Chapter 17
PORTIA
T wo days later, I was too tired to cry.
Too tired to think, or ache, or scroll through old texts that didn’t exist.
The day had been a marathon of satin and lace, champagne flutes and false eyelashes, carefully worded compliments and expertly deflected emotional crises.
The ladies—my radiant, unpredictable, feral little bridal flock—had descended on the King Street boutique like queens at court, sweeping through racks of designer gowns with the force of a hurricane and the indecision of a Netflix user trying to choose a show.
I’d made small talk with Vivienne’s sister, talked Sloane’s mother out of a feathered veil, and pretended not to notice when Anna had quietly wiped her eyes after slipping into a fitted crepe dress that made her look like sin and salvation all at once.
Six brides. Six vision boards. Six family dynamics simmering beneath the surface like champagne under pressure.
I hadn’t eaten all day.
Not really.
There’d been mini quiches and little cucumber sandwiches at the boutique—genteel bites passed around on silver trays by a flustered catering assistant—but I’d been too busy tracking hem lengths to even consider a plate.
At one point, Pia had offered me a bite of her lobster roll and I’d smiled so tightly my jaw ached for twenty minutes.
So now, alone in my suite at The Palmetto Rose, feet bare, hair twisted up, I opened the silver domes of room service like sacred relics.
The scent hit me first—smoked shrimp and butter, collard greens laced with vinegar and heat, cornbread slick with honeyed glaze. The shrimp and grits were practically glowing in their shallow porcelain bowl, steam curling into the air like holy incense.
I took one bite.
And nearly wept.
The grit was creamy, the shrimp blackened to perfection, the sauce rich with bacon and something bright—lemon maybe. I chewed slowly, reverently. Like maybe if I dragged it out long enough, the whole world would pause with me.
The lights were dim. Jazz crackled low from the speaker in the corner. Outside, Charleston breathed its nighttime lullaby—Spanish moss whispering in the wind, cars humming distantly down cobblestone streets.
I let my eyes close for a moment.
I let myself pretend that I was just a woman having dinner.
Not a wedding planner unraveling beneath her own perfection.
Not a woman who kissed the wrong man because the right one had vanished into the dark.
And then?—
A knock.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just three slow raps.
I didn’t move at first. I just sat there, fork suspended over the cornbread. My heart didn’t race. It stalled.
Because some part of me already knew.
Room service wouldn’t knock like that. Monte wouldn’t knock at all—he’d text, he’d wait, he’d ask permission. Bea would burst in with a bottle of wine and a rant about Pia trying to order six custom bridesmaid gowns with thigh slits “tastefully inspired by Angelina Jolie’s Oscar leg.”
No. This knock was different.
Intentional. Quiet.
Like a question he didn’t want to ask out loud.
I stood. Slowly. My bare feet whispering against the wood floor. My linen lounge pants hung low on my hips, the tank top soft with wear. No makeup. No armor.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
Silas Dane.
His shirt was wrinkled. His jaw dark with stubble. There was a fading bruise high on his cheekbone, and a cut near his temple that looked like it had been cleaned but not cared for. His eyes—those cool, storm-colored eyes—burned when they met mine.
He looked tired. More than tired.
He looked wrecked.
And I hated that he still made my pulse trip.
“Hi,” he said.
Just that.
Like he hadn’t disappeared.
Like he hadn’t left me wondering if I was losing my mind.
I didn’t speak.
He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling just slightly. “I didn’t think I’d come. I was gonna leave again. Just … disappear.”
I crossed my arms. Not to defend myself. To hold myself together.
“And yet here you are.”
His jaw flexed. “When I heard Monte was with you … That night …”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“I thought maybe …” He hesitated, eyes flicking past me to the glow of my suite, the lingering scent of butter and salt in the air. “I thought you’d made your choice.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t.”
“You kissed him.”
“I was tired,” I said, voice trembling, “and lonely, and I wanted to feel something that didn’t scare me.”
He stepped forward.
I didn’t stop him.
He was close now, the line of his body a heat I could feel all over mine.
“And did it work?” he asked.
I looked up at him. Took in the bruise, the stubble, the storm in his eyes.
“No,” I whispered. “It didn’t work.”
He exhaled, rough and ragged. Like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he left.
“I went looking for something,” he said. “Someone. It didn’t matter. I just needed to run.”
His hand lifted, slow, almost shaking, and hovered near my face.
