9. Reva
CHAPTER NINE
REVA
Ever stands by the kitchen window, his silhouette a heavy, unmoving shadow against the afternoon light.
The sun is trying to burn through the New Orleans humidity, casting long, dusty fingers across the tiled floor of Blackwood House.
He’s been quiet since we got back yesterday, the kind of quiet that feels like he’s cataloging every breath I take.
I sit at the kitchen table, tracing the deep wood grain with my thumb, trying to ignore the way the air in this house has shifted.
It’s no longer just a sanctuary; it’s a vault, and I’m the thing locked inside.
The smell of brewing coffee is thick, but it doesn’t mask the underlying scent of the house—old wax, lemon oil, and the faint, metallic tang of the weapons they all seem to carry.
I watch the steam rise from a forgotten mug.
My nerves are frayed, a wire pulled too tight, vibrating with the residual laughter from Sonny and the crushing weight of Delia’s ghost.
Nash enters the kitchen with that stride of his—controlled, dominant, like he owns the oxygen in the room.
I flinch. It’s a small movement, an involuntary twitch of my shoulder, a physical rejection of his sudden, overwhelming proximity.
I see Ever’s eyes track it. He notices everything—the way my pupils dilate, the way my heart hammers against my ribs.
Nash stops near the island, his gaze landing on me like a physical weight, pinning me to the chair.
“We can’t keep you behind glass, Reva,” Nash says.
His voice is a low rumble, devoid of the playfulness Shiloh carries.
There is no charm here, only the hard-edged reality of a man who deals in consequences.
“The Syndicate knows you’re here. They know you’re alive.
New Orleans is a small city for people with their resources, and the Blackwood name only buys so much time before curiosity turns into an audit. ”
I look up, my jaw tightening until it aches. “I didn’t ask to be kept behind glass. I came here to find a killer, remember? I didn’t come here to be a porcelain doll in your collection.”
“And you found a war instead,” Nash counters.
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The muscles in his forearms flex, the dark ink of his tattoos looking like warnings etched into skin.
“If you’re going to stay in this house, you’re going to be a weapon.
Not a victim. I won’t watch you get taken because you didn’t know how to pull a trigger or break a windpipe.
This isn’t a suggestion, Reva. It’s the cost of entry. ”
Ever finally speaks, his voice a blunt instrument in the silence.
“He’s right. If Deacon didn’t pull that trigger fifteen years ago, someone else did.
And they’re still out there. The Syndicate doesn’t leave assignments unfinished.
They don’t leave loose ends, and right now, you’re the loosest end in the state of Louisiana. ”
He breaks off, remembering, no doubt, the night someone shot at Shiloh and me. The day someone went after me in the woods. The men who tried to grab me at the motel.
He’s not wrong.
I feel a spark of heat in my chest, a dangerous, defiant light in my gut.
It’s a flare of the old Reva—the one who survived on spite and sheer grit.
I’m tired of being the girl in the closet, the girl who hid while her world burned and her sister was dragged into the dark.
If they want a monster, I’ll give them one.
“So what? You’re going to play drill sergeant now? Is that the plan? A few laps around the yard and some target practice?”
“The plan is survival,” Nash says. He doesn’t blink.
His eyes are like flint, ready to strike a spark.
“Self-defense training starts tomorrow. Hand-to-hand. Gun range. Defensive driving. You need to be able to defend yourself even if none of us are around. You need to be able to kill a man before he touches you.”
“Which won’t happen,” a new voice says from the doorway.
Deacon is standing there, leaning against the frame, his eyes colder than river stone. He looks at me with that gaze that still makes my skin prickle. He looks exhausted, but his posture is lethal.
“But Nash is right,” he says. “You need the skill, even if you never use it. You need to know exactly what you’re capable of when the fear sets in.”
I look between the three of them—the strategist, the observer, and the assassin.
They’ve decided my fate without me, carving out a role for me in their violent world.
But for the first time, I don’t want to fight the outcome.
I want what they’re offering. I want to be the thing the Syndicate fears.
I want to be the one who does the hunting.
“Fine,” I say, my voice steady, matching Nash’s intensity. “Make me a weapon. But don’t expect me to be a polite one. And don’t complain when I start biting back.”
