Page 20 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
Release crashes over me in a violent rush, tearing a cry from my throat as my body bows into his, shuddering with the force of it. Every nerve splinters into pleasure, my muscles seizing around him as I unravel completely. He follows hard, his own release shaking through him as he drives deep and buries his face against my neck, groaning my name in a raw, broken sound that leaves me quivering beneath him.
For a long, breathless moment, we stay tangled, sweat slick and shaking. His weight pins me, his breath hot against my skin. And I don't want him to move.
Which is the most terrifying truth of all.
Later, when the room has gone quiet except for the faint crash of waves beyond the windows, I trace the line of his shoulder with my fingers. I should push him away, reassert control, rebuild my walls. Instead, I let myself linger.
"You're dangerous, Porter," I whisper.
His lips brush my temple. "So are you."
A knock shatters the quiet. Three hard raps at my door.
I freeze. Nolan's body goes rigid against mine, every muscle primed.
The danger hasn't passed; it's only just arrived.
We dress in a rush, weapons secured before we step into the hall. The doorway gapes empty—no one waiting, no sign of movement. Searching for whoever knocked, we move through the house, our footsteps muted by the heavy rugs. Nolan doesn’t release my hand. I want to pull away, but I don’t. His grip is steady, reassuring in a way I resent yet can’t quite refuse.
I break away and step forward, every muscle tense. The object in front of us is unmistakable: another mask, heavier than the replicas, carved from wood darkened by age. Crimson stains mar the surface, thick and ugly, seeping into the grooves of the design. I don't have a way to test it forensically here at Saltmoor, but instinct and experience say it isn't paint or dye. It's blood.
The air seems to thicken, pressing down on me. My throat tightens, bile rising as I stare at the grotesque display. The guards shift uneasily, whispering about curses, about omens. I silence them with a look, though my own pulse is unsteady.
Nolan steps beside me, his jaw set, his presence solid as stone. He studies the mask with a calm I can't quite believe. "This wasn't just left here. It was staged."
I nod, my voice rough. "They wanted us to find it. To rattle us."
"Or to mark territory." His tone is grim. "In most ancient civilizations, blood is a claim. A warning."
My hands ball into fists, nails biting so deep it hurts. Rage scalds through me, raw and reckless. "Then we hit back harder. Hard enough they regret ever stepping into this house."
Nolan's hand covers mine, firm, steady. "We will. But not if you burn yourself out first."
I pull away, glaring at him even as my heart stutters. "I don't need you to tell me how to fight."
His gaze darkens, unreadable. "Maybe not. But I'm still here. And I'm not leaving your side."
The carved mask gleams dully under the gallery lights, blood catching the glow like a living thing. I square my shoulders, forcing strength into my spine. Whatever this game is, I won't let it break me.
With Nolan beside me, steady as bedrock, the truth hits hard. I'm not facing this fight alone anymore, no matter how much I want to pretend otherwise.
On the balcony I pull air deep and let the anger cool into something keener. He does not outrank me and never will. Letting him call shots in the field would be surrender, and surrender is not in my vocabulary. Every op I run proves control is the difference between mission and body bags, and the idea of giving any of it away knots my stomach. Still, I can't ignore what I saw—how fast he reads a room and how clean his orders land. Pride bristles, but my instincts register the precision I missed.
Trust isn’t surrender—it’s strategy. I turn to face him, my voice clipped but controlled. “Fine. We do this together. My command, your eyes. Don’t mistake the difference.”
His answering nod is sharp, without argument. It tells me he heard the terms and accepts them. This isn’t me giving up control. It’s me choosing the fight I can win. The other battles—the ghosts, the sabotage, the cursed mask—those will take both of us.
I grip the cold stone railing, steadying myself against the tide of adrenaline and want. He’s still watching me, measuring, weighing. For a second, heat flickers in his eyes before he shutters it. Good. Let him want. Let him wait. I’ve set the rules.
“My command,” I repeat, softer this time, but no less fierce.
“Understood,” he replies, and for once, there’s no trace of defiance in his voice.
CHAPTER 8
NOLAN
The south gallery still reeks of blood and tension when Allison orders the guards to clear the room. She holds herself rigid, her voice crisp, but I see the toll in the taut set of her shoulders. She is fire contained, trying to burn without breaking. I know that look. I wore it more times than I can count on missions when the odds were stacked too high against us. It never fooled anyone who knew me, and she doesn't fool me now.
