8. Reva #2
“My grandmother came after me with guns.” My jaw tightens around the word grandmother. It still tastes wrong. “What exactly am I supposed to do if she sends men here with rifles? Escape holds? Throw a decorative pillow? You can train me all day, Ever, but I can’t defend against bullets.”
His face hardens. “That is why we don’t let you stand in front of them.”
“We have to go after her.”
Something slams onto the counter, hard enough to stop the conversation dead. Shiloh stands with one hand on the edge of the sink, the other still curled around the plate he just put down. His expression is flat in a way I have never seen on him.
“We’re not arguing about this every day, Reva.”
The kitchen goes still as I stare at him.
Shiloh has snapped at me before, sort of. He has teased too sharply, flirted to deflect, tossed words like knives and then smiled so everyone would admire the shine instead of the cut. This is different. No charm. No cushion. No quick apology chasing the words.
Just frustration, raw enough to show.
My face heats.
He looks at me for half a second, and I see regret flicker. Then he turns away from it, drops the plate into the sink, and leaves the kitchen without another word.
The back door shuts behind him, the snap of the screen behind him making me flinch. I sit there with my coffee going cold between my hands.
No one tries to fill the space.
Training begins twenty minutes later. Shiloh does not come.
Ever leads me to a covered space off the side of the cabin, where mats have been rolled out over concrete and a rack of practice weapons hangs along one wall.
Deacon follows with a duffel and a second cup of coffee he does not drink.
The marsh presses close around the enclosure, all reeds and water and low morning haze.
The air smells like damp grass, river mud, and wood split fresh from Ever’s midnight ax work.
“Multiple attackers,” Ever says.
I laugh once. “Great. Starting small.”
“You freeze when too much happens at once.”
“I shot a man last night.”
“You also froze before you moved.”
The words are not cruel, which is probably why they make me wince. “I’m not Lara-fucking-Croft.”
Deacon sets the duffel down. “Freezing is normal.”
“I didn’t ask for comfort from the assassin corner.”
“I can’t help it if I’m the warm fuzzy kind of assassin.”
Ever steps between us before I can respond. “First drill is movement. Your goal is space, not victory.”
“Space, not victory. Got it.”
“Winning means breathing at the end.”
That shuts me up.
They start slow. Ever grabs my wrist and shows me how to turn into the thumb instead of yanking backward.
Deacon steps in as the second body, blocking the easy path.
I find out fast how quickly space disappears when two men move at once.
Even knowing it’s Ever, adrenaline jolts through my chest when his hand clamps around my arm, and instinct freezes in my veins.
My body remembers the guard, the chapel corridor, Delia’s throat under someone else’s arm.
“Again,” Ever says.
I do it again. Only wrong.
Again.
Wrong differently.
Again.
Better, maybe, if better means I do not trip over my own feet while trying to escape a hold I helped create by panicking.
Sweat gathers at my hairline. My clean shirt sticks to my spine. The rubber bands on my wrist pull each time Ever catches that arm, a sting over a sting, and after the fifth drill my thoughts start slipping sideways.
Cal is still sedated. Nash is with him, but Nash is not me. Delia is somewhere with Isabel. Shiloh is angry. The hospital has La Rosa markers inside it. I am in a swamp house learning to twist out of Ever’s grip while my sister may be locked in a house with the woman who ordered me dead.
“Reva,” Ever says.
I blink.
He has my wrist again. I do not remember him taking it.
“Focus.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
I pull free too sharply, skin scraping under his fingers. “Maybe because this feels stupid.”
Deacon’s gaze sharpens.
Ever goes very still. “Stupid.”
“Yes.” The word comes out too loud, and once it starts, everything behind it wants through. “This. Wrist grabs. Mats. Breathing. It’s all very useful if Isabel sends one man to politely kidnap me in an instructional video.”
Ever’s mouth tightens.
I keep going because stopping would mean thinking again.
“She sent men with guns. She sent them to a gala with security and cameras and Nash right beside me. Cal is in ICU because of me. Delia is with her because of me. Everyone kept saying Chicago was safe, and maybe it was. Maybe I should have listened to Cal. Maybe I should have stayed there and let the dead stay dead.”
Deacon moves first. He looks at Ever. Something passes between them. A decision. A warning.
I hate when they do that.
“What?” I demand. “What is the look?”
Deacon takes hold of my upper arm, firm enough that my body understands he will not let me twist away.
“Come with me, Little Ghost.”
“I’m in the middle of being trained against polite instructional kidnappers.”
“You’re in the middle of spiraling.”
“I am not fucking spiraling.”
Ever says nothing—super fucking helpful. “I’ll remember this,” I hiss as I walk past him.
Deacon guides me out of the covered space and across the back of the property. I dig my heels in twice, mostly for dignity. It does nothing. He keeps walking, not dragging, not hurting, but moving me with the inevitability of a man who has killed better arguments than mine.
“Where are we going?”
He does not answer.
“Deacon.”
Still nothing.
We pass the woodpile, which is good. Isn’t that where they used to give kids whippings in the old days?
My mind races. We pass the chopping block. Even better. The place where Ever stood last night with sweat on his skin and an axe in his hands. Definitely want no part of that axe.
“Not fucking spiraling!”
Deacon gives a heavy sigh. Beyond the woodpile, a narrow path leads through reeds toward a smaller dock tucked behind the cabin, hidden from the front approach by cypress and tall grass.
A boat waits there.
Not the sleek one that brought us in last night. This one is flat-bottomed, plain, dull green, with a small motor at the back and bench seats worn smooth by use. It looks like something locals use to slide through shallow water without announcing themselves to the whole marsh.
Something in my chest squeezes hard.
The water is very close. Dark and slow beneath the morning haze.
I stop at the edge of the dock. “Where are we going?”
Deacon steps into the boat first, then turns and offers me his hand. I look at it. He doesn’t lower it.
Behind us, Ever stands at the edge of the path, arms crossed, face unreadable. He is letting this happen. That frightens me more than if he argued.
“Where are we going?” I ask again.
Deacon’s gray eyes stay on mine.
“Just sit your ass down and be quiet, Little Ghost, before I spank it.”