Ever nods once, a ghost of approval in his expression. He checks his watch, the heavy metal clinking against his wrist. “I have Noir business to settle. Shiloh is already at the club, making sure the perimeter is solid after last night’s distraction.”
I stand, the chair scraping across the floor with the abruptness of the motion. “Take me with you?”
Deacon makes a small sound of protest that we all ignore. Ever’s lips twist faintly.
“’Course, firefly.”
The drive back to Toulouse Street is quiet, the air in the car heavy with unspoken questions.
Ever handles the vehicle with precision, his large hands steady on the wheel, navigating the potholes and narrow streets with the ease of someone who knows every inch of this city’s rot.
The swamp transitions into the outskirts of the city, the mossy oaks giving way to rusted fences, colorful shutters, and the vibrant, messy life of New Orleans.
My mind is a hive of bees, stinging me with memories I can’t quite catch, fragmented images of a childhood that feels like it belongs to a different person.
When we reach Noir, the afternoon light is hitting the sidewalk in dusty slats.
The neon signs are off, looking lonely and tired in the daylight.
Inside, the bar is relatively empty, the smell of beer and lemon polish hanging in the air.
The transition from the bright street to the dim interior makes my eyes ache.
Shiloh is at the end of the bar, leaning over to whisper something to Sonny.
They both burst into laughter as we approach, the sound echoing off the empty bottles.
“I’m telling you, it’s about the physics,” Sonny is saying, waving a hand emphatically, her bangles clattering. “If the piercing is horizontal, the torque is all wrong. It’s like trying to hang a chandelier with a rubber band. You need verticality for the proper weight distribution.”
“Physics,” Shiloh repeats, his grin wide and wicked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Is that what we’re calling it now? I thought it was just your ‘educational’ literature, Sonny. I didn’t realize you were a structural engineer of the male anatomy.”
Ever stops beside me, his presence a sudden, grounding weight.
He raps his knuckles on the bar, interrupting the conversation about genital jewelry with a sharp, professional edge.
“Nash and I talked. We’re starting her training tomorrow.
Hand-to-hand and range time. She needs to be up to speed by the end of the week. ”
Shiloh’s expression softens, the playfulness vanishing in a heartbeat. He looks at me, his hazel eyes searching my face for signs of collapse. “You okay with that, Red? It’s going to be brutal. Nash doesn’t know how to go easy on anyone, least of all someone he wants to protect.”
“I’m fine with it,” I say, and for the first time, I mean it. “Better than fine. I’m tired of feeling like I’m waiting for a blow I can’t see coming. I’d rather be the one swinging.”
Sonny hops off her stool and wraps her arms around me in a quick, fierce squeeze.
She smells like vanilla and the sugary dust of beignets, a comforting, normal scent in a world that’s gone insane.
“You’re going to be a total badass. Just don’t forget us little people when you’re out there being a secret agent. I want a signed photo for the bar.”
She lets go, her eyes lingering on mine for a second longer than usual, checking the cracks in my armor.
She sees them, but she doesn’t point them out.
Then she grabs her bag. “I gotta get to my shift. Call me if you need more literature. I have a trilogy about a dragon-shifter with a very interesting anatomical surprise.”
Once she’s gone, the silence of the bar feels heavier, the shadows in the corners stretching toward us. I turn to Ever. He’s watching me, his dark brows slightly drawn together. He can feel the restlessness vibrating off me like a fever, the way I’m vibrating with a need I haven’t voiced yet.
“I want to take a detour on the way back,” I say. The words feel like they’ve been sitting in my throat for hours, sharp and jagged, threatening to draw blood. “Before we go back to Blackwood House. Before I become whatever soldier you’re planning to make me.”
Ever tilts his head, his gaze speculative. “Where?”
“My childhood home,” I whisper. I twist the rubber bands on my wrist, the snap of them against my skin a tiny, rhythmic tether to reality.
“I saw Delia. I saw her face, and I realized that everything I remember might be wrong. I need to see the place where everything went wrong. I need to see if the blood is still on the floor or if I imagined that, too.”
Shiloh steps closer, his hand hovering near my shoulder but not touching, respecting the invisible wall I’ve built around myself today. “Reva, that’s not a good idea. I’m pretty sure that place is a graveyard. The city reclaimed it years ago. There’s nothing there but ghosts and bad memories.”