm, my body too aware of his.
I had brought him up here with every intention of letting things happen. Of peeling this dress off inch by inch, of silencing all the tension between us with the kind of reckless indulgence that didn’t need words. The kind that burned itself into memory and left no room for questions.
But now …
Now it felt different. More dangerous.
Because something had shifted in the air between us—this wasn’t just about lust anymore.
Not just chemistry crackling behind a locked door.
There was weight in the way he looked at me.
In the way he didn’t touch me, but still made me feel like I was coming undone.
He was reading me like he already knew what pages to turn.
I didn’t like that. Didn’t want it.
This wasn’t what I did. I didn’t blur lines on the job. I didn’t get tangled up in brooding, emotionally guarded men with military pasts and fractured families. I didn’t crave them like I craved air.
But here I was—still bare beneath this silk, heart thudding in my chest.
I wasn’t sure what we were doing. I wasn’t sure what this was.
And maybe that meant I needed to walk away before I lost control. Before I made another mistake I couldn’t take back. Before Silas Dane became more than a complication and started looking like a possibility. A temptation. A ruin I might run toward instead of from.
I turned toward the door. “We should get back.”
His hand shot out, catching my wrist—gently, firmly. That same hand that had tangled in my hair when he kissed me like he wanted to burn the world down.
He didn’t pull me in. Just held me there.
“I don’t believe in marriage,” he said again, lower this time. “But I believe in wanting. And right now, I want you.”
My breath caught.
Dangerous. This man was so dangerous. Not because he was broken, or brutal, or carved from secrets. But because when he looked at me like that—like I was something rare—he made me forget why I’d built walls in the first place.
I stepped back. Just enough to break his grip.
“I believe in boundaries,” I whispered.
But even as I said it, the words tasted like a lie.
This was only day two. Day two of a month-long, high-stakes production. If this was how tangled I already felt—with my skin flushed, my heart racing, my body betraying every ounce of professionalism I’d built my name on—what the hell was the rest of the month going to look like?
How many times would I have to see him? Stand next to him? Pretend I wasn’t imagining what it would feel like to take that smirk off his face with my mouth?
And God, the sex. It wouldn’t be soft. It wouldn’t be sweet.
It would be war.
Dirty and heated and full of the kind of fury that made your nails dig into flesh and your name come out like a threat.
He wouldn’t just take—I’d make him fight for it.
And I had no doubt he’d win. No doubt he’d know exactly how to wreck me, slowly, thoroughly, until I forgot every line I swore I wouldn’t cross.
The thought made my thighs clench, heat pooling where reason used to live.
I was in trouble. Big trouble.
His smile was slow. And devastating. “You keep saying that. But you don’t act like it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And you keep acting like you’ve got all the time in the world to get under my skin.”
He gave me a once-over that wasn’t even remotely subtle. “I’m already there, sweetheart.”
I didn’t argue.
Because we both knew he was right.
And we both knew this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
I moved toward the door again, but slower this time. Not because I was second-guessing myself.
Because I didn’t trust how badly I wanted to turn around.
Behind me, he exhaled—a sound like pressure leaving a valve. Controlled, but not calm. Nothing about Silas Dane was calm.
“You’re playing with fire,” he said, his voice like dark velvet scraped over gravel.
I paused, hand on the doorknob. “So are you.”
There was a beat of silence. Then his voice came again, low and electric. “You think I don’t know that?”
I turned, slowly. He was still standing there, his jaw tight, every muscle in his body drawn like a bowstring. Like he was restraining himself with nothing but grit and the last shreds of his discipline.
I stared at him, breath catching again. “Then why are you still here?”
His eyes locked on mine. “Because I don’t want to lie to myself.”
The words landed hard. Too honest. Too exposed. It wasn’t what I expected—not from him.
And something in me buckled.
I crossed the space between us without thinking. Just a step, but it felt seismic. My fingers grazed the front of his shirt—barely a touch—but he inhaled like I’d pressed a knife to his chest.
“I don’t do messy,” I whispered. “I don’t get involved. I don’t fall into bed with men I can’t predict.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower. “But you want to.”
It wasn’t a question. It was fact. Brutal, undeniable truth hanging between us like a match waiting for flame.
I didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
My voice was quiet. “It’s not enough to want something. You have to know what it’ll cost.”
He stepped closer, close enough that the heat from his body slid up the front of mine like steam off a fever.
“I do,” he said. “And I’d still pay it.”
The air snapped between us. And this time, I was the one who broke it.
I kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed me. I couldn’t tell.
One second there was space, and the next it was gone. His mouth caught mine like he’d been starving for it, hands finding my waist, not yanking—anchoring. Like he knew I’d bolt if he held me too hard.
I clutched the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. I tasted want and warning and heat and something more dangerous than either of us could name.
When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard, I said, “This is a bad idea.”
He smiled. Slow. Dark. Devastating. “The best ones always are.”