“But I couldn’t outrun you.”
The words hit like a punch.
“You can’t say that to me,” I whispered. “You don’t get to vanish and come back like nothing happened.”
“I know,” he said.
He looked down then, almost ashamed.
“I don’t know how to do this, Portia.”
I felt tears sting the backs of my eyes. But I didn’t let them fall.
“Then why are you here?” I asked.
His gaze lifted, blazing now, no more fog, no more smoke.
“Because I don’t want anyone else touching you.”
I closed my eyes.
Because it was the wrong reason.
And yet—the only one I wanted.
He stepped closer again, until I could feel the heat of his chest.
“Tell me to go,” he said. “And I will. I swear to God. Just say the word.”
I looked at him.
And I didn’t.
I didn’t say anything.
Instead, I opened the door wider.
And Silas Dane stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him, quiet as a confession.
Neither of us moved. Not at first. We just stood there in the hush of my suite.
I watched him like he was an earthquake I hadn’t decided to survive yet. And still, my voice came steady.
“What is this?” I asked. “This push and pull. This chase, then vanish. You burn me and then you disappear like smoke. Is this a game to you?”
“No,” he said, rough and immediate. “It’s war.”
My breath caught.
He moved closer, slow, like I was something wild that might bolt.
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I haven’t tried to stay away?
” His jaw flexed. “Every minute I was away from you, I wanted to come back. But I didn’t know how.
Because when I look at you, Portia—I don’t just see fire.
I see ruin. I see the man I used to be, and the man I don’t know how to become. ”
I shook my head, voice trembling. “You don’t get to stand here and say that. You don’t get to make me the center of your storm and then act like I was the one who moved.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Then tell me what this is.”
“It’s impossible,” I said.
“Maybe,” he breathed. “But it’s real.”
The air between us changed. Shifted. Grew thick with the kind of gravity I’d sworn to ignore.
“You scare the hell out of me,” he said, voice low.
My breath hitched. His eyes—storm-gray, predatory—pinned me in place. “You undo me,” I whispered, the confession spilling like blood.
He crossed the room in three strides, his calloused hand cupping my jaw, fingers splaying across my cheek, warm and trembling with barely leashed restraint.
His scent—raw male power—flooded my senses.
I surged forward, crashing my lips against his, no hesitation, no mercy.
I kissed him like he was my salvation and my damnation, my tongue claiming his with desperate hunger.
Silas groaned, a primal sound that vibrated through my bones, his hands seizing my hips and yanking me against him. His erection pressed hard against my stomach, a promise of ruin. His mouth devoured mine—teeth clashing, tongues battling, reckless and ravenous.
“I could buy you anything,” he rasped between kisses, “a private island, a jet to fuck you at forty thousand feet. Name it, and it’s yours.”
“Shut up and take me,” I growled, fisting his shirt.
He lifted me effortlessly, my thighs wrapping around his waist as I ground against the rigid length of him. My back hit the plush mattress, and he followed, his lips never leaving mine.
His eyes darkened. “You’re mine tonight,” he vowed, peeling my clothes off with reverent precision, leaving me bare and trembling beneath him. His gaze raked over me, worship and hunger fused into something unholy. “Fuck, Portia. You’re a goddamn masterpiece.”
“Then ruin me,” I challenged.
He unbuckled his belt with a flick. His boxer briefs followed, freeing his thick, pulsing cock, and I reached for him, wrapping my hand around his velvet steel. He hissed, hips jerking. “You’re playing with fire,” he warned.
“Then burn me,” I whispered, stroking him slow and deliberate, relishing the way his control frayed.
Silas caught my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand.
His other hand slid between my thighs, finding me slick and ready.
“So fucking wet,” he growled, two fingers plunging deep, curling expertly to hit that spot that made stars explode behind my eyes.
I moaned, hips bucking, body already spiraling.
“For me?” he demanded, his thumb circling my clit with maddening precision.
“For you,” I gasped. “Always for you, Silas.”
His growl was feral, and then his fingers were gone, replaced by the blunt head of his cock. He teased my entrance, dragging himself through my folds, coating himself in my arousal. “Beg,” he ordered, voice raw.
“Please,” I whimpered, shameless. “Fuck me.”
He thrust in, one long, brutal stroke that stretched me to the edge of pain and pleasure, filling me so completely I screamed his name. He paused, letting me feel every inch of him, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, almost reverent.
Then he moved.