13. Reva
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
REVA
Eventually I go back inside. Nash is awake when I step into the bedroom.
He is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, elbows braced on his knees, watching me with eyes that miss nothing. Not the phone in my hand. Not the rubber band marks on my wrist. Not the piece of me I must have left out on that patio.
He does not ask who I called. Maybe he already knows. Maybe he guesses. Maybe the man simply has the decency not to pry before sunrise.
A miracle.
“Training starts in an hour,” he says, glancing at the watch on his wrist.
My mouth twists. “Good morning to you, too.”
His gaze drops to the rubber bands on my wrist, and I tuck my hand behind my back. He lets me have the lie without comment.
“Eat something first,” he says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway.”
There’s the tyrant. Apparently he survived the night.
I look at him, and for a second, last night moves between us. His hands. His mouth. The sharp sting of his hand against my ass and the way he held me afterward like he could keep the dark out by force of will alone.
Heat climbs my throat. Nash sees that too. His expression shifts, barely.
“Reva.”
“Nope.” I point toward the door. “Food. Violence. Caffeine first; I forgot my coffee.”
One corner of his mouth moves.
“Shiloh should be in the kitchen,” he says. “Ever’s already outside.”
Ever.
The man who took me to the Hart house. The man who promised he would make sure I didn’t dream about closets. The man who walked out last night because Nash’s fury took up too much space and the reason I ended up in Nash’s room instead.
Not instead. That’s not really fair. Nothing about any of this is a line with only one path. Still, guilt moves through me, warm and uncomfortable.
I grab the hoodie tighter around myself. “Great. Breakfast with unresolved tension. My favorite.”
Nash stands, shrugging powerful shoulders. “You chose complicated, little wolf.”
I slant a side eye in his direction. “I chose revenge. Complicated brought its sleeping bag and moved in.”
This time, he actually does almost smile.
The converted carriage house sits behind Blackwood House, half hidden by oaks and a wall of climbing jasmine. From the outside, it still looks old—white brick, black shutters, wide double doors that probably once opened for actual carriages when everyone here wore gloves and had tea parties.
Inside, it is something else entirely.
The old ceiling beams are exposed and dark with age.
The brick walls have been sealed but left rough, pocked with marks and old repairs.
Thick rubber mats cover most of the floor.
Heavy bags hang from steel mounts bolted into the beams. There is a wall of mirrors, a rack of weights, a row of wooden practice knives, and a locked cage in the back that holds things I am not interested in identifying this early in the morning.
Industrial fans turn lazily overhead, doing absolutely nothing about the heat.
The whole place feels like money took a stab at renovating pure violence but only managed to give it good lighting. It’s a man’s space, pure and simple.
Ever stands in the center of the mats in black athletic pants and a fitted shirt, arms crossed over his chest. Shiloh leans against the weight rack with a mug of coffee, looking offensively pretty for someone about to watch me embarrass myself.
Nash doesn’t join us. I glance back toward the house as I step over the threshold.
Shiloh notices and speaks around a mouthful of muffin. “He’s not training you today.”
“Why?”
Ever’s eyes find mine. “Because you’re already annoyed at him.”
“That feels like a pretty good reason to me.”
Ever snorts.
Shiloh lifts his coffee. “Also, if he throws you on a mat this morning, the two of you will either murder each other or end up naked, and we are trying to establish structure.”
My face heats. “I hate everyone in this carriage house.”
“No, you don’t,” Shiloh says. “But I respect the effort.”
Ever’s gaze does not leave my face.
“I’m annoyed with you, too,” I say before I can decide not to.
The unfinished thing between us settles onto the mats.
I hate unfinished things. They trip you when you are trying to look composed.
“You left last night,” I continue.
Shiloh’s eyebrows lift. Ever doesn’t blink.
“Yes.”
“Nash was angry.”
“Yes.”
“You were angry.”
“Yes.”
I wait. This is apparently all I am getting. Fantastic.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Are we doing monosyllabic emotional processing? Because I need a warning. I didn’t stretch for that.”
Shiloh coughs into his coffee. Ever’s mouth barely moves. Almost a smile. Almost not.
“I came back,” he says.
The words rumble across every exposed nerve.
He uncrosses his arms. “You were with Nash.”
There is no accusation in it. That almost makes it worse.
My throat tightens. “Ever—”
“I meant what I said.”
The room goes quiet. Shiloh looks away, suddenly fascinated by the heavy bag.
I remember the car. Ever’s forehead against mine. His voice, dark and heavy, telling me he would make sure I didn’t dream about closets.
“Then you shouldn’t have left,” I say.
His eyes move over me, giving no indication of his thoughts.
