27. Shiloh
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SHILOH
I am halfway down the second-floor hall with a stack of bar towels over one arm when I see Nash Blackwood standing outside his own office like a man waiting on someone to finish disarming a bomb.
His arms are crossed.
His jaw is set.
The office door is closed.
From behind it comes the unmistakable sound of something hitting the floor, followed by a muffled cry that makes my eyebrows climb.
I slow my steps, stopping to look at the door with a lifted eyebrow. Nash looks at me. Another thump.
Then Reva’s voice, sharp and breathless. “I hate you.”
A low male answer follows. Too quiet to catch. Then the desk screeches across the floor.
Well, then.
I tuck the towels securely under my arm. “Should I take it your desk is accepting visitors, or is this a hostage situation?”
Nash’s eyes narrow. “Just keep walking.”
Oh, he’s so irritated. I love it. This is almost better than poking at Ever. I make a mock-concerned face.
“I would, but I’m worried about the furniture.” The only piece of furniture in that room is that heavy metal desk.
Nash rolls his eyes, looking a little like Reva in the moment. “It’s insured.”
“Against Deacon Cross?”
His jaw works. “Nothing is insured against Deacon Cross.”
A sound comes from inside the office that is definitely Reva and definitely not distress. Nash closes his eyes for half a second, which is the closest I have ever seen him come to prayer.
I lean one shoulder against the wall and study my fingernails. “You know, when I suggested a schedule, I was mocked.”
“You suggested it in the carriage house while she was half naked.”
“I felt the timing gave the idea urgency.”
The door at the far end of the hall opens, and Ever steps out. He takes in Nash, me, the closed door, and the silence that follows a very clear feminine gasp.
His expression does not change. That’s because Ever is disciplined and boring when he’s not being terrifying, and that’s why I like to poke at him so damn much.
“What’s going on?” he asks. “Oh wait…letter from Deacon.”
“So Deacon brought Reva correspondence, and she may now be composing a reply on Nash’s desk?” I ask. “That’s…gracious of her.”
Ever looks at Nash.
Nash’s mouth tightens. “She was angry.”
“That tracks.”
Cal appears from the bar end of the hall, coffee mug in hand. He stops when he sees all three of us standing in the hall.
“What are we doing?” His gaze flicks between the three of us.
Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea for all of us to come to Noir today. But then again, Reva wanted to work, and Cal wanted to be where Reva was, and Nash had business to attend to, and Ever and I are always here, running things, anyway…it’s ironic, really.
The desk squeaks across the floor again. Cal’s head tips, and his gaze goes to the door.
Then to Nash.
Then to me.
His face changes slowly, with the precise horror of a man understanding a situation one detail too late.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I lift a finger. “In our defense, no one invited us to stand here.”
Cal points his mug toward the office. “Is that—”
“Who the fuck all else would it be?” Nash says, patience thoroughly shot.
“And she’s—”
“Yes,” Ever says.
“With him too?”
A pause.
Then I say, “Welcome to the coalition.”
Cal shuts his eyes. “I guess we’re all just doing this, then? Standing outside rooms? Listening? Pretending it’s not awkward?”
“Deeply awkward,” I say.
Nash cuts me a look.
“But emotionally healthy,” I add.
“It is not emotionally healthy,” Cal says.
Another sound comes from inside the office, lower this time, followed by Deacon’s voice. Whatever he says is too quiet to make out, but the tone carries. Dark. Commanding. Absolutely not apologizing for anything.
Cal’s grip tightens around the mug and he stares morosely into at its contents. “I need to start carrying whiskey around with me.”
“At breakfast?” Ever asks.
“At all times.”
Nash pushes away from the wall. “We don’t need to be listening.”
I glance at the closed door.
“Then we should move further away.”
Nash ignores me because he is wise enough to know I become more powerful with attention. He looks down the hall toward the bar, then back at the door, as if weighing whether leaving his office unattended with Deacon inside is worse than standing here with witnesses.
The office goes quiet.
Cal mutters, “Thank God.”
I would not thank anyone yet. Silence after that much noise rarely means people have found restraint. It usually means buttons are being fixed, crimes are being hidden, or both.
A few moments later, the door opens. Reva steps out first.
Her hair is a mess. Her mouth is red. Her cheeks are brighter than the French Quarter at Mardi Gras, and one side of her shirt is tucked badly into her jeans. She stops when she sees us lined along the hallway.
All of us.
Her eyes widen, then narrow.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
I lift the bar towels. “Housekeeping.”
“Shiloh…”
Behind her, Deacon emerges with his usual irritating calm, though not quite as untouchable as he would like us to believe. His shirt is buttoned wrong at the throat. His hair is disordered. There is a red mark high on his cheek that looks very much like Reva’s hand.
Interesting.
Nash notices the mark too. His gaze drops once to Deacon’s face, then to Reva, then to the room behind them.
“My desk?” he asks.
Reva turns crimson.
Deacon says, “Sturdy. Five stars.”
Nash’s expression does not change but a vein throbs in his forehead. I very nearly break.
Cal takes one long drink of coffee, then lowers the mug. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Nash rubs a hand along his jaw and eyes up Deacon. “So I guess you’ll need a room at the house now too.”
Deacon turns his attention to him. For the first time since he stepped into the hall, the humor thins.
“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “I’ll sleep in Reva’s room.”
Cal makes a strangled sound.
Reva points at Deacon. “Not unless I say you can; excuse me.”
Deacon’s eyes stay on Nash. “But I would appreciate space.”
The solemnity in his tone lands differently. Nash stills, and Ever straightens from his lean against the wall. I stop smiling.
