Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NASH
The paper is soft from handling. Too soft.
It shouldn’t be. It should be crisp. Untouched. Private. Instead, it bends easily between my fingers, edges worn where she’s read it too many times.
I roll the corner between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the give of it, the slight resistance of fibers that have already been broken down.
I shouldn’t have gone through her bag. That thought comes late, after the damage is already done. The letter sits open in my hand.
Ash.
I huff out a quiet breath through my nose, the sound more tired than amused. Figuring that one out didn’t take long. Didn’t take anything at all, really.
It’s in the cadence of his writing. The restraint that echoes off the page. The way he answers without answering. The way he watches her without really admitting to it.
The way he circles the truth like it might bite him if he gets too close.
Ash is Deacon.
My jaw tightens as I flip to another page. Different letter. Same tone. Same control.
Same man.
He never could help himself when it came to things he thought needed protecting.
I lean back in the desk chair, the wooden legs creaking under my weight, and stare at the letters like they might rearrange themselves into something that makes more sense.
They don’t. It already makes too much sense. That’s the problem.
Deacon took the job we wouldn’t. The job we couldn’t.
I remember the room and the order that almost destroyed us. The way Mother Superior laid it out like it was nothing more than a task. A line item. A necessary correction.
A family.
A child.
Two, actually.
Too young. Too fucking young.
Shiloh had gone quiet. Ever—already always quiet—had gone still. I’d simply said no, flat and final. Consequences be damned.
Deacon hadn’t argued. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t tried to convince us.
He’d just…taken the job.
And then he’d taken the weight. The fallout. The separation that followed. Publicly cut himself off from us like we were something he could afford to lose.
And we let him. Because the alternative—
I drag a hand over my jaw, the rasp of stubble grounding me back in the present.
Now here she is.
Alive. Not a ghost. Not a memory. Not a mistake.
Fucking Reva Leigh Hart is alive and walking around my house. She doesn’t know how close she is to the truth.
And him—
He’s been watching her. All these years. Sending her letters. Offering her guidance that she needed. Giving her distance.
Control.
My gaze drops back to the paper in my hand.
“You don’t want guesses,” I murmur under my breath. “You want certainty.”
Yeah. That sounds like you.
Deacon never was a child killer. He never was a woman killer, either, for that matter.
Which means whatever happened that night…didn’t happen the way we were told.
A slow, familiar tension builds at the base of my skull. The kind that means something’s been sitting wrong for too long and I’m only just now noticing it.
We never asked. Not really. We took what he gave us and let the rest stay buried. Because it was easier. It kept us intact. Digging into it meant risking everything we built after.
But now… Now I’ve got a woman in my house who shouldn’t be alive.
A girl he’s been writing to. Watching.
I fold the letter carefully and return everything to her bag exactly where I found it, then carry it down the hall. Her door is cracked.
I push it open just enough to step inside.
Reva is sprawled across the bed, half on her stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other curled near her face.
She’s so still. Quiet. Too young for the weight she’s carrying.
The rise and fall of her back is steady. Peaceful. Or as close to peaceful as she probably gets.
I lean against the doorframe and watch her for a moment, trying to reconcile the woman in front of me with the one in those letters, with the one Deacon’s been writing to.
“Little ghost,” I murmur.
The words feel different in my mouth. Heavier. Possessive in a way I don’t like. I prefer my name for her—little wolf. Reva has teeth, cute little sharp ones I think about constantly. I want to feel them, digging into the skin of my shoulder or my chest when I’m making her come.
Because I know that day is coming.
Her brow furrows slightly in her sleep. I push off the frame before I do something stupid, like touch her.
I leave the bag where it belongs, then I walk out of the room.
* * *
“This is absolute bullshit.”
Reva’s voice carries through the house before I even make it to the front hall. It’s sharp, an octave higher than her normal husky alto. Restless. Drawn tight like she’s got nowhere to put the energy burning through her.
I stop just out of sight, listening. Shiloh’s laughing. Ever’s not.
“I’m going back to work,” she’s saying. “You can’t just keep me locked up here.”
“No,” Ever says flatly.
“No,” Shiloh echoes, far too cheerfully.
Ah, hell. She’s going to explode if I don’t do something. I step into the doorway.
She’s pacing a hole in the floor, her feet bare. Hair a mess. Eyes bright with frustration and something deeper underneath.
Need. Not for work. That’s not it, not really. It’s more than that. It’s for movement. For control.
