Page 15 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
I cross my arms. "For the record, I don't."
His smile is slow, confident. "Your body disagrees."
I turn to face him. "Look, I'm not going to tell you I didn’t enjoy myself. I did. But the truth is I was sent here to do a job, a job I'm good at, and you’re getting in the way is problematic."
A betraying flush rises, prickling beneath my skin, but I lock my jaw and keep my focus on the horizon.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "You can tell yourself last night was a mistake all you want. But mistakes don't feel like that."
My breath hitches, traitorous and shallow, as memory sparks in every nerve. I should push him away. I should shut this down. Instead, I find myself leaning just slightly toward him, drawn by a force I can't deny.
"Careful, Porter," I whisper. "You're starting to sound like a man who wants more."
"I do," he answers simply.
Before either of us can break the moment, my comm crackles to life. "Allison, you'd better come quick. We've got something in the east wing you'll want to see."
I exhale, stepping back, dragging my focus to the job. "Saved by the proverbial bell."
Nolan's grin is wicked. "For now."
Together, we head toward the east wing, the pull between us as undeniable as the danger waiting in the shadows.
The further we go, the quieter the house becomes. The opulence gives way to storage halls and narrow servants’ corridors, dimly lit and cooler than the rest of the estate. A faint draft snakes along the corridor, chilling against my skin. One of the sconces flickers, though no airflow should touch the wiring here.
At the far end of the east wing, two guards stand stiff-backed beside a half-open door. One glances at me, relief in his eyes. "Ma'am, it's in here. We found it when we did our sweep."
I push the door wide and step inside. The room is meant for unused furniture, stacks of chairs and side tables draped in white sheets. In the center, clear against the dusty floor, is a single footprint. Not from one of ours. The sole is cut differently, modern tactical tread, not staff shoes. Beside it, a strip of velvet the exact shade of the replica masks.
Nolan crouches, brushing a finger just above the print, not touching. "Fresh. Whoever left this was here less than an hour ago."
A shiver crawls along my spine. "They're still watching us. Testing boundaries."
He lifts his eyes to mine. "Or leaving us a message." He holds up the velvet strip. "This was no accident. They want us to know they can move anywhere in this house."
I crouch, studying the tread. Wide forefoot, heavy heel strike, slight inward roll. Taller than average, carries mass with confidence, not a shuffler. Fresh dust displaced at the edges tells me he paused, assessing. A faint crescent of grit clings to the heel, pale and fine, not from this room. Courtyard sand, most likely.
"Local," I say. "Or someone who's been outside recently. Came in fast, stopped here on purpose."
"Now what?" he asks, his gaze steady and unreadable.
"Now we wait for them to show themselves again. And we make sure we're ready."
Later, I find that sleep is elusive, and I finally make my way down to the exhibit room. I want to check on the mask, but something about the way the house feels when everyone is asleep is unsettling. I tell myself it's just the unfamiliar setting, the way shadows pool differently in the corners, but my instincts scream otherwise. I've done countless midnight security sweeps, but this feels like walking into a predator's den.
The mask gleams in its case, catching starlight from the tall windows. Beautiful and terrible, like a weapon disguised as art. I approach slowly, every nerve alert.
The temperature hits me first—a bone-deep cold that has nothing to do with air conditioning. My breath mists as I lean closer to the case, and I can swear the jeweled eyes track my movement.
"Just nerves," I mutter, but my voice sounds thin in the sudden quiet.
That's when I hear it: drumming. Faint but rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing from somewhere deep in the house's bones. The sound raises goosebumps along my arms, familiar yet alien, as if my body recognizes something my mind refuses to accept.
The case glass reflects my face alongside the mask's golden features, and for one disorienting moment, they seem to merge. My reflection wavers, and I see myself with painted cheeks, bone ornaments threaded through my hair, eyes dark with knowledge I don't possess.
No.I step back, hand moving instinctively to my weapon. "Stress reaction. Exhaustion. Nothing more."
But the drumming continues, and now I hear voices—chanting in a language that predates any European tongue. The sound comes from everywhere and nowhere, as if the house itself remembers songs sung centuries before its foundation stones were laid.
