Chapter 24 Reva #2
My words break off as his hand tightens at my hip, jerking me flush against him.
Liar. My nails dig into his shoulder. He huffs out a quiet, satisfied breath against my throat. For a second, everything narrows to just this.
Just him.
Just the way his hands feel on me, the way his voice drops and roughens when he’s this close, the way my body reacts like it’s already decided on something my brain hasn’t admitted yet.
And that’s a problem. Because underneath all of that—
There’s Deacon. The Syndicate. Ash. The reality of it presses in at the edges, sharp and unrelenting, threatening to break through.
My grip falters. Just for a second.
Nash feels it immediately. His mouth stills. His hand at my neck loosens—not pulling away, just…easing.
“Stay,” he murmurs, quieter now. “With me.”
I can’t. I don’t say it. Don’t have to. It’s already there, hanging between us, unspoken and unavoidable.
But for now, in this moment, we can pretend that everything is going to be okay. That’s all I can give him.
I bite his lower lip, and run my tongue along the mark to soothe the sting he must be feeling.
His eyes lock on mine instantly, something darker settling there. Not anger. Not even hunger, exactly. Something more controlled than that. More dangerous. Like he already knows exactly how this ends, and all I have to do is let him take me there.
Nash’s hand slides from my throat, down the line of my body, deliberate enough to make me shiver. He doesn’t rush. He never does when I’m fraying at the edges like this. He’s learned the quickest way to undo me is to take his time.
“Good little wolf,” he says softly, and the words hum through me, settling into every tender place.
My breath catches.
He kisses me once, slow and deep, then breaks away just enough to look at me and make our clothes disappear. To make sure I’m still here. Still with him. His thumb drags along my jaw, tipping my face up as his gaze searches mine.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Don’t go anywhere.”
The command wraps around me, heavy and certain. Grounding. Possessive in the way only Nash can be. Like he can feel the panic trying to claw its way back in and plans to ruin it before it ever gets the chance.
Then he moves lower.
His mouth traces a path down my throat, my collarbone, lingering just long enough to make every nerve in my body spark awake. I can feel the shift in him with every touch. The careful control. The promise in it. He’s not touching me just to make me want. He’s touching me to make me forget.
My fingers tangle in his hair as he reaches the wetness of my cunt and looks up at me from beneath his lashes, one broad hand tightening on my thigh.
“Stay with me,” he says again, rougher now.
And this time, when he presses me back and parts me for him, I go willingly. With every pass of his tongue on my clit, I get dragged further up a cliff toward release. But Nash, that controlling bastard, keeps me right on the edge.
His mouth is attached to my clit, but one deft finger slides into my pussy and I scream.
“Oh God.”
He smiles against my core and I want to punch him for stopping. Again.
“You’re going to come on my dick, little wolf. To remind you what you said yes to.”
When he pushes the head of his cock against my opening, I don’t even realize he’s moved. I’m sweating, ready for it, and practically begging by the time he inches inside my body.
“More.” I gasp. “Please. More.”
Hooking one leg over his arm, Nash moves me so that he controls everything. Every thrust. Every move. Every angle is one he decides. And I let him.
I let him take me right back to the edge of my orgasm. This time, I scratch down his back and force him to kiss me, distracting him just enough to push both of us over the edge and into oblivion.
Later, Nash sleeps, deep. Still. One arm draped heavily over my ribcage like I belong there, curled into the bend of his body.
Claimed.
I don’t move. I can’t. But my eyes stay open, staring into the dark.
Deacon. The Syndicate. Ash.
Ash’s letters. My chest tightens. No.
No. That doesn’t mesh. Doesn’t matter how hard I try to make the pieces fit, they don’t match up right. Ash isn’t Deacon.
And even if he was…it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change anything. He killed them. That’s all that matters.
The need rises again. Hot, sharp, unrelenting.
I need to see him dead.
The mattress shifts, and a small weight lands near my hip. I glance down. The kitten blinks up at me, that little white cross stark against orange fur as he kneads biscuits near my hip.
Innocent. Unaware.
Nash stirs behind me. I go still. His breathing evens out again, slow. Deep.
I slide out from under his arm carefully, the A/C raising immediate goosebumps on my bare flesh as the covers release me.