For progress.
“I haven’t even seen anything,” she snaps. “I’ve seen the bar. That fleabag motel. This house. That’s it.”
Her gaze cuts to me.
“And you’re all just fine with that?”
No. I push off the frame.
“Get dressed.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You said you haven’t seen anything.” I hold her gaze. “We’re fixing that.”
Suspicion narrows her eyes immediately.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.” I take a step closer. “And because you’re bored and being a brat, and if you don’t get out of this house, you’re going to start making problems just to have something to do.”
Her mouth opens.
I cut her off.
“Go. Get dressed.” My voice drops. “For once—just listen.”
There’s a beat. A little push. Little pull.
Then she turns and stalks off. I stifle a grin.
There’s my good girl.
She comes back ten minutes later, and I immediately understand that she’s created a brand new problem.
Short skirt. Too fucking short.
T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she’s not wearing anything underneath it that matters.
Jesus Christ.
My jaw tightens.
“That’s what you picked?”
“What?” She looks down at herself. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“We’re going to get food, right? See a few sights? It’s a skirt.”
“It’s a problem.”
She crosses her arms. “For who?”
Me.
“Only every man who looks at you sideways,” I mutter.
I drag my phone out and send a quick text.
Fix her wardrobe. Today.
Shiloh’s reply comes back almost immediately.
SHILOH
Already on it. Knew you’d lose your mind when you saw that.
Smartass.
“Let’s go,” I say.
* * *
New Orleans at night breathes different. It’s heavier. Closer. Like the air itself is watching you.
Reva sticks close without realizing she’s doing it. Her shoulder brushes mine every few steps. Her hand almost reaches for mine twice.
I don’t comment on it. I guide her instead.
“Stay on this side,” I murmur, fingers brushing the small of her back as I maneuver her to the inside of the sidewalk.
She stiffens, then relaxes.
Interesting. I let my hand relax more firmly against the small strip of skin bared by her T-shirt, my thumb compelled by a mind of its own to rub small, mindless circles against it.
Her breath hitches but she says nothing.
We stop across from the LaLaurie Mansion.
A tour group stands clustered nearby—equal parts drunk, thrilled, and terrified. One of them lets out a startled noise when the guide raises his voice.
A guy—tall, laughing—sways. Then promptly faints into his partner’s arms.
Reva snorts. “That’s dramatic.”
“Heat,” I say. “And the power of suggestion.”
Her eyes flick to me. “You believe in all this?”
“I believe people scare themselves better than anything real ever could.”
Not entirely true.
Her lips part like she’s about to argue. I step closer instead, close enough that she has to feel me.
“Stay still,” I murmur.
“What—”
My fingers slide along her thigh, skimming her skirt and lifting it. Just barely. Just enough.
She freezes.
Good. I keep my expression neutral, gaze forward like nothing’s happening.
My hand moves again. Higher, slower, applying the barest of pressure as my fingertips seek and find the elastic edge of her panties. I ease my thumb and forefinger beneath the lace, stroking lightly.
Testing.
I’m not sure who I’m testing…Reva or myself.
Her breath hitches, and her feet shift, sliding to give her better balance or me better access—not sure which. I turn my nose into her hair—she smells so uniquely Reva, so fucking good—and inhale as I press a kiss next to ear. “That’s my good little wolf.”
She growls.
I move my hand to cup her more completely and pull her back against me, the heel of my hand seated firmly over her mound and my middle finger just teasing the wetness of her cleft.
The group in front of us will make it difficult to notice that I have her skirt rucked up almost to her waist right here on the sidewalk, but I honestly don’t give a fuck if anyone does see.
Reva Leigh Hart is mine, and this is me staking my claim. I don’t give a rat’s ass who sees. Reva, on the other hand…
“Keep your eyes open, little wolf. Wouldn’t want anyone to think anything untoward is going on, would we?”
A tremble courses through her as her eyes pop open, her pupils dilated to huge black disks. The group in front of us laughs. Someone makes a joke about ghosts. I dip my finger in and out in small, lazy thrusts.
Reva sways, her foot scraping the sidewalk.
“Hey,” one of the tourists says, glancing back. “You okay?”
My arm tightens around her waist.
“She’s fine,” I say easily. “Just the heat.”
And me.
Her nails dig into my arm. Her breathing goes uneven. I lean down, mouth brushing her ear.
“Easy,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”