27. Reva
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
REVA
I stand in the middle of the bedroom and for a moment forget what I came in here to do.
Sleep, I think.
That was Nash’s order. Sleep first; planning after.
He said it like the world has compartments, like exhaustion can be peeled away from terror and grief and shoved into a separate drawer until morning.
He said it with his fingers under my chin and his eyes on mine, and I listened because I believed the promise under the command.
Planning after. He means it. I know he means it.
That does not make my body understand.
The bedroom is too large and too quiet, all soft lamps, pale sheets, polished hotel furniture, and curtains pulled across the windows to hide the city. The bed is still ruined from earlier, one side tangled where Nash held me, one pillow on the floor.
I should shower. I smell like rain, hospital antiseptic, Shiloh’s SUV, fear-sweat, and Cal’s room. I should check on Homer. I should ask someone whether Deacon called from the hospital. I should find out whether my mother made it back to wherever Isabel keeps her.
My mother. Alive.
The thought drops through me again, too heavy for the rest of my mind to hold.
The door opens and closes softly behind me.
Delia stands just inside the room, still barefoot, still wearing my borrowed clothes.
She has one hand near the doorframe, gaze moving over me, the bed, the bathroom, the nightstand.
She probably sees everything. The rubber bands my hand hovers over.
The boots I kicked off. The tremor in my fingers.
The way I’m standing in the center of the room because choosing a direction would mean admitting one exists.
She says nothing. Maybe she already knows I discovered our mother tonight. Why didn’t she tell me?
The thought is sharp enough to cut through the fog.
I turn toward her. “I met our mother.”
Delia flinches.
It is tiny. A quick tightening around her mouth. A fractional hitch in her breath. If I hadn’t been looking, I would have missed it, but I was looking.
My laugh comes out thin. “Interesting, since I thought she was dead. I thought you might like to know.” I fold my arms around myself before my hands can do anything desperate. “Then again, I guess you already knew, since she’s been with you this entire time.”
Delia closes her eyes for one second.
When she opens them, she walks toward me with the controlled purpose of someone approaching a bomb. “Come on.”
I step back. “What?”
“Shower first.”
“No.”
“Reva.”
“I don’t want a fucking shower.”
“You need one.”
“I need answers.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I hate that, so I make it louder. “I need honesty. I need one person in this family to stop deciding which truths are safe for my delicate little feelings.”
Delia stops.
Her arms cross over her chest, a mirror of mine, only colder. Better trained, or maybe it’s just that she’s better at shoving the feelings down. “I couldn’t tell you about her. Not yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because then you would have demanded to see her.”
“Yes. I’m funny that way. When my dead mother turns out to be alive, I develop a mild interest in conversation.”
“And Isabel would have had you right where she wanted you.” Delia’s voice tightens. “You would have walked right into her web because you thought blood meant answers. She would have killed you before you finished asking the first question.”
I hit my own chest with my fist, hard enough that pain blooms beneath my knuckles.
“That was my choice to make.”
Delia’s face goes pale.
“You took it from me,” I say.
Her eyes flash. “You have to stop being pissed at everyone who tries to protect you with the information they actually have, Reva.”
“Don’t make this sound reasonable.”
“It is reasonable.”
“It’s cowardly.”
The word hits. I see it. For half a second, Delia is not polished or cold or cutting. She is my sister in a chapel with raw knees, a little girl grown up in a bad dream no one rescued her from in time.
Her lips press together in a hard line, then part, but the door opens before she can answer.
Ever steps in first, broad shoulders filling the doorway, face unreadable in the warm lamplight. Shiloh is behind him, hair damp from a shower or the rain or both, eyes tired and too sharp. They look at Delia. Then at me. Then at the space between us, which probably has smoke curling off it.
Delia exhales through her nose.
“Maybe y’all can make her see sense,” she mutters, and slips between them into the hall.
The door shuts behind her.
I turn on Ever and Shiloh, arms locked tighter across my chest. “Are you here to lecture me about how I shouldn’t be mad?”
Ever starts unbuttoning his shirt.
My mouth goes dry before my anger understands why.
“No,” he says. “We’re here to fuck you.”
The room goes dead silent.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Shiloh’s smile appears slowly, dangerous at the edges. He grips the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth movement, baring golden skin, lean muscle, ink, the wicked line of his hips. His boots come off next. Then his hands go to the button of his jeans.
“Until you’re too tired to think,” he says. “You need sleep.”
