Chapter 22
SILAS
P ortia’s body was a furnace beneath me, her thighs clamped around my hips, her nails digging into my shoulders as I thrust into her, deep and relentless. The storage closet at Lustre bakery was a cocoon of sugar and shadows, the hum of the tasting room muffled beyond the locked door.
Her gasps filled my ears, hot and desperate, her skin slick with sweat under my hands. I wanted to stay here forever, just the two of us, where things were simple—her fire, my hunger, no ghosts, no wars.
Each thrust was a claim, her moans a surrender, and I buried myself in her, chasing the quiet only she could give. Her walls clenched around me, pulling me deeper, and I groaned, my lips on her throat, tasting salt and need.
“Portia,” I rasped, my voice raw, my world narrowing to her—her scent, her heat, her everything.
She arched into me, her hands fisting my hair, her voice a broken command. “Don’t stop, Silas.”
I didn’t. I fucked her harder, the crates behind her rattling, her moans unapologetic. Her orgasm ripped through her, her body trembling as she whispered my name.
I followed, spilling inside her, my vision blurring, my heart pounding.
We collapsed against the crates, panting, her legs still wrapped around me, my forehead pressed to hers. I wanted to stay here, in this moment, where there was no Department 77, no ribbon, no mother’s ghost haunting me. Just us, simple, real, alive.
But there was so much to do. My mother was back, her presence a blade in my chest, her story half-told on that Sullivan’s Island porch.
She had a plan, something big, something dangerous, and she needed my help.
I’d promised her I’d listen, promised myself I’d protect Portia from whatever storm was coming.
I pulled back, my hands cupping Portia’s face, her dark eyes soft but wary. “I’ll see you tonight,” I said, my voice low, earnest. “At your suite. There’s so much I need to tell you.”
She searched my face, her lips swollen, her breath still uneven. “You mean it?”
I nodded, my thumb brushing her cheek. “I’m done running. I want to open up. About everything.”
Her eyes softened, and she kissed me, slow and deep, a promise that burned through me. “Midnight,” she whispered. “Don’t be late.”
I slipped out the back door of Lustre, the Charleston air thick, my body still humming from her touch. Portia headed back to the tasting room, her heels clicking, her composure a mask I knew too well.
I climbed into my truck, the ribbon in my pocket a cold weight, and started for Sullivan’s Island.
I hadn’t made it halfway when a McLaren roared up beside me, its engine a low growl.
My hand went to my pistol, instincts kicking in, but the tinted window rolled down, and there she was—my mother, Caroline Dane, her graying hair pulled back, her storm-gray eyes sharp in the sunlight.
She motioned for me to follow, her expression unreadable. I hesitated, my heart thudding, but nodded, pulling behind her.
Her route was winding, deliberate, cutting through backroads and doubling back twice, checking for tails. I kept pace, my eyes scanning for threats, the ribbon burning in my pocket.
She was careful, too careful, and it made my gut twist. What was she afraid of? Who was she running from?
She parked in front of a modest condo, half a mile from Dominion Hall, its beige exterior blending into the quiet street. I pulled up behind her, got out, and followed her to the door. She unlocked it, her movements swift, and held it open for me, her smile faint but warm.
“Come in, Silas.”
Inside, she set the alarm, the beep sharp in the silence, and led me upstairs to a living room smaller than my bedroom at Dominion Hall.
The decor was tasteful but sparse—white walls, a gray sofa, a coffee table with a single vase of lilies.
No photos, no personal touches, just clean lines and shadows.
She turned to me, her eyes softening. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water,” I said, then changed my mind, my nerves raw. “No, something stronger.”
She smiled, a flicker of the woman who’d raised me, and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with two rocks glasses, each a quarter full of amber liquid—bourbon, by the smell. She handed me one, raising hers.
“Here’s to mud in your eye,” she said, her voice light but tinged with something old, familiar.
I laughed, the sound rough, easing the tension in my chest. “You know, I’ve heard that a hundred times and still don’t know what it means.”
She shrugged, her smile wistful. “Something my grandfather used to say. Never explained it either.”
