30. Reva #2
Despite myself, I laugh. He smiles then, pleased and relieved, and I want to throw a pebble at his beautiful face.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Of course I did.” He draws an imaginary circle around his face. “Pretty but not dumb.”
I shake my head. “So manipulative.”
“I prefer skillful.”
“Annoying.”
His expression sobers. “Alive.”
The word hangs there. He lets it.
I grip the railing. “I’m scared, Shiloh.”
His voice drops. “I know.”
“I don’t like that you won’t be inside.”
“We’ll all be outside.”
“That’s not the same.”
I see his chest rise and fall with a breath. “No, it’s not.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.”
We hold each other’s gaze across the space between balcony and garden. Then he lifts something from his pocket and tosses it up. I catch it against my chest.
A small charm bracelet. Silver chain. Tiny green stone. A little gold cat. A rose charm no bigger than my thumbnail.
“What is this?”
“Just something pretty, so we’re close to you.”
My mouth tightens. “Shiloh.”
“Also a secondary transmitter—well, technically a third transmitter—because Ever has infected me with practicality.”
I stare at the bracelet.
“It’s pretty,” he says. “That was the important part.”
My fingers close around it. I hate how much it steadies me.
“I don’t have anything to throw down to you.”
His eyes flick over me again, slower this time, and his smile returns with enough heat to make my face warm.
“You’re standing there in your underwear calling me manipulative. Throw me a kiss, and I’ll survive on the memory.”
I laugh. “Go away.”
He blows me a kiss.
I catch it and throw it back at him.
He presses a hand to his chest, then turns and walks toward the house.
I stay on the balcony for another minute, bracelet in my palm, letting the air touch my skin and the fear settle somewhere I can carry it.
Then I go back inside.
Sonny takes one look at my face and says nothing. That is how I know she is my friend.
She helps me into the dress.
The satin slides over my skin with a cool weight, then settles like it was made for me. Maybe it was. With Shiloh, that is both ridiculous and possible. Sonny zips it slowly, then steps around to face me.
The mirror waits.
I look.
For a second, I don’t recognize myself.
The green changes everything. It makes my skin warmer, my eyes darker, my hair look almost black against the curve of my shoulders.
The dress fits close through the bodice and waist, accentuates the curve of my ass, then falls cleanly to the floor.
The slit opens when I move, showing one leg and the high-heeled gold sandal Sonny insisted on because apparently if I am going to meet the head of a cartel, my calves should participate.
The mask is gold filigree, delicate and sharp, with tiny emerald stones near the outer edges. It should feel like costume jewelry, but it feels like armor.
Sonny clasps Shiloh’s bracelet around my wrist, covering the faint mark where my rubber bands used to snap. I don’t like not wearing them, but the bracelet will give me something to worry, instead. I touch the cat charm with one finger.
Homer sits on the bed, finally still, staring at me like he has seen either a canary or a very interesting curtain.
“Don’t even think about climbing me,” I tell him.
He meows.
“I mean it.”
He meows again, softer this time, and my throat tightens because apparently the cat has chosen tonight to be tender and terrible.
Sonny brushes at the skirt, then steps back. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“You’re ready.”
The room tilts a little.
Ready.
I do not know if that is true. I am dressed. Painted. Pinned with cameras and signals and everyone else’s fear. My hair is perfect. My hands are steady. My stomach feels like a fist.
I pick up the mask.
Sonny squeezes my arm. “You look beautiful. Powerful.”
“I feel like I might throw up.”
“I’m sure powerful women probably do that sometimes. They can’t be powerful all the time. They probably have IBS and all sorts of stuff.”
“That’s…oddly comforting.”
“I do try.”
At the door, I stop and look back at Homer. He has curled into a small orange loaf on my pillow, eyes half-lidded.I point a finger at him.
“Guard the room.”
He blinks.
My heels click against the wood, Sonny following behind me.
Each step makes the dress swish around my legs, a quiet whisper that sounds too elegant for the kind of dread sitting under my ribs.
At the landing, I hear voices below. Men.
Low tones. A pause when the my heel hits the final stretch of stairs.
Then I turn the corner. They’re all there.
Nash stands at the base of the stairs in a black tuxedo that looks less rented than inherited.
Ever leans against the wall, one hand in his pocket, eyes going immediately to the hairpin in my hair.
Shiloh stands beside him, smile gone soft at the edges.
Deacon is half in shadow near the library door, dark suit, black shirt, no tie, gaze fixed on me with a stillness that feels dangerous.
I’m guessing the suit means he has to go in some capacity for Mother Superior.
Cal stands a few feet away from them with his arms folded. He sees me and forgets to hide everything. That nearly breaks me.
No one speaks at first. For once, even Shiloh has nothing. My hand tightens on the banister.
Then Nash steps forward. His eyes move over me slowly, not like an assessment, but in recognition. Like the woman walking down the stairs is not fragile, not hidden, not anyone’s mistake.
When I reach the bottom, he takes my hand.
“You are extraordinary, Little Wolf,” he says.
The words are simple, no performance behind them. My throat tightens.
Ever comes next. He touches the side of the hairpin with one careful finger, then drops his hand to my jaw. His kiss is brief and steady.
“Signal is live,” he says.
Shiloh catches my wrist and lifts the bracelet. “Mine is prettier.”
“Yours has a cat on it.”
“You have a cat.”
“A truly weird one.”
“A beloved weird one.”
He kisses the inside of my wrist, right beside the bracelet, and the nerves in my stomach loosen for half a breath.
Deacon approaches last.
I expect a joke, an order, something infuriating about time or acceptance or ownership. Instead, he looks at me for a long moment, then reaches up and adjusts one loose wave near my shoulder.
“Little Ghost,” he says quietly.
My pulse stutters. He bends and kisses my cheek.
Softly. It’s almost cruel, how gentle he is.
He steps back before I can decide what to do with it.
Cal clears his throat. I look at him. His eyes are shiny, which is wildly unfair.
“You look like your mother,” he says.
The room goes still. My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe. No one moves. No one rescues either of us.
I hold his gaze. “Thank you.”
His jaw works. He nods.
Nash takes the mask from my fingers. I turn and let him lift it to my face. He ties the ribbon behind my head with fingers far more steady than my own, careful of my hair and the pin nestled in my waves.
Then Nash holds out his arm.
The invitation sits somewhere in the car waiting to carry us into Isabel Rosario’s world. To El Sindicato de la Rosa. Into the room where someone is waiting, someone who’s decided my life was an error and my sister’s was a possession.
I place my hand on Nash’s sleeve.
Behind us, the men I am leaving outside watch like it costs them. It probably does. It costs me too.
I give one last lingering glance back at Shiloh, Ever, Deacon, then Cal.
“I’m coming back,” I say.
No one argues. No one’s expression softens. Nash opens the front door. Evening waits beyond it, warm and dark and full of teeth.
I walk into it anyway.