10. Reva #2
I look past him, toward the equally empty bedroom. “But there isn’t. There’s just a closet.”
“And you.” The words are quiet.
I look back at him.
“You’re the proof,” he says.
Something inside me cracks.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough for the pain to change shape.
Ever stands, pulling me with him. He doesn’t give me a choice, but he does it carefully, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around mine. “We’re leaving. You saw what you needed to see. Now we go back.”
I don’t argue. I don’t have the strength left for it.
I let him lead me out of the closet, down the groaning stairs, and through the foyer that smells like my mother’s ghost. As we step out onto the porch, the late day sunlight is blinding, a harsh, unforgiving glare that makes my eyes sting.
The heat of the afternoon hits me, but it doesn’t wash away the chill of the closet.
I don’t think anything ever will.
We walk back to the car, and Ever doesn’t let go of my hand until we’re standing by the passenger door.
He stops there, his body blocking the view of the house, forcing me to look only at him.
He reaches out, his hand cupping my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lower lip.
It’s a heavy, deliberate gesture that makes my breath hitch.
“You’re alive, Reva,” he says, his voice like grinding stones. “Focus on that. You aren’t that girl in the closet anymore. You’re mine. You’re ours. And we don’t let ours break.”
“I’m not a possession, Ever,” I say, but there’s no bite in it.
I lean into his palm, closing my eyes for a second, savoring the solid, living warmth of him. He’s a predator, a stalker, a man who probably hasn’t had a clean thought in a decade, but right now, he’s the only thing keeping the earth from opening up and swallowing me whole.
“Never said possession,” he mutters.
He leans down, his mouth brushing against my forehead, a brief, searing contact that feels like a brand. Then he opens the car door and waits for me to get in.
As I slide into the seat, I look back at the house one last time.
It looks smaller than ever, a rotting husk in a sea of weeds. The secrets are still there, but they don’t feel like ghosts anymore.
They feel like targets.
The drive back to Blackwood House is silent, but it isn’t the suffocating silence of the Hart estate. It’s charged, thick with the things Ever and I haven’t said yet. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, palm up, waiting.
I don’t take it immediately.
I watch the trees blur past, the Spanish moss swaying in the wind like tattered gray flags.
I think about Deacon’s eyes. I think about Delia’s rosary.
I think about the fact that my life has been a carefully constructed lie for fifteen years, and the only people who might know the truth are the men who keep deciding how much of it I’m allowed to have.
When we pull into the long, gravel driveway of Blackwood House, my stomach does a slow, sickening roll. I see Nash’s black SUV parked near the front steps, and even from here, I can feel the tension radiating off the house. Nash does not like it when things don’t go according to his plan.
And taking the broken girl back to the scene of the massacre was definitely not part of the plan.
“He’s going to be pissed,” I say, watching the front door.
It’s an understatement of such monumental proportions it’s almost funny. Nash Blackwood in a fury is a force of nature, a hurricane of possessiveness and cold, calculated violence.
“Let him be pissed,” Ever says, killing the engine.
He turns in his seat, his gaze fixing on me with that unblinking intensity. “I did what was necessary. You needed to see the grave before you could move past it.”
“And did I? Move past it?”
Ever reaches out, his hand sliding into my hair, his fingers curling around the base of my skull. He pulls me toward him until our foreheads are touching, his breath hot against my face.
“Not yet. But you’re closer than you were this morning. And tonight, I’m going to make sure you don’t dream about closets.”
The promise in his voice is dark and heavy, a weight that settles in my lower belly and makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
Ever Rousseau doesn’t make promises he doesn’t intend to keep with every inch of his broad, scarred body.
He’s the silent one, the observant one, but when he decides to act, he doesn’t do it by halves.
“Ever,” I whisper, my hands coming up to rest on his forearms, feeling the intricate ridges of his tattoos beneath the skin. “I don’t know if I can do this. The training. The Syndicate. All of it.”
“You can,” he says, and there’s a terrifying certainty in his voice. “Because you have to. And because we won’t let you fail. Now, get inside. I’ll deal with Nash.”
I step out of the car, my legs still feeling like they belong to someone else.
The gravel crunches under my boots, a sharp, real sound that cuts through the lingering fog of the Hart house.
I look up at Blackwood House, the white columns gleaming in the afternoon sun, the ancient oaks standing guard.
It’s a fortress. It’s a sanctuary. It’s a cage.
And as I walk toward the front door, I realize I don’t care which one it is, as long as it has a lock that works.
The interior of Blackwood House is cool and quiet, its old money scent a welcome relief from that of rot. I head for the stairs, wanting nothing more than a shower that lasts for three hours and a sleep that doesn’t involve the sound of a 911 operator telling a seven-year-old to stay quiet.
I reach the first landing when the door to Nash’s study swings open with a violence that makes me jump.
Nash stands in the doorway, his silhouette tall and imposing, his glacial blue eyes fixed on me with a look that would make a lesser woman dissolve into a puddle on the floor.
He looks at my dusty boots, my tear-streaked face, and the way I’m holding myself like I might fall apart if the wind blows too hard.
His jaw is tight, his hands fisted at his sides, his chest heaving with a slow, controlled rage.
“Where,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates through the floorboards, “the fuck have you been, Reva?”
I square my shoulders, wiping the last of the dust from my hands onto my jeans.
“I went home, Nash,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I went home to find the girl you all keep trying to protect. Turns out, she’s still there. She’s just not the one who walked back out.”
The silence that follows is absolute.
Nash's lips tighten. Behind him, Ever enters the foyer, his expression flat and unreadable, ready to step in or step back. The air in the house is thick with it—the possessiveness, the trauma, the dark, tangled mess of whatever we are becoming to each other.
“Go upstairs,” Nash says finally, his voice dropping an octave. It isn’t a suggestion. “Clean yourself up. We’ll talk when I’m less inclined to break something.”
I don’t wait for him to change his mind.
I turn and run up the rest of the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. I don’t look back at either of them. I reach my room and shut the door, leaning against the wood and sliding to the floor.
Homer is there in an instant, a tiny orange blur that lands in my lap and begins to purr with a volume that seems impossible for his size.
I bury my face in his soft fur, the tears starting again, but this time, they aren’t only for the past. They’re for the terrifying, beautiful, dangerous future I’ve just walked into.
I didn’t find any kind of certainty at the Hart house. I found a new kind of ghost.
But as I sit on the floor of the bedroom, listening to the muffled sound of Nash and Ever arguing downstairs, I realize that for the first time in fifteen years, I’m not hiding in the closet.
I’m standing in the middle of the room.
And this time, when the door opens, I intend to be ready.