Chapter 26 Reva
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
REVA
I spend the first full day of freedom waiting to be dragged back.
That’s really all it is in the end. Waiting.
Waiting for Shiloh’s truck to turn into the lot.
Waiting for a knock at the door that isn’t a knock at all, but a command for my obedience.
Waiting for Nash to decide enough is enough.
Waiting for Shiloh to grin his way inside with some charming little tease about my leash being too tight.
Waiting for Ever to appear out of nowhere like a shadow that’s learned how to wear skin.
But no one comes.
No one pounds on the door or kicks it in. No one steals my keys off the motel nightstand like they did the first time and tosses me over their shoulder like I’m something they lost and have every right to reclaim.
The silence is so suspicious it almost feels louder than if they’d shown up.
And I’m more than a little upset by the fact that they don’t care enough to come.
So I use the day for what I can.
I run errands. The mundane kind. Litter and cat food and a cheap dish for Homer because I’m not about to let him eat off motel paper towels like some kind of feral orphan.
I mean, I’m kind of feral, but Homer isn’t. My perfect little kitten deserves a dish to eat out of.
I breathe, or I try to. I honestly jump at shadows all day long. And I sleep like shit all night.
And when the second morning comes, sunlight hazing weakly through the slit in the motel curtains, I wake with a strange, suspended feeling still sitting in my chest. Like maybe this isn’t real.
Like maybe I’ll open the door and find one of them standing there, waiting with folded arms and dark eyes and that particular look men like them wear when they’ve decided your choices are over.
But when I sit up, the room is still mine.
Homer stretches in a bright strip of sun at the end of the bed, back bowed, tiny claws flexing into the cheap comforter. The A/C rattles in the window. Somewhere outside, a truck door slams. A woman laughs. The scent of old coffee, motel detergent, and powdered sugar still lingers from yesterday.
Normal things. Temporary things.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for the coffee on the nightstand before I remember I drank the last of it cold at midnight.
My gaze catches on the room instead. Not the room, exactly. The feeling of it.
Little things.
A chair that seems angled a little differently than I remember.
My bag—not unzipped, exactly, but not as flat as it had been when I laid it down.
One of Homer’s toys—a crinkly little mouse I bought at the gas station because I felt guilty for uprooting his whole fuzzy life—slightly farther from the bed than I remember kicking it.
I know he hasn’t played with it since we’ve been here.
He’s been obsessed with the plastic trash bag hanging over the edge of the trash can.
I go still. The air leaves my lungs in a slow, careful stream.
Ever. My room has his fingerprints all over it even if I can’t see them.
Not because he’s the only one capable of sneaking in.
Nash could do it. Shiloh probably could do it faster than the other two combined.
But this feels like Ever. Quiet. Methodical.
Intimate in the worst way. Nothing obvious.
Nothing broken. Just the subtle, skin-crawling certainty that someone entered my space, touched what was mine, and left, all without my permission.
I should be angry. I stand there in the stale morning light, staring at the room, and wait for the fury to rise.
It doesn’t. Instead, something foreign and unexpected loosens inside me. Hope.
They’re watching.
I knew they weren’t just going to let me walk out of Blackwood House and vanish into the city like a ghost. Men like Nash, Shiloh, and Ever don’t misplace things they’ve decided belong to them.
That should make me feel trapped. Instead, it makes me feel…
Not safe. I won’t insult myself by calling it that. But steadier, maybe. Less alone.
And damn it, yes. I feel safer knowing that they’re watching me in some form or another.
Let them watch.
They had their chance to help me. Every one of them.
They have information, resources, reach.
Power I don’t have and can’t buy. They could have pointed me at Deacon, could have told me what they knew, could have chosen—just once—to be something other than selfish men playing games with a woman’s grief.
They didn’t.
Although, I can’t actually blame them for siding with their family. Yes, their family can matter to them. But my family matters to me.
So let them watch me do it myself.
The thought puts a hard, sharp kind of energy under my skin. It kind of makes me want to give them something to watch.
I move slowly at first on purpose, stretching in the middle of the room until my spine arches and the thin straps of my camisole slip down one shoulder.
Ever would have placed cameras in here. I don’t know exactly where, but I can make a few educated guesses.
