Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
SHILOH
The text comes through while Nash and I are still two miles out. We’d gone out for beignets, leaving the kitten in the sunroom and Reva with Ever.
EVER
Need you in the woods Reva help
No punctuation. No explanations. Just enough words to send most people into an immediate spiral.
I step on the gas. Ever doesn’t text unless it matters.
Nash reads his own message, jaw tightening in a way that makes the muscle in his cheek jump. He doesn’t say anything, just curls his fingers around the device and squeezes.
The truck eats up the last stretch of drive, tires spitting pea gravel as I take the turn. I don’t stop, continuing instead past the fence and over the impeccably manicured lawn toward the stretch of woods that dribbles into marsh and ends in bayou a quarter mile out.
The day is too pretty for whatever’s happening—bright sun, green lawn, moss drifting from the oaks like lace. Heat already sits heavy on the property like a wet hand.
I bring the truck to a lurching stop ten feet out from the tree line, and we pile out. Nash cuts across the yard at a fast walk that’s one inch from a run. I’m beside him, eyes scanning the open stretch ahead, then the darker line of woods where the light changes.
Ever appears first as movement—bare feet, dark shirt, shoulders tense. Then I see what’s in his arms.
Reva.
He’s carrying her like she weighs nothing, but there’s strain in his jaw, the kind that comes from more than the weight. Her head lolls against his shoulder. One arm hangs loose, fingers slack.
She’s covered in blood and scratches and dirt and dark spots that might be bruising.
The blood, though. My breath catches in my throat, and I start running. It’s not a smear. Not a little spot.
It’s a dark, spreading stain on the side of her shirt, wet enough that it’s started to drip.
My pulse spikes.
Ever’s face is tight with fury and fear and something uglier—self-reproach, maybe. His eyes snap to Nash, then to me.
“She wouldn’t stop,” he says, like he has to get it out first. Like he’s bracing for the punch.
Nash’s gaze goes straight to the blood. “Let me see it.”
“She’ll fall,” Ever snaps back.
Reva shifts weakly, a small sound in the back of her throat. Not words. Not a protest. Just a reminder she’s still in there.
Ever adjusts his grip, tightening his hold around her thighs and back. His forearm is streaked red, and there’s a thin cut near his wrist—nothing compared to hers, but it’s there.
I step forward and put my hands out. “Give her to me.”
Ever’s eyes flick to mine—sharp, reluctant. Like handing her over costs him something he doesn’t want to admit.
“Shiloh—” he starts.
“Now,” Nash says.
That voice is the knife. The verdict.
Ever’s jaw flexes. Then he shifts Reva carefully, transferring her weight into my arms.
The moment I take her, I feel it—how light she is, yes, but also how wrong. The limp heaviness of someone who’s lost too much blood too fast. Her skin is damp. Too warm. Her pulse at her throat flutters quick and thin.
Reva’s lashes lift.
Her eyes find mine, glassy with pain and shock and anger that doesn’t have enough strength behind it yet.
“Hey Yank,” I say low. “Stay with me.”
She tries to straighten. Tries to fight being held.
Her hand goes to her side and comes away red. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Nash is already moving, circling behind me, one hand braced lightly at the small of her back as though he’s keeping her steady by strength of will.
We start for the truck.
Ever’s pacing in a tight half-circle, eyes cutting back to the woods like he expects the attacker to come crawling out any second.
“He ran,” Ever says again, like Nash didn’t hear the text. “The man with the knife. He cut her when he grabbed her. I—” His throat works. “I didn’t see how bad until—”
Nash’s head snaps toward him. “Until what?”
Ever’s gaze flicks to Reva’s mouth. To her throat. Then away, jaw grinding.
Nash’s eyes go colder.
Reva lifts her chin like she can still win with pride if she can’t win with strength. “Don’t—” she manages, voice thin. “Don’t talk about me like I’m—”
Nash leans in and brushes her hair back from her forehead. “Shh. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
No. She’s not.
She makes a move like she’s going to come out of my arms and walk, and I tighten my hold to keep her from sliding free.
“That’s enough,” I tell her, not unkind. “Save the fight for when you’re not leakin’.”
Her eyes flash at me—pure Reva. Even half-faint, she’s a damn bramble.
Nash looks at me. “House. Now.”
I don’t wait for Ever to argue. I climb into the truck, situating her on my lap, and wait as Nash slides behind the wheel. Ever jumps in the back. Nash drives as quickly and gently as possibly back across the yard, but Reva still grits her teeth against the jarring motion.
The stain on her shirt continues to spread.
“I think she’s going to need stitches at the minimum,” I tell Nash. He grunts in reply.
Back at the house, I climb out with her carefully. We hit the porch steps and the world narrows to one motion at a time: door, hallway, kitchen. Light. Counter. Stool.
