Chapter 14
SILAS
I leaned against a jasmine-twined trellis at Verandelle, the brunch humming around me, all soft jazz and clinking mimosas. My eyes weren’t on the crab cakes or the floral arches—they were on Portia.
She moved through the courtyard like she owned it, her floral dress swaying, modest but still a fucking tease, hugging her hips just enough to remind me of that guest suite, her body bare under silk, her moans in my ear.
My cock ached at the memory, and I cursed under my breath, shifting my weight to hide it.
Monte was never far from her, his suit crisp, his eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk. Naval Academy grad, I’d dug up. Annapolis polish, stick up his ass, too good for the enlisted grunts like me.
At least that’s the vibe he gave off, all starched collars and calculated moves. I didn’t trust him, didn’t like him.
I tracked their every interaction, my jaw tight, my rocks glass untouched in my hand.
Monte leaned in to murmur something to her, his hand brushing her elbow, and my blood boiled. She nodded, her face professional, but I saw the way he lingered, the way his eyes softened when she smiled.
Family, he’d called her.
Bullshit. No man looked at Portia Lane without wanting to fuck her. I’d felt it in that shop, her legs around me, her heat pulling me under.
Monte wanted that, too. I could see it in his posture, the way he hovered like he had a claim. My fingers tightened on the glass, and I forced myself to look away.
I played nice, or as close to nice as I got.
My brothers were scattered around the courtyard, their fiancées laughing, their hands intertwined.
Marcus was by the fountain, tossing poker cards with Will, his grin sharp as ever.
Atlas stood quiet, his arm around Anna, his eyes soft in a way I’d never seen before.
Noah was with Hallie Mae, her head on his shoulder, her smile fragile but real.
I liked her, I realized, and it caught me off guard. Hallie Mae wasn’t like the others, didn’t look at me like I was The Ghost, some shadow to fear. She looked at me like a person, her eyes warm, her grief for her father raw but not hidden.
Maybe that’s what I respected—her willingness to carry that loss and still stand tall, still love Noah like the world hadn’t broken her. It stirred something in me, and I shoved it down, focusing on the crowd.
I’d managed to avoid Portia most of the morning, keeping my distance, letting the brunch’s chaos be my shield. But I couldn’t stop watching her.
She floated through the guests, her smile curated, her clipboard a weapon. Monte was always there, a step behind, his eyes flicking to her like she was his mission.
Monte Jones, Head of Security for Portia’s firm. Naval Academy. Served as admiral’s aide and then intelligence officer, clean record, now private sector.
Too clean, if you asked me. Guys like him didn’t get their hands dirty—they gave orders, stayed above the fray. Not like me, who’d bled in the dirt, who’d killed to keep my brothers alive.
Monte’s polish grated on me, made me want to smear it with blood.
The brunch dragged on, mimosas flowing, guests mingling, and I stayed on the edges, playing my part—nodding to Ryker, joking with Charlie, keeping my brothers’ fiancées smiling. They were good women, all of them, and I wanted this day to be theirs, not mine.
But my eyes kept finding Portia, her dress catching the light, her movements sharp and sure. She was talking to Leanne, Hallie Mae’s mother, her hand gentle on the older woman’s arm, her face soft with empathy.
It hit me hard, that softness, so different from the fire she’d thrown at me. I wanted to hate it, wanted to hate her, but all I could think about was her body under mine, her voice commanding me to stay.
Then she saw me.
Her eyes locked onto mine across the courtyard, and the air shifted, like a storm rolling in. She excused herself from Leanne, her stride purposeful, her floral dress swaying as she closed the distance. I braced myself, knowing this wasn’t going to be civil.
Portia came out swinging, her voice low but sharp, dripping with venom.
“Nice company you’re keeping, Silas,” she said, her eyes flicking toward where Marjorie had been. “What, you got a thing for big boobs and big curves now? That your type? All soft and sweet, ready to bake you cookies and call you honey?”
I wanted to laugh, wanted to let it spill out, but I kept my face blank, letting her go on.
She was jealous, and it looked good on her—her cheeks flushed, her eyes blazing, her hands clenched like she wanted to slap me.
