Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
brOOKE
I wrap both hands around the glass because I need something steady to hold onto, and because it gives me an excuse not to fidget like I’m twelve and sitting in the principal’s office.
Rev is across from me, broad shoulders tight under his jacket, jaw set like he’s biting down on every thought he doesn’t want to say out loud.
He looks like he’s been fighting with himself since before we even left Bella’s house, and watching him sit there like this makes something in my chest ache.
The waiter picked the wrong night to flirt with me, and he picked the wrong man to do it in front of.
I noticed the look and the way his eyes kept landing on me.
I also noticed the way Rev’s whole body changed the second it happened, like he went from stressed to ready to break someone’s teeth.
He ordered for both of us before I could even get a word out, and I didn’t argue because, honestly, I didn’t want to.
Not tonight. Not after the last week of forcing myself to do hard things on purpose.
Rev takes a drink and when he sets the glass down his hand lingers around it. His knuckles are wrapped, gauze peeking under the tape, and even that makes me feel weirdly protective. He’s hurt. He’s tense. He’s trying so hard not to be obvious about either.
We drink and the silence stretches, but this time it’s different.
It’s not awkward. It’s loaded. Rev lets out a slow breath and leans back, then forward again, restless like sitting still hurts.
His gaze drops to the table, then lifts back to me like he’s deciding whether or not to say what’s really on his mind.
I blink, caught by the simple bluntness of it. Not accusing. Not soft either. Just honest in a way that lands right in my chest.
“Rev…”
“I’m not saying you owed me anything,” he cuts in quickly, frustration flickering across his face, more at himself than me. “I’m saying I would’ve answered.”
Something tight loosens and tightens all at once. I don’t look away this time. “I know you would have.”
The space between us fills with everything neither of us says. The bar noise hums around us, glasses clinking somewhere behind me, a low murmur of voices drifting in and out, but it feels like we’re sitting in a smaller world, just the two of us and the truth sitting heavy on the table.
Without really thinking about it, I reach across and take his hand.
His skin is warm. Rough. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t be familiar.
My fingers brush the edge of the bandage wrapped around his knuckles, tracing the tape lightly. “What happened here?”
A faint flush creeps up his cheeks, but he doesn’t pull away. His thumb shifts against my palm, slow and absent. “Got hurt at work,” he mutters. “Wasn’t paying attention.”
I lift a brow at him. “That’s not like you.”
“No,” he admits quietly.
My fingers linger a second longer than necessary, gentle, almost careful. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s not as solid as it usually is.
I study his face, the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders are still carrying something heavy even sitting here across from me. He looks tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. Edgy. Like he’s wound too tight and doesn’t quite know how to let it go.
“Rough day?” I ask softly.
His mouth curves, but there’s no humor in it. “Something like that.”
I nod slowly, letting the quiet settle instead of rushing to fill it. My thumb keeps tracing a small circle over the back of his hand before I even realize I’m doing it, the motion steady and absent, like my body’s trying to keep something calm that my brain hasn’t caught up with yet.
Rev drains the last of his whiskey and glances at my glass, barely a swallow left. “Want another?”
I nod.
He lifts his hand and signals the waiter with two fingers.
The guy catches it and gives a quick nod, smart enough to keep his distance this time.
Good. He was a little too comfortable earlier, and I’m very obviously sitting here with Rev.
Most men take one look at him and decide flirting would be a bad life choice.
Not that anyone in this place actually knows what we are to each other.
Neither do we.
The waiter comes back a minute later and slides the two fresh glasses onto the table without a word before disappearing again.
I grab mine immediately and take a long pull like I’ve forgotten how alcohol works.
The burn hits hard on the way down, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I swallow and suck in a breath, hand flying up to my chest. “Hell,” I gasp, coughing a little. “That was not smart.”
Rev’s mouth curves, a real laugh breaking through the tension for the first time since we walked in. “You’d think you’d learn.”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t judge me.”
He just shakes his head, still smiling, and takes a slower sip of his whiskey like a responsible adult.