We sat on the sofa, the bourbon burning my throat as I sipped, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. I watched her, her face older but still hers, the woman who’d called me My Silas , who’d vanished and left a hole in my heart.
The questions burned, but I waited, letting her set the pace. She stared at her glass, her fingers tracing the rim, her eyes drifting to the window like she was seeing something I couldn’t.
I couldn’t wait anymore. “Why are you back, Mom?” I asked, my voice low, urgent. “Why now?”
She didn’t answer at first, her gaze still on the window, her expression distant. Then she turned to me, her eyes sharp, cold, the spy I’d never known staring back.
“It’s time to burn it all down,” she said, her voice steady. “Department 77, my father’s memory, all of it.”
My breath caught, my mind spinning. “How?”
She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with calculation. “We carve out the heart.”
I stared, my pulse hammering. “What does that mean?”
“77’s on its last legs,” she said, her voice low, precise. “But still dangerous. Without their Washington links, they’re untethered. No leash. No rules. That makes them unpredictable, desperate. They’ve got nothing to lose, Silas, and that’s when they’re most lethal.”
I leaned back, the bourbon glass cool in my hand, my thoughts racing.
“What’s your role in this? You said you stayed with 77 to protect us, but what are you to them?”
She shrugged, the motion nonchalant, but her eyes were steel. “I’m Number 2. Heir apparent.”
The words hit like a slug, my mind flashing to the past—Ryker nearly killed on that pier, Will and Claire kidnapped, my brothers targeted by 77’s operatives.
We’d spilled blood to stop them, thought we’d gutted their network, but now our mother sat here, their second-in-command.
“What part did you play?” I asked, my voice hard, my fists clenching. “When they came for Ryker, for Claire, for us—what were you doing?”
Her face softened, but her eyes didn’t waver.
“I shielded you, Silas, in ways you’ll never know.
I have people inside—loyal people—who did the dirty work when I couldn’t.
Killed their own, sabotaged missions, nudged scopes off target.
I proved my loyalty to 77 over and over, but they suspect me now.
I’ve played every card, and I’m running out. ”
I stared at her, my mind a blast zone. She was part of the problem, a snake slithering into the lion’s den, her hands as bloody as mine.
But she was my mother, the woman who’d loved me, who’d stayed to protect us. I couldn’t believe she’d betray us, not after that embrace, not after her tears on that porch.
“Who’s Number 1?” I asked, my voice low, dreading the answer.
She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing, her voice slow, like she savored the words. “My father. Your grandfather. And it’s time to kill the son of a bitch for everyone’s sake.”
My breath stopped, the bourbon burning in my throat. My grandfather, the man who’d created 77, who’d corrupted it, who’d driven my parents apart. The man who’d made my mother a ghost, who’d left us to think she was dead.
I wanted to ask more, to demand the whole story, but her face—hard, haunted—told me she’d said enough for now. The ribbon in my pocket felt heavier, a promise of blood, not love.
I nodded, my jaw tight, my decision made. I’d help her, whatever it took. I’d burn 77 down, end her father, end this war.
We sat in silence, the bourbon gone, the coming night pressing against the windows.
I thought of Portia, her fear, her body under mine in that closet. I’d promised to open up, to tell her everything—my mother, 77, the ghosts that haunted me. But now, with my mother’s plan laid bare, I wasn’t sure I could. Not yet. Not until I knew what it would cost her, what it would cost us.
I stood and looked at my mother, her eyes still sharp, still hers.
“I’m in,” I said, my voice steady. “Whatever it takes.”
She nodded, her smile faint but proud. “I knew you would be, My Silas.”
After some preliminary planning, I left the condo, the night air caressing my skin, my mind a storm of her words, Portia’s touch, and the war I’d just signed up for.
I’d see Portia tonight, tell her what I could, but the ribbon, my mother, 77—they were a weight I’d continue to carry alone, at least for now.
I climbed into my truck, the engine roaring to life, and drove toward The Palmetto Rose, her name the only thing keeping me grounded in the chaos.