Smoke detector. Lamp. Maybe near the TV.
Something tucked clever and small in a place a normal person wouldn’t notice because a normal person isn’t expecting to be surveilled by a man who thinks subtle violation is practically a love language.
I peel off my camisole and leave it draped on the chair.
My panties follow. I bend and snap, of course. From the hips.
If one of them is watching—and I know one of them is—I let him have the full, shameless view of me crossing the room in nothing but my skin.
I bend to scoop up Homer. I scratch under his chin and murmur nonsense to him while his purr starts up loud as a tiny engine.
I set him beside the dish on the table and pour his food with slow movements, making no effort to hide anything.
“Breakfast for one mini tyrant,” I tell him.
His little tail flicks, and he dives in. I smile despite myself and head for the shower.
The bathroom is barely bigger than a closet. The glass enclosure is still skeezy and spotted no matter how much I wipe it down, but it’s transparent enough to make the point. I turn the water hot and step under the spray, bracing my palms against the tile for a second while steam begins to gather.
Then I glance outward.
Toward the room.
Toward them.
My mouth curves. It’s mean, maybe. Perverse in its own way. But so is everything else about the fact that I know I’m being watched..
I soap up slowly, deliberately. Let my hands roam. Down my throat. Over my breasts. My stomach. Between my thighs. Not for pleasure at first, but for the message. Eat your heart out, boys.
If I close my eyes, I can almost feel the weight of their attention. Nash’s cold, possessive stare. Shiloh’s filthy amusement. Ever’s silence—that one might be the worst because with Ever, I never know if the quiet means restraint or appetite.
The thought sends a pulse of heat through me that has nothing to do with the water.
I touch myself harder.
It’s defiance. That’s what I tell myself.
Spite.
A reminder to them and to me that my body is still my own, even if they’ve all taken their turns trying to claim pieces of it.
Still, by the time I’m done, my breathing is uneven and my forehead rests briefly against the cool tile.
I rinse. Step out. Dry off.
And when I catch my reflection in the streaked mirror, cheeks flushed and eyes too bright, I almost laugh.
“You’re insane,” I tell myself softly.
Maybe I am. But today isn’t for sanity. Today is for Deacon.
The problem is that my best lead is garbage, and I have no clue what steps to take next.
I sit cross-legged on the bed with my phone in hand and stare again at the address I pulled from Nash’s computer. I’ve already plugged it into Google Maps twice, once last night and once this morning, like maybe it would magically become more useful while I sleep.
It doesn’t.
Apparently Deacon lives in a shack in the bayou.
Rotting wood, if the satellite image can be trusted.
Too much green swallowing too little structure.
No road access that I can see. No cars. No nearby businesses.
No signs of life. The place looks less like an address and more like a grave somebody forgot to fill in.
A dead end—maybe literally. I’m not desperate enough for that yet. Not yet. Not when it’s an obviously false address.
But I have another lead. Noir Night. The name by itself is enough to put a sour taste in my mouth.
They don’t want me there, have done everything they can to make sure I’m kept away from it…
but if I’m going after him, then maybe I stop trying to hunt him from the outside and walk right into the darkness.
With or without their permission. Especially since Nash told me that Deacon is a part owner in it.
I don’t love the idea.
Actually, that’s a lie. I hate it. It terrifies me.
But hate and need have been holding hands within me for years now. I can do this.
I pull up Sonny’s number and stare at it for a second before typing.
Me
Are you busy later?
The dots appear almost immediately.
Sonny
Depends. Are you dying or are you being dramatic?
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Me
Maybe both. Can I come over? I need help. Hair, makeup, dress. The whole thing.
There’s a slightly longer pause this time.
Sonny
Ohhhh. Girl help as in GIRL help.
Yes.
Do I get an explanation?
When I get there.
Then yes. Come over this afternoon. And Reva?
Me: Yeah?
Wear real underwear. If I have to save your life, I’m not doing it while you’re in survival granny panties.
My mouth tips despite everything.
You’re assuming I own any.
I’m going to have to buy some—I keep losing fucking underwear.
Jesus Christ. We’re fixing that too.
I set the phone down and exhale. One piece handled. The next waits for me in the bag under the chair.
I look at it for a long moment before I pull it out.
The gun is heavier than it should be.