I leaned against the trellis, casual, my glass dangling from my fingers, and let her burn.
“Keep going,” I said, my voice cool. “You’re on a roll.”
She stepped closer, her scent hitting me like a drug.
“Oh, I’m just getting started. You think you can stand there, flirting with some bombshell, acting like yesterday didn’t happen?
Like you didn’t have me against a workbench, then in a guest room, like I wasn’t—” She cut herself off, her jaw tight, her eyes flashing with something raw.
“You think you can just move on to the next curvy thing in a sundress?”
I let the silence hang, heavy and sharp, her words cutting deeper than I’d expected.
She was hurt, not just angry, and it stirred something in me—guilt, maybe, or something worse.
But I wasn’t ready to give her the truth, not yet.
I wanted her to feel what I’d felt, watching Monte hover like he owned her.
“Funny,” I said, my voice cold, sly, “you’re so worried about my company, but what about yours? Monte, the stuck-up prick who’d love to stick his prick inside you. Don’t act like you haven’t seen it, Portia. The way he looks at you, follows you, says your name like it’s his fucking property.”
Her eyes widened, a flash of shock, then narrowed, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. She knew it was true—Monte’s want was written all over him, in every glance, every step he took to stay close.
Her lips parted, but no words came, and I pressed harder, my voice low, cutting.
“Maybe it’d be easier for all of us if that’s how it went. You with Monte, me left alone. Clean break, no mess.”
She flinched, her face paling for a split second before the fire came back.
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me out of your hair, off with some guy you can’t stand, while you’re fucking Miss Sunshine over there? Is she your lay for the night, Silas? Your new distraction?”
The words hit like a blade, cold and sharp, and my control wavered. My smile was slow, deliberate, anything but warm. I leaned in, close enough to feel her breath, to see the pulse hammering in her throat.
“That girl,” I said, my voice low, deadly, “is Marjorie. Widow of one of Marcus’s SEALs. Died saving Marcus’s life. She’s like family.”
Her face fell, the fire draining from her eyes, replaced by something soft, something broken. She opened her mouth, then closed it, her shoulders sagging.
“Silas, I?—”
“Don’t,” I said, cutting her off.
I should’ve felt good, watching her deflate, watching her realize she’d fucked up. But I didn’t. My chest ached. I’d wanted to hurt her, to match her jab for jab, but now, seeing her like this, it felt wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small, her eyes dropping to the ground.
She turned to walk away, her heels soft on the brick path, and my hand shot out, grabbing her arm, needing to stop her, to keep her here.
But Monte appeared, stepping between us like a goddamn wall. His eyes were hard, his posture all business, but I saw the fire in him, the same rage I’d sparked by the dock.
“Back off, Dane,” he said, his voice low, steady.
I almost snapped. My fist clenched, ready to bury itself in his jaw, to wipe that Annapolis polish off his face.
I felt eyes on us—Marcus by the fountain, Noah with Hallie Mae, Atlas watching from the corner.
My brothers wouldn’t care if I decked him.
They’d probably cheer. But their fiancées—Claire, Hallie Mae, Anna—they’d care.
This was their day, their moment, and I wouldn’t ruin it for them.
Not for Monte, not for Portia, not for my own fucked-up heart.
I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter, the glass cool in my hand, and took a sip, forcing a smirk.
“Nice suit, Monte,” I said, my voice dripping with disdain. “Hope it’s bulletproof.”
I didn’t wait for his comeback. I turned, walking away, my steps heavy on the brick, my blood screaming for violence.
I needed a fight, a kill, something to wipe away the memory of Portia’s face—her jealousy, her hurt, her fire that burned me alive. I needed blood to drown out the ache, to erase the way she’d looked at me, the way I’d wanted to pull her close instead of letting her go.
Department 77 was out there, my mother’s ghost waiting, but all I could think about was her. And I hated it.
I pushed through the crowd, the laughter too loud, too bright. My truck was parked out back, my escape from this gilded cage. I needed to move, to hunt, to bury this feeling in action.
Violence was clean, clear, a mission I could complete.
Portia was a war I didn’t know how to fight, and I was losing.