1. Reva #2
Deacon’s gaze snaps to Nash. For one second, I think he might kill him.
For one second, I almost want him to try, because violence would be easier than standing here with my lungs collapsing and my sister disappearing down a hallway after telling me I should never have come.
Nash does not move his hand.
His voice drops lower. “You and I need to talk before you get anywhere near my little wolf.”
My little wolf.
The name should anchor me.
It doesn’t.
It reaches for me through too much water.
I’m underwater. That’s what this is. The club is above the surface, lights and voices warped into meaningless motion while I sink underneath it. I try to scream, but my mouth fills with salt and black water and all the years I spent sharpening myself into a weapon pointed at the wrong door.
A woman near the bar turns to stare.
Then a man.
Then another.
They smell blood in the water. This place is built for secrets, and I have become the loudest one in the room without saying anything at all.
“Get her out of here,” Nash says. His voice has shifted. Not loud. Not panicked. Commanding in a way that makes the air around him obey. “Now.”
“I’m not leaving,” I say.
At least, I think I say it. The words barely make it past my teeth.
Shiloh’s hand slides around my back.
“I know,” he says.
Then he lifts me.
I don’t fight him because my body has gone strange and distant. One arm hooks beneath my knees. The other locks around my back. He gathers me against his chest as if I weigh nothing, as if the entire room can watch him carry me and he does not give a damn.
Maybe he doesn’t.
His heart pounds beneath my cheek. Fast. Hard. Human.
“Put me down,” I say, but there’s no real impetus behind the words.
“No,” Shiloh says.
There is no teasing in it. No silk. No pretty lie.
Ever walks close beside us, one hand hovering near my shoulder without touching. His eyes keep moving. Doorways. Corners. Hands. Faces. He is checking every possible threat while Shiloh carries me like I am something breakable.
I hate that too.
I hate all of it.
I hate needing them.
I hate that I do need them.
Behind us, Nash says something to Deacon. I turn my head, trying to hear, but the room swings and my stomach lurches. I catch only pieces.
“Enough lies.”
“Then ask her—”
“I said not you.”
Then the door opens, and the club spits us out into the New Orleans night.
Heat wraps around me immediately.
Wet, heavy, alive. The sidewalk shines under the streetlights, damp from rain that must have come and gone while we were underground. The air smells like river mud, fried food, cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and the sweet rot of flowers dying somewhere in the dark.
Normal smells. Real smells. I drag one breath in and choke on it.
Shiloh sets me down, but he doesn’t let go until my feet hold. They barely do. My knees tremble. My chest jerks with short, useless breaths.
Ever steps in front of me, just close enough that his body blocks the sight of the door behind him.
“Reva,” he says.
I shake my head.
I can’t talk. If I open my mouth, something worse than a sob will come out. Something feral and humiliating. Something that belongs to the child in the closet, not the woman who came to New Orleans to kill a killer.
Ever’s face stays calm, but there is strain around his eyes. “Look at me.”
His eyes are dark in the streetlight. Steady. Not soft exactly. Ever is rarely soft. But he is present in a way the rest of the world isn’t.
“In,” he says.
I stare at him.
He lifts one hand, palm turned slightly toward himself, fingers curling once in a slow count.
“In for four.” He breathes in.
I try. The first breath stutters and fails.
“Again,” he says.
I shake my head harder. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
His jaw tightens. “You can because I’m doing it with you.”
Ever breathes in again, slow enough for me to follow if I can make my lungs obey.
“One,” he says. “Two. Three. Four.”
I pull air in. It scrapes. It hurts. But it goes in.
“Hold.”
I hold because he does.
“One. Two. Three. Four.”
My chest burns.
“Out.”
He exhales slowly. I follow late. Messy. Too fast at the end.
“Good.”
The word almost undoes me.
Good. A phone pressed to my ear. A woman’s voice, warm as honey over rot. That’s my good girl.
Pain knifes through my head. I gasp and lose the rhythm.
Ever catches my face between both hands.
“Here,” he says. His thumbs rest along my jaw. His hands are warm. Callused. Real. “You’re here.”
I blink at him, tears sliding into the corners of my mouth.
“She’s alive,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I saw her dead.”
His eyes don’t move from mine. “Maybe you didn’t.”
My throat closes. “Then what else don’t I know?”
Ever does not answer, and that’s answer enough.
Shiloh curses softly behind me. He sounds ruined by it. I want to look at him, but Ever’s hands keep me facing forward.
“Again,” he says.
“I don’t want to breathe.”
“I know.”
“I want to go back in there.”
“I know.”
“I want to make her talk.”
“I know.”
“I want to hurt someone.”
His eyes change then. Not shock. Recognition.
“I know.”
The way he says it pulls another breath out of me.
We count again.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Hold.
The second time is not better, exactly, but it is less impossible.
The third time, my fingers uncurl.
I hadn’t realized my nails were still dug into my palm until the skin peels apart. Four crescent marks sit there, red and angry, almost bleeding.
Shiloh sees them. He makes another sound, low in his throat, and steps closer.
Ever releases my face slowly, as if sudden movement might send me back under. He doesn’t move away, though. He stays between me and the door.
Between me and Delia. Between me and Deacon. Between me and whatever truth is still waiting inside that club with its teeth bared.
“I need to go back,” I say.
“No,” Shiloh says.