My body reacts immediately, going liquid between my legs and softening. Traitor.
Heat spills low in my stomach, humiliating and immediate. Ever’s shirt hangs open now, exposing hard chest and dark ink, and Shiloh is watching my face like he can see every inch of the fight slipping out of me and turning into something wetter, needier, just as sharp.
I hold up one hand.
“Stop.”
They stop, fingers pausing in the act of stripping.
“I do not need to be managed.” My voice shakes, so I make each word clean. “I don’t need to be distracted like a cranky child until I take a nap. I don’t need sex as sedation. I am angry. I get to be angry.”
Ever’s gaze holds mine. “Sure, baby.”
“You are literally undressing.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“After I said I don’t want to be managed.”
“Also yes.”
Shiloh’s mouth curves faintly. “For the record, I personally enjoy your anger and will never, ever tell you to calm down.”
“I’m going to throw something at your head.”
“That feels fair.”
“No.” I cross the room, yank the door open, and point into the hall. “Out.”
Nash is standing right there, because apparently my life is now a heavily armed comedy of errors.
He leans one shoulder against the wall, dressed in black trousers and a wrinkled shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair slightly mussed from whatever thinking he has been doing in another room. His gaze moves from my face to the two shirtless men behind me.
One eyebrow lifts.
“Are you being difficult, Reva?”
My lips press together, and I start to close the door in his face. He catches it with one hand.
“No,” I say.
“I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“You asked if I was being difficult.”
“I already know the answer to that; I don’t know why I bothered asking.”
Shiloh says, “She kicked us out of the attempted orgy.”
Ever adds, “Technically, she opened the door first.”
Nash steps forward. I step back on instinct, and his eyes darken at the tiny surrender of ground. He enters the room slowly, closing the door behind him without looking away from me. The click of the latch sounds too loud.
“You told me to get some sleep,” I say.
“Changed my mind.”
That makes me laugh, once. “You can’t just—”
I break off as his hand goes into his pocket. When it comes out, he is holding a length of black silk. My pulse stops, then returns at double-speed.
“What is that?”
His gaze drops to the silk, then back to me. “A solution.”
Unease shivers through the heat curling low in my belly. “To what?”
“To your hard head.”
“Nash…”
“I’m going to blindfold you,” he says, voice calm enough to make my thighs clench. “Then I’m going to sit in that chair and direct this scene since you’re too determined to fight everyone who touches you.”
I swallow. Behind me, Shiloh goes very still, but a wicked little smile teases his lips. It’s the first smile I’ve seen on his face in what feels like days.
Ever’s silence changes, becoming something heavier.
“And you’re going to listen,” Nash continues, stepping close enough that the silk brushes the back of my hand. “Or you’re going to be punished.”
My breath catches.
Nash lowers his mouth to my ear.
“But then…you like being punished, don’t you, brat?”
The rush of wetness between my legs is so violent I almost groan.
He knows. Somehow, he knows.
His hand slides between my thighs over my leggings, cupping me with firm, deliberate pressure. His chuckle is low against my skin when he feels me.
“Furious,” he murmurs. “And soaked.”
I grab his wrist. I do not push him away.
His mouth brushes the edge of my jaw. “Say no, and every man in this room leaves you alone.”
My fingers tighten.
That’s the doorway he always gives me. No matter how dominant his voice gets. No matter how hard his hand is or how much he likes me trembling. He makes an exit available and waits to see whether I take it.
He knows I’m not going to take it.
“I hate all of you a little,” I whisper.
Shiloh laughs under his breath. “Fair.”
Ever says, “Clothes off, Reva.”
My gaze jerks to him.
Nash’s hand presses once more between my legs, then moves away, leaving me empty and aching. “You heard him.”
I should be embarrassed by how fast I obey, but I’m too turned on for embarrassment to find a place to land.
My hoodie hits the floor. Then my tank. Leggings next, shoved down with shaking hands, underwear peeled away after.
The air touches my skin, cool from the hotel vents, and my nipples tighten before I can pretend nonchalance.
Shiloh’s eyes travel over me with open hunger.
Ever’s are darker, fixed, possessive in a quiet way that makes my knees feel less reliable.
Nash circles behind me, and the silk slides over my eyes.
Everything goes black.
My breath stutters.
“Color?” Nash asks.
“Green,” I say at once.
His hands tie the blindfold snug, careful not to catch my hair. “Good girl.”
The praise travels every neural pathway, molten and dangerous.