I set Reva down on the edge of the island carefully and keep one hand at her shoulder until I’m sure she won’t slide off.
Her head dips. She blinks slowly, then jerks it back up, refusing to pass out in front of us.
Nash’s gaze stays on the blood. “Get me towels. Now.”
I’m already moving, yanking a drawer open, grabbing clean dish towels, gauze, antiseptic. My hands are steady even though my insides aren’t.
Ever hovers a step too close, chest rising and falling like he’s still in the fight.
Nash turns on him, voice lethal. “What the hell happened out there?”
Ever’s eyes meet his. “Someone tried to take her.”
Nash’s jaw tightens. “And you let him cut her.”
Ever flinches—just once—like the words found something tender. Then his face turns hard again. “No, I did not just let someone cut her.”
Nash steps closer. “Then explain why she’s bleeding through her shirt.”
Ever’s gaze flicks to Reva’s side. “Because I didn’t get there fast enough.”
Reva’s breath catches. Her fingers curl on the counter like claws. “It’s my fault. I ran.”
I press a towel gently to the stain at her side and feel it soak immediately. Too much.
“Reva,” I say, calm and firm. “Lift your shirt.”
She glares at me, stubborn even now.
Nash’s voice cuts in, controlled. “Do it.”
Reva’s nostrils flare. She hesitates, then lifts the hem with shaking fingers.
The cut is longer than it looked outside. Still not deep, but it’s open and stubborn, the edges angry. Blood wells slow and steady, then slides down her skin in a warm line.
Ever’s face changes, fear, guilt, and rage all swirling together. The rage wants to crawl out of him and kill someone.
Nash sees it too.
And I know, with a sinking certainty, that whatever comes next—whatever the argument is about, whatever Nash is about to say—it won’t be just about the wound.
It never is.
I press the towel harder to her side. “Hold still.”
Reva’s chin lifts. “I am holding still.”
She’s lying. Her whole body is shaking under the stillness and adrenaline coursing through her body.
Nash’s voice drops, aimed at Ever. “Talk.”
Ever’s eyes don’t leave the blood. “He grabbed her from behind. Knife came out fast, too fast. I got to her—”
“And you let him cut her,” Nash repeats, flat.
Ever’s jaw tightens. “No.”
Nash steps closer. The air in the kitchen goes tight. “Then why is she bleeding through her shirt?”
Ever’s gaze flicks up, sharp and ugly. “As I said, I didn’t get there fast enough.”
Reva makes a small sound—half breath, half laugh. It doesn’t have humor in it. It’s pure disbelief. “No, Ever, you saved me.”
Ever’s head snaps toward her. “No,” he says, too rough. “I didn’t.”
Nash’s mouth turns hard. “And then?”
Ever’s shoulders go rigid. Reva’s eyes narrow. She looks between them, confused and—Christ—still trying to put the room in order somehow.
I press another towel against the area, doubling up. “Ever.”
He doesn’t move.
“Ever,” I say again, firmer.
His gaze flicks to me. I jerk my chin at the cabinets. “Antiseptic. Medical kit. Upstairs hallway closet. Go.”
For half a second he looks like he’s going to argue. Then he moves—fast, clipped steps, barefoot on hardwood, disappearing down the hall.
The moment he’s gone, Nash pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales, his signature method for leashing his temper and reining in his patience.
Reva’s breath is shallow. She keeps her shirt lifted with shaking fingers, watching me work and struggling not to pass out.
“Am I gonna need stitches?” she asks, voice thin.
“I think maybe a few, yes.” She’s absolutely going to need stitches, but I don’t want to stress her out any more than she already is.
She huffs out a faint laugh. “As many shots as I’ve given…I don’t much like needles.”
Nash’s gaze is on her throat now. On the bruising that’s already blooming where fingers held her. On her mouth. On her wrists.
He looks like he’s memorizing every mark.
Reva catches him looking and stiffens. “Stop.”
Nash’s eyes lift to hers. “Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that…” She swallows. “Like you care.”
Something in Nash’s expression tightens. Not softness, exactly. But close.
“No one’s going to lay a finger on you without my permission, little wolf.”
Reva’s eyes flash and she bares her teeth in a growl. Nash laughs and slides a hand over the back of her head in unwilling humor.
She jerks away with a hiss. “Ow!”
“Shit.” My fingers trace the lump on the back of her head. “Are you nauseous?”
“No.”
I study her pupils, gaining her irritation when I shine a pen light into each. “Dizzy?”
“No.”
She lies again, and I can see it in the way her lashes flutter, in the way her jaw holds too tight.
I glance at Nash. “She may have a slight concussion, but nothing acute.”
Nash’s lips pinch. He grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it at the sink, movements precise. He sets it in front of Reva.
“Drink,” he says.