13. Reva #2
Ever’s mouth moves again. This time, it is definitely almost a smile.
We train until my arms shake. Until my thighs burn. Until sweat runs down my spine and my hair comes loose from its knot.
Ever teaches me how to break a wrist grip. Shiloh teaches me how to use distraction without apologizing for it. They show me how to drop my weight, how to turn toward the thumb, how to drive my palm into the base of a nose and not stop to feel bad about cartilage.
It is all very ugly and practical, nothing like the clean choreography of revenge I had built in my head.
Good. Clean things have not served me well.
And now that I know Deacon is not the simple answer I wanted him to be, the shape of my vengeance has changed. Not disappeared. Changed.
Because someone still gave the order. Someone still came for my family. And fifteen years later, someone still wants to finish what they started.
At some point, Shiloh tosses me a towel and a bottle of water. I catch both, which feels like personal growth. I used to not be able to toss a ball of paper into a trash can five feet away.
“Ten minutes,” he says.
I sit on the edge of a weight bench, breathing hard, and stare at my hands.
They look the same.
Small. Pale. A little scraped from the mats. Rubber band marks around one wrist. No obvious transformation. No cinematic glow. No sudden sign that I am becoming someone dangerous.
But when I flex my fingers, I remember Ever’s grip loosening.
Just a little.
I remember making space.
Shiloh sits beside me, close enough that his thigh brushes mine. “What did Cal say?”
I stiffen. “He said enough.”
Ever stands a few feet away, drinking from his own water bottle. His gaze shifts to me.
I rub the damp towel between my hands. “He knew Delia was alive.”
Neither of them reacts.
I groan. “You’re not surprised.”
Shiloh’s expression softens, but his voice stays careful. “We suspected he knew more than he gave you.”
“Awesome.”
“Yank—”
“No, it’s fine.” I stand because sitting suddenly feels impossible. “Everybody knew more than me. It’s becoming a theme. Very cohesive. Love that for the narrative of my freaking life.”
Ever sets his bottle down. “What else?”
“He said Deacon and he had an arrangement. Deacon made sure Cal could get to me when I was a kid. Cal made sure I disappeared.”
The carriage house goes quiet. Not because that is new to them, I think, but because it hurt me to learn.
And they know it.
Shiloh’s voice drops. “I’m sorry.”
I hate that. I fucking hate sorry right now. Sorry is a garden hose too small for a house fire.
“He said he was coming to New Orleans,” I say.
Ever’s eyes sharpen. “Is he?”
“No. I told him not to bother.”
Shiloh’s brow lifts. “Is that going to work?”
“For today.”
“Cal Boudreaux does not strike me as a man easily vetoed.”
“He raised me,” I say. “He should be used to disappointment.”
That earns half a smile. Then it fades.
“He told me not to trust Delia blindly,” I say. “And not to hate her for surviving.”
My voice catches on the last word. Damn it.
Ever crosses the space between us and stops in front of me. “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No.”
His hand lifts, then stops short of touching my face. The unfinished thing between us comes back. Sexual but not only sexual. The intimacy hangs there, thick with intent.
Heavy with promise and complicated by the fact that he left. The fact that he came back. The fact that I spent the night in Nash’s bed and woke up with Ever’s words still tucked somewhere behind my ribs.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he says, voice low.
Shiloh makes himself busy on the other side of the gym suddenly.
My throat works. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I allowed Nash’s…upset…to interfere with my promise to you, and for that I’m sorry.”
“You came back, though.”
“I’ll always come back.”
“But aren’t you…” I fix my gaze on his chest, unable to look him in the eye. “Aren’t you mad that I didn’t wait?”
“No. We’re sharing you, firefly, and someone picked up my slack. As long as you didn’t dream about closets, I’m good.”
There is no heat in his voice. Heat I know what to do with. Heat can be kissed or fought or turned into something with teeth.
Ever’s steadiness is worse. It asks for honesty.
I swallow. “I didn’t dream about closets.”
“I know you didn’t.”
My eyes snap up.
He shrugs once and gives me a little sideways smirk. “Nash made sure to tell me.”
Naturally. My cheeks heat, and Shiloh makes a deeply suspicious sound near the weapons rack.
I point at him. “Do not.”
He lifts both hands. “I have said nothing.”
“You thought very loudly.”
“I’m gifted that way.”
Ever’s fingers brush the inside of my wrist, just above the rubber bands. Barely there. A question, not a claim.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says.
Ever steps back. “Break’s over.”
I groan, but I step back onto the mat.
This time, when Ever reaches for me, I move before fear can make the decision. His hand closes around my wrist.
I turn toward the thumb. Drop my weight. Drive my elbow. Make space.
Ever releases me, and Shiloh’s approval is warm against my back.
“Better,” Ever says. “Again.”
I stand in the middle of the mat, sweat cooling on my skin, Cal’s voice still echoing in my head, Delia’s face waiting behind my eyes, Deacon’s name lodged somewhere under my ribs.
I am still being lied to. Still hunted. Still angry enough to bite through bone.
But my hands are up, and my feet are under me.
And when Ever reaches again, I am ready.
By the time Ever finally lets me stop, my arms feel like overcooked pasta and my pride has taken several body blows.
Shiloh hands me a bottle of water. “You were terrifying, Yank; well done.”
“I fell down six times.”
“But you did so terrifyingly.”
Ever gives him a look.
“What?” Shiloh asks. “I’m building confidence.”
“You’re building delusion,” Ever says.
“Same foundation.”
I drink half the bottle and pretend not to love them a little for being ridiculous.
Inside, Blackwood House is cool and too quiet. Cal is somewhere upstairs. Shiloh disappears toward the kitchen with a promise involving food, which I would mock if my stomach didn’t immediately betray me by growling.
I’m halfway to the stairs when I see Nash through the open study door.
He is standing behind his desk, one hand braced against the papers in front of him, phone in the other. His coffee sits untouched beside his elbow, no longer steaming. His jaw is tight in that specific way that means someone, somewhere, is about to have a very bad afternoon.
I stop in the doorway. “Have you eaten today?”
His eyes lift. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Because it’s not your concern.”
“Wrong. You’re meaner than a snake when your blood sugar drops.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m always mean.”
“Sure, but you’re getting old, and sometimes you need to watch your protein and carbs and stuff.”
For a second, nothing changes. Then his mouth moves. Barely.
I run.
In the kitchen, Shiloh has a plate waiting for me. Eggs, toast, fruit, bacon arranged like he channeled Martha Stewart.
I grab the plate.
“Yank,” he says.
“I’m stealing this.”
“That was yours.”
“Then I’m reassigning it.”
His gaze flicks past me toward the study, and his smile softens into something far too knowing. “Want me to make another?”
“Obviously.”
I carry the plate back before I can think better of it and set it on the corner of Nash’s desk.
He looks at the food.
Then at me.
“Eat, Emperor,” I say. “You need your strength if you’re going to keep bossing me around.”
His gaze stays on mine for a beat too long. “You taking care of me, little wolf?”
“Nah. Just protecting my investment.”
The almost-smile becomes something quieter. More dangerous.
“Noted,” he says.
But he picks up the fork. And for some stupid reason, that feels like winning.