The kitten follows immediately, a high mew sounding as he chases me from the room.
“Shh,” I whisper, scooping him up. “This idea is bad enough to begin with.”
The gun is in the drawer exactly where I saw Nash put it. So careless. Too trusting. Or maybe he just didn’t think I’d push.
He doesn’t know me that well.
I slide open the drawer, wary of giveaway squeaks, and take the gun. My heart is pounding, too loud, too fast.
Completely alive.
It strikes me that I’ve felt more alive in the past few weeks with these men than I have in my entire life, maybe. And here I am about to ruin it entirely by stealing from them and fleeing like…well, like a thief in the night.
Can’t be helped, I suppose. I firmly believe they’d do the same if they were in my shoes.
I grab my keys, also in the drawer, right where they left them.
How convenient.
Then I sit and power on Nash’s computer, wait until the screen lights up.
Password? A blinking cursor prompts me. Closing my eyes, I let the memory of Nash’s keystrokes wash over me. I type it in.
Once—wrong.
Shit. Again.
Second try—success.
“Yes,” I breathe.
File manager…search.
Deacon. There it is...everything I need. Addresses. Movement. Connections.
If they won’t help me—
I’ll just help myself.
Up in my room, I shove what I need into my bag. The kitten wriggles, head poking through my bra strap.
“Yeah, you’re coming,” I mutter. “I’m not leaving you with them.”
Even if part of me knows they’d take care of him. That’s not the point. He’s mine. He was always meant to be mine, something that belonged to me in this crappy world.
I’m not giving him up.
I move fast, out the door and to the SUV they parked out in the shed, refusing to let myself think through this potentially stupid plan any further.
I’m far enough away from the house that I don’t worry about the sound when I turn the engine over and pull quietly down the driveway. Halfway down, I turn on the headlights.
And then I just drive.
A half hour later, the roads away from the house are still dark and open. Too open. It bothers me to bolt like this with no concrete goodbyes. No closure. No looking back.
There’s nothing waiting for me on the edge of town. I barely make it farther than thirty minutes before my eyes blur, and I can’t see the road. The lines change and twist around on each other like yellow flecked serpents.
Homer meows from the passenger seat, small and confused. A little bit like me, I guess.
I finally pull Lucille off the street into the potholed parking lot of a rough motel on the edge of town, the kind where strays find themselves. It’s marginally better than the first no-tell motel I stayed in, but not much.
I have a gun this time, though.
The attendant behind the desk smokes a cigarette, likely one in an endless line of them, judging from the tapping yellow fingers against an equally yellow keyboard.
I pay cash for a room with cheap thin walls and buzzing lights.
The ceiling presses low and hangs in place with a lattice work of what looks like plastic. Panels droop and threaten to fall down. Small hills of what looks like either plaster or asbestos grow taller in the corners.
This is definitely not good for my claustrophobia. My heart quickens and my hands go clammy despite the valiant effort of the air conditioner.
This is punishment. This is what I deserve for my mistakes along the way in my hunt for revenge. I should never have gotten close to them.
I shouldn’t have smiled and danced with Shiloh. I should have walked away the second he made my pulse race.
I really should have run the first time Ever’s glare made my core clench. I never should have let the hate between us turn into more.
And I never should have let Nash control me the way he did. His touch…his very presence made everything so much more.
No. This dilapidated room is my penance.
My shirt pulls at me, uncomfortable, plastered in places with sweat and ripped and faded in others. My hair pulls too tightly at my scalp, the high ponytail another type of punishment.
I can’t fucking breathe in this room.
My room in Nash’s house was always nice, clean. Muted colors and soft linens.
Comfortable.
Safe.
I drop my duffel but one look at the shower erases the idea of a rinse from my head. If I want to share the rectangular torture chamber with colonies of black mold then it’s fine. Otherwise, I need about ten gallons of bleach to clean this place enough to stay here.
I ease myself down on the bed, and Homer curls against my side, purring. I stroke its head. Such a trusting little fucker.
So stupid.
I press my face into the thin pillow, and I cry. I know this is the right decision.
Live in my punishment. Take my revenge. Even if I die along the way.
But it still feels like I just left something behind that I can’t get back.