A familiar song kicks on over the speakers, one I’ve played a ridiculous number of times in my car, and my head snaps up automatically. “Oh my God,” I say, already grinning. “I love this song.”
I start swaying in my seat without even thinking about it, shoulders rolling a little, mouthing the words under my breath before I give in and start quietly singing along.
Rev watches me over the rim of his glass, eyes steady, expression softening in a way that makes my stomach do something inconvenient. He doesn’t say anything, just nurses his drink and lets me have my moment like it’s the best part of his night.
I catch him looking and laugh. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he replies easily.
“You were thinking it.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Probably.”
I grin wider and keep swaying anyway. The air feels heavy.
The song fades into the background, the clink of glasses and low voices around us blur until it’s just him and me and the space we’re not touching.
Rev looks so damn good it almost makes me restless.
Dark jeans. A black t-shirt pulled tight across his chest and arms like the fabric gave up trying to pretend he isn’t built the way he is.
His cut draped over his shoulders, Iron Reapers patch catching the low light.
Ink winding down his forearms, disappearing under the sleeves, hints of stories I don’t know but absolutely want to.
He looks exactly like what he is. Dangerous.
Steady. Solid. The kind of man you don’t forget once you really see him.
I’ve never wanted a taste of bad the way I do right now.
Before I can overthink it, I hook my fingers into the hem of my shirt and pull it up and over my head, tossing it onto the empty side of the booth.
The black camisole underneath clings just right, neckline dipping low enough to make a point without me having to say a word.
Rev’s gaze drops automatically and his jaw tightens. A faint flush creeps up his cheeks like his body reacted before his brain could catch up. He doesn’t hide the look, doesn’t rush to look away. He takes his time, eyes tracing the lines he’s suddenly very aware of.
My pulse thumps. I don’t know why that small reaction hits me so hard, but it does.
Maybe because this man held me while I cried.
Maybe because he showed up when I was scared and didn’t ask questions first. Maybe because in all the quiet moments lately, when the world finally slowed down enough for my thoughts to catch me, he’s the only one who keeps showing up in my head.
His eyes finally lift back to mine, dark and intent now, something heated and careful tangled together in the way he’s looking at me. “You trying to start trouble, Princess?” he murmurs.
I tilt my head slightly as I look him over appreciatively. “Maybe I just got warm.”
His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. “Uh-huh.” The way he says it sends a little shiver straight down my spine.
We keep holding each other’s gaze, the fire humming low and steady between us, neither of us moving closer, neither of us pulling back, and somehow that restraint makes it feel even more intense.
I wrap my fingers around my glass and take a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.
I drain the rest of my whiskey and set the empty glass aside, the courage settling warm and steady in my chest. Before I can overthink it, I slide out of the booth and turn back toward him, holding my hand out, palm up.
Rev stares at it for a long second. Not startled. Not unsure. Just weighing the moment, like he understands exactly what stepping into it means. His eyes lift to mine, searching my face for something I can’t quite name. Permission, maybe, or maybe he’s just making sure this is real.
Then his fingers curl around mine. His hand is warm and solid, rough in a way that feels like home. The contact sends a quiet jolt straight through me, settling low in my belly. I don’t let go. I tug him gently from the booth and he follows.
The space near the jukebox has turned into a loose little cluster of bodies, maybe ten couples swaying and grinding to the heavy beat of the music, boots scuffing the floor, laughter floating in low bursts between verses.
No real dance floor. Just people pressed together, moving however the song pulls them.
Rev steps in close automatically, one hand settling at my waist, the other sliding to the small of my back like he’s been doing this with me forever.
I fit into him without thinking, chest to chest, hips lined up, my hands finding his shoulders and then the back of his neck.
His warmth sinks into me fast, steady and grounding, the solid weight of him anchoring me in the moment.
We sway together, slow and easy, bodies moving in time with the music and each other.
No rush. No show. Just closeness. His chin dips slightly toward my hair, breath brushing the top of my head, and I close my eyes for half a second because it feels too good to keep staring at him without losing my nerve.