“Did you?” he asks.
“Dream about closets?”
He nods once.
“No.”
Something in his shoulders eases, small, but there.
“Good.”
Somehow that single word feels more intimate than a speech.
Shiloh claps his hands once, too bright. “Excellent. Feelings acknowledged. No one died. A banner day for the emotionally constipated. Shall we teach our girl how to injure someone?”
“Our girl?” I ask.
His grin turns wicked. “Would you prefer our terrifying liability?”
“Honestly, yes.”
“Noted.”
Ever steps closer. “First rule. You don’t fight fair.”
I look at him. “That’s the first rule?”
“That’s the only rule,” Shiloh says. “Everything else is footnotes.”
Ever gestures to the mat. “You are smaller than most men who will come at you. We don’t train you to win a fair fight. We train you to survive an unfair one.”
I give a clipped nod.
Because that is the part no one says in movies. The inspirational montage always skips over the fact that I am five-three on a good day and built more for fitting into ambulance compartments than overpowering grown men who murder as a hobby.
Ever steps in front of me. “If someone grabs you, your first job is not to prove you’re strong. Your first job is to make space.”
Shiloh sets his coffee down. “Eyes, throat, nose, groin, knee, instep. The classics are classics for a reason.”
I mutter the words to myself, forget them, try again.
Shiloh cackles. “I’m sensing this will not be a graceful martial arts journey.”
“No,” Ever says.
Shiloh smiles. “This will be a feral raccoon in a dumpster journey.”
“More on brand.” I grin, forgiving him.
Ever reaches for me without warning. His hand closes around my upper arm. My body locks.
Not freezes, exactly.
But the Hart house is still too close. Cal’s voice is still in my head. Delia’s face. Deacon’s eyes. Nash’s hands.
Everything.
For half a second, I am not in a carriage house with two men who would probably dismember anyone who hurt me.
I am seven.
I am twenty-two.
I am both.
I make a sound, and Ever releases me immediately.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“No. You’re…panicking.”
I glare at him.
Shiloh steps into my line of sight. “That expression is excellent. Very murder-forward. Keep that.”
I laugh despite myself, and it breaks something loose. Ever waits until my shoulders lower. Then he reaches again, slower this time, and closes his hand around my arm.
“Make space,” he says.
I try to twist away. He moves with me.
I try again, harder. He catches my momentum, turns me without effort, and puts my back against his chest. One arm locks across my upper body. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to prove the point.
My pulse spikes.
His mouth is near my ear. “What do you have?”
“My rage.”
“Useful. What else?”
I try to think…past the rage, past the fear, past the—“My feet.”
“Use them.”
I stomp down. He moves his foot before I make contact.
“Again.”
“Stop cheating.”
“He’s gonna cheat,” Ever says.
“Who is he? The theoretical kidnapper?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
Shiloh comes closer, circling us like he is watching a performance. “Don’t announce it with your whole body, Red. You telegraph everything. Rage is fun, but it has terrible handwriting.”
Ever releases me, and I turn, breathing harder than I want to admit. “Again,” he says.
We do it again.
And again.
And again.
My shoulder starts to ache. Sweat gathers at the back of my neck. Shiloh corrects my stance with two fingers against my hip, then taps the inside of my knee with the side of his foot.
“Lower,” he says. “You’re trying to be tall. Stop that. Tall is not happening for you, sweetheart.”
“I hate you.”
“You adore me.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Ever reaches for me again.
This time, when his hand closes around my arm, I do not twist away immediately. I shift my weight first, drop my center like Shiloh showed me, then drive my heel down toward Ever’s instep.
He moves, but not fast enough. My heel catches the edge of his foot.
It’s not a solid strike, but it’s enough to make his grip loosen.
I jab my elbow back toward his ribs. He blocks most of it, but the movement gives me a sliver of space. I turn into it, driving my knee upward.
Ever catches it before I connect.
“You suck,” I gasp.
But he has to step back to do it. Only one step.
Still. It’s a step.
Shiloh’s grin spreads slowly. “There she is.”
I point at him while trying to breathe. “That phrase is still retired.”
“Temporarily suspended in honor of progress.”
Ever releases my knee and steps back.
His expression is unreadable, but quiet approval shines in his eyes. It warms something in me.
“Better,” he says.
I put my hands on my knees and drag in air. “I almost killed you.”
He huffs. “No.”
“I spiritually almost killed you.”
Shiloh nods solemnly. “I did see his soul flicker.”
Ever ignores him. “Again.”
I groan. “You’re killing me. A little praise wouldn’t hurt.”
“Praise after repetition.”
“That sounds like something a serial killer would put on a throw pillow.”
Shiloh laughs.