Page 31 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
Pleasure rises sharp and unstoppable, my nails biting into his shoulders as I break apart, crying out his name. He follows me over, thrusts turning ragged, and then he spills into me with a groan that vibrates through my chest.
For a long moment, we stay joined—bodies trembling, foreheads pressed together. His breath is harsh; mine no better. But in the quiet that follows this storm of sensation, I feel something shift—something I can’t name but that I know will not let me walk away unchanged.
Later, Ryan finds us on the terrace. He stands framed against the western gloom, tux loosened, the man who owns a house that could swallow a town and chooses to fill it with art instead.
"You two did a hell of a job," he says, voice rough from hours of tight smiles. "You saved a collection and kept people safe. Thank you."
I clasp my hands together because I don't know how to accept a compliment without reflex. Nolan, bless him, accepts for both of us. Ryan drops a line I don't expect.
"We're taking the Calusa exhibit to London," he says, watching Nolan with an intent that makes the muscles shift in Nolan's face. "I've asked Nolan to shepherd our collection. He understands both the history and the respect it deserves, and I've asked Fitz for a permanent head of security to be assigned to it as well. If you'd like, Allison, I can ask Fitz to make that person you."
Nolan looks at me before he answers, that brief look that holds more than words. "That sounds like an incredible opportunity."
"Think about it, Allison," Ryan says. "We'll set up logistics. You've more than earned it."
When Ryan walks away I feel the line between us again, the thing we have to decide by the tick of the clock. Nolan steps close and tucks my fingers into his, a small anchored moment.
We spend hours on the terrace talking through what guardianship actually means—not just the romantic notion of protecting artifacts, but the daily responsibility of balancing spiritual obligations with practical security work. The weight of it should be daunting but discussing it together makes it feel manageable.
"I love you, Allison. I'm not asking for you to return that sentiment or a vow until you're sure," he says, "but I want tomorrow with you. And the next day and the day after that. I just want to know I can wake up when you do."
Breathe, I tell myself. This is not a trap. This is not danger. This is a man asking for time in a way that does not demand I give everything I have. I can do time. I can give tomorrow. For once the word promise feels possible.
Exhaling, I say, "I love you too... at least I think that's what I'm feeling. I know I don't want to wake up without you either." I say the words slowly because I mean them. "I can promise you tomorrow and the day after that."
But there's more than just our relationship to discuss. I still hold the mask, and I can feel the ancient spirits within it—no longer hungry or hostile, but watchful, patient. They've accepted our guardianship, but that comes with responsibilities neither of us fully understands yet.
"The mask," I say, looking down at the golden artifact in my hands. "What do we do with it now?"
Nolan takes it carefully, his fingers tracing the symbols with reverence. "The irony is that Dreschner didn't believe in any of it. He thought he was just staging theater. But when he performed blood rituals with an authentic Calusa artifact, when he channeled genuine historical trauma through sacred symbols... he accidentally did what real shamans once did intentionally. He opened a doorway he never believed existed."
"So the spirits are real, but his methods were fake?"
"Exactly. He was a fraud who stumbled into truth. The spirits responded not to his belief, but to the authentic elements he unknowingly activated—the blood, the gold, the ritual space, the accumulated spiritual energy from the masquerade." His voice carries the quiet certainty of a man who has found his calling. "Now we honor the trust they've placed in us. Together."
Ryan's offer suddenly makes more sense—the traveling exhibition, the permanent security assignment, the chance to work together protecting cultural treasures. It wasn't just about the money or the career opportunity. It was about destiny, about accepting a role that maybe we were always meant to play.
"The spirits," I ask. "Can you still sense them?"
Nolan nods. "They're at peace now. They have purpose again, guardians who understand their true nature. But they're also watching, Allison. If we fail in our responsibilities, if we let greed or carelessness endanger what they're meant to protect..."
"They'll find other guardians," I finish.
"Or they'll take matters into their own hands."
The weight of that responsibility settles on both of us, but it doesn't feel burdensome. It feels right, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. We were brought together by this mask, by forces older than either of us understood. Now we have the chance to honor that connection properly.
We talk and the words spill out the way they do when danger has taught you what you cannot waste time on. I tell him about missions that were supposed to be quick and became blood notes on dry leaves. I tell him about faces that return to me when the world falls silent, people I lost and can never bring back. I tell him about taking responsibility because it was easier than grief.
He listens without flinching. Then he tells me he remembers pieces of a life before the museum catalogues and the polite lectures. He tells me about orders, about being given a man's life to trust and failing at it once and learning to be more deliberate. He tells me he doesn't want the easy escape of something casual. He wants someone who will stand in the mess and chaos of our combined history.
Our conversation is not pretty. It is the unvarnished truth that unravels the quieter lies we tell ourselves. We test boundaries. We trade truths until the edges blunt and the center is bare and real.
After this honesty, we find our bodies again. This is not a frantic fold of hands and lips. It is slow and intimate, the kind of closeness that sutures rather than rips. He touches me with reverence, paying attention to the map of scars both obvious and not. I let him because this is trust in action.
The morning light is spilling into the main dining room as we enter. Ryan brings up logistics and the practicalities of a shipment and staff and a statement that needs to be released about Dreschner and announcing the collection, its opening in London and going on tour. Nolan's name goes into a document for London, tentative details to be hammered out, which makes something like a future tangible.
At a quiet moment, Nolan slips me a note. It's small, bureaucratic, but it's a doorway. "You'll come?" he asks without the weight of a demand.