At his hip, Deacon rubs the fingers of one hand together almost unconsciously, then tightens them into a loose fist before releasing them. “Mother Superior knows.”
The hallway goes quiet.
Reva’s blush drains fast enough to make me want to step toward her, but I don’t. Nash is closer, and Ever has already shifted half a step her way, reaching a hand out to grasp hers. They’ve got her.
Cal watches Deacon with a hard, unfamiliar expression.
“Knows what?” Reva asks.
Deacon looks at her, his pointed silence answering before he speaks.
Her throat works. “Me.”
“She’s behind all the attempts.”
Nash’s voice turns flat. “How sure are you?”
“I spoke with her last night after taking Delia home.” Deacon continues before she can grab onto that thread. “Mother Superior referred to Reva as ‘the surviving Hart problem.’”
Cal swears under his breath.
Reva’s fingers curl into fists. “What does she want?”
Deacon looks at her for a long second, jaw tight. “She called you a mistake and said mistakes can’t be allowed to live.”
Reva’s face goes still.
I hate when she does that. Anger suits her better than stillness. Stillness means she is taking the hit somewhere no one can see.
Cal steps closer. “Reva.”
She shakes her head once. “No, don’t… I need…to process.”
He stops. Good man. Slow learner, but he gets there.
Nash looks at Deacon. “And now you need somewhere to go because…what, you threatened her?”
“No, not openly. In fact, I told her I’d take care of the problem.
The problem is that I prevaricated when she asked me to run back the events of that night, and now she doesn’t trust me, and I don’t trust her, and she knows I don’t trust her because she’s not a fool…
and…there’s no walking any of that back.
I don’t know when she’s going to strike. ”
Nash is nodding. “So you’re not completely out, but you’re not completely in, either. This presents interesting possibilities.”
“Doesn’t it, though.”
Nash studies him for several seconds. The two of them have enough history and blood between them that half the hallway could drown in it. Finally, Nash looks at me.
“Go home and fix him up the east room.”
I blink. “I beg your pardon?”
“The east room.”
“You’re ordering me to make up a room for Deacon Cross after he desecrated your office with our girl?”
Nash’s stare flattens.
I sigh. “Fine. But I’m choosing the towels, and I’m giving him shitty ones.”
“Shiloh.”
“I heard you. East room. Clean sheets. Possibly some sage.”
Reva drags both hands over her face. “Can everyone stop acting like this is normal?”
Nash turns to her. “It isn’t normal. It is practical, though.”
“Practical is becoming my least favorite word.”
Cal makes a rough sound that might be a laugh if he had not been pushed so close to madness. He looks at Reva, then Deacon, then the rest of us.
“A fourth,” he says. “Really, Reva?”
Her face goes hot again. “Cal.”
“I’m not judging.”
“You kinda sound like you’re judging.”
“I’m counting.” He points between Nash, Ever, me, and Deacon. “I raised one girl. One. Somehow she found four men who look like they require background checks and firearm permits.”
“We have both,” I say.
“That is not comforting.”
Reva folds her arms. Her embarrassment is still there, but her chin lifts, and that is Reva all over.
“Come on, Cal” she says. “You knew I was extra when you took me in.”
For one second, Cal just looks at her. Then something in his face cracks. Not much. Enough. He huffs, and then he laughs.
It is tired, reluctant, and a little broken around the edges. It is also the first sound from him since his arrival that does not feel weighed down by fifteen years of secrets.
Reva hears the same thing I hear. Her expression changes before she can stop it, and she giggles. And just like that, everyone is laughing.
We stand in the hallway and laugh. A pile of dangerous men pretending not to have feelings while Reva Leigh Hart stands in the middle of us with swollen lips, bright cheeks, and another assassin added to the household roster.
Cal clears his throat. “I need air.”
“I thought it was whiskey you needed?” I offer.
“It’s actually a monastery.”
Reva snorts.
Nash steps toward the office door, then pauses as if he remembers what happened inside and is deciding whether he wants to see the damage.
He looks at Deacon. “If my desk is broken, you’re replacing it.”
Deacon shrugs. “It held.”
Reva makes a strangled sound and turns away.
Cal points at him. “Do not try to help.”
He holds his hands up in the universal expression of innocence, his expression saying he has no intention of being useful in any way Cal would appreciate.
Nash opens the office door, glances inside, and goes very still. I lean around him.
The desk has shifted several inches. Papers are everywhere. A pen on the floor. A silver letter opener near the baseboard. One of the heavy books from the corner stack has landed open on the floor, face down, as if it gave up the good fight.
Nash closes the door again.
Slowly.
“That bad?” I ask.
He looks at Deacon. “Go get him the east room. Now.”
“Yes, milord,” I say. “Anything else, milord.”
“Shiloh.”
“Going, milord.”
I start down the hall with the bar towels still under one arm. Ever falls into step beside me.
Ever waits until we reach the bar and I’ve set the towels on its polished surface before speaking. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
I grab my keys and head for the door. “Incorrect. I am enjoying parts of this exactly enough.”
“Mother Superior knows.”
The reminder kills the smile I was wearing.
“Yep.”
“She’ll move soon.”
“I know.”
We head out together, glancing back once toward the hall.
Reva stands between Cal and Deacon, Nash at her back. Ever’s beside me, and all of us are caught in a knot that started arranging itself around her at its center, whether she likes it or not.
A fourth, Cal said. As if any of us woke up one morning and chose numbers.
This girl walked into our lives with ghosts on her heels and set fire to every reasonable limit we had.