10. Shiloh
CHAPTER TEN
SHILOH
I slam the refrigerator door hard enough to make the bottles inside rattle.
Super mature. Very well-adjusted. Exactly the behavior of a man who has everything under control.
From the island, Nash lifts one eyebrow.
He got back from the hospital twenty minutes ago with bloodshot eyes, a silent update that Cal is stable, and two of his best men planted outside the ICU until Deacon or Ever rotates in. Reva would not appreciate that, especially since he promised to always have someone there with him.
Nash would rather swallow glass than admit a single promise has already started splitting under the weight of this war.
“What?” I ask.
Nash looks at the refrigerator, then at me. “Should I pull Ever off security and let the two of you work off some tension?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s what she said.”
I shoot him a look. “I’m annoyed as fuck.”
He tips his chin once. “Ah.”
The sound crawls straight up my spine, and I turn from the counter. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means. It means ‘ahhh.’”
“No, it doesn’t. You used a tone. And you used a different fucking tone the second time.”
“I rarely use anything by accident.”
That’s true enough to irritate me even more.
I grab the cutting board I do not need and set it beside the sink, too hard. The wood cracks against granite. Somewhere down the hall, Homer complains from Reva’s room like my noise has disrupted his busy schedule of shedding and judgment.
Nash watches me with that calm, surgical patience that makes people confess things or commit violence.
I choose neither. Barely.
“Do you have a point, Emperor?”
His mouth does not move. “If she’s that deep under your skin, dig her out.”
I stare at him. “A little clarity, oh wise one.”
Nash leans back against the island, coffee in hand, sleeves rolled, jaw dark with the start of a beard he won’t allow to stay past noon. He looks tired. Worse, he looks thoughtful, which is always where trouble starts with him.
“You can’t let her lead you around by the nose every time you hurt her feelings a little.”
The words hit with ugly precision.
Shit. I hate that he sees the wound before I can cover it. Reva looked at me this morning like I had slapped her when all I did was say what every man in this house was thinking. I hate feeling like she was hurt, and I piled on to that.
And I still believe I was right.
The refrigerator hums into the quiet.
I cross my arms. “And how do you propose I prevent her from doing that?”
Nash says nothing.
“You’re the boss.” I point at him. “Deacon’s the killer-man. Ever is the fortress with a pulse. Nobody gets through Ever. He practically growls at doors until they lock themselves.”
Nash’s eyebrow rises again. I keep going because my mouth is running faster than my pride can stop it.
“And I’m Shiloh. I make jokes. I flirt. I fetch coffee and clothes and rubber bands and ugly china for emotional destruction. I’m the fucking clown.”
“You are not a fucking clown,” Nash says, voice sharp enough to cut through mine. “Knock that shit off.”
The silence after that sits between us like a gunshot. Nash rarely wastes volume. If he snaps, he means it.
I look away first.
Outside, rain threads down the windows, softening the marsh to gray.
Deacon took Reva out in the skiff almost an hour ago.
Ever returned from the dock five minutes later with his face locked down and his temper tucked away.
He is somewhere near the back entrance now, pretending to check cameras while checking the water every thirty seconds.
Reva needed space. That does not mean I like these empty rooms she left behind.
The image from the hospital slides in before I can block it.
Pale blue scrubs.
Pretty face.
Too fucking young.
The girl had come around the corner during shift change with a badge that scanned, a clipboard tucked against her chest, and shoes too clean for someone twelve hours into a hospital shift.
Deacon saw her first. I saw him see her.
That half second before his body changed was enough to put ice under my skin.
She smiled at the nurse by the station.
Then her fingers slid toward her pocket.
Deacon moved.
No warning. No wasted motion. One hand over her mouth, the other at her wrist, steering her through the nearest supply-room door like they were lovers slipping away from a party. I followed because my body understood before my brain did.
By the time I got inside, the syringe was on the floor.
So was she.
Deacon’s hand was at her throat. Her eyes were open. One of them had a little fleck of gold near the pupil. I remember that because the mind is a bastard.
He looked up at me and said, “Leave.”
I didn’t, but I should have.
Nash sets his coffee down.
“You saw the nurse Isabel sent,” he says.
The words pull me back.
I rub both hands over my face. “She was a kid.”
“She was La Rosa.”
“El Sindicato de la Rosa,” I say, because if I say the full name, maybe it will sound like an enemy instead of a church function with knives. “The Syndicate of the Rose. Pretty words. Pretty girls. Pretty dead things.”
Nash’s jaw tightens.
“That’s her trick,” I say. “Isabel uses women wherever she can. Young ones. Soft ones. The kind people hesitate over.” My mouth twists. “I love women. Turns out that’s a weakness she can use.”
“Compassion isn’t weakness.”
“Tell that to the girl in the supply-room closet.”
Nash’s face goes harder, but his voice stays even. “Deacon made the call before you had to.”
“That’s the part I keep chewing on.” I look at the rain sliding down the glass. “I’m dangerous. I know I’m dangerous. I’m not confused about the man in the mirror. But if Deacon hadn’t moved first, I don’t know if I would’ve been fast enough.”
“You would have.”
The answer comes from behind me.
Ever stands at the edge of the kitchen, arms folded across his chest, damp hair pushed back from his forehead. His eyes are tired. Mean tired. The kind a man gets when fear has been working him over for hours and no one has offered it a clean target.
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“I do.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
Something passes between him and Nash. Small. Quick. Annoying.
My eyes narrow. “Why do I feel like I’ve walked into a conversation where I’m the only person who hasn’t been handed the script?”
Nash picks up his coffee again. “Because you’re dramatic.”
Ever’s mouth almost moves.
“You two were talking about me.”
“We spoke about the situation,” Nash says.
“What fucking situation?”
Ever comes farther into the kitchen. “You and Reva both need to get over yourselves.”
I blink at him while Nash drinks his coffee. The world has tilted.
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “Could you repeat that? Reva can get pissed off at any one of you three, but not me?”
Nash sets his mug down with the air of a man unveiling a reasonable business strategy. “You need to make Reva understand who’s in charge.”
I stare at him. Then I look at Ever.
Ever nods. “Exactly.”
For a full second, my brain produces nothing.
Then I laugh. It comes out too sharp. “You have both lost your ever-loving minds.”
Nash’s expression does not change. “I’m serious.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
“She pushes because everyone braces.” Nash lifts one shoulder. “Push back.”
“Wonderful. Practical. How do you propose I do that?”
Ever leans his hip against the island. “I mean, I did it yesterday by looking at her.”
My head turns slowly, incredulously. “Is that so?”
“Yep.” He actually pops the P. I am pretty sure I’ve never heard Ever pop a P in his life.
“You looked at her.”
“Through the window. Gave her one of those” —he makes a gesture, palm level to the ground— “looks, and she stripped off her clothes and beckoned me in.”
I hold up one hand. “Stop.”
Ever’s eyes stay bland. “You asked.”
“I asked for none of that.” I don’t even know what that is, exactly. This is the weirdest conversation I think I’ve ever had.
And then Nash says, “You should make her warm your cock.”
Silence. The refrigerator hums again.
I look at Nash Blackwood, lord of control, king of grim decisions, man who once made a union negotiator cry without raising his voice.
“I should do what now?”
Ever appears to consider it. The bastard even tilts his head. “That’s a strong idea. When she comes in, say, Yank, come sit on my—”
“What the hell has gotten into the two of you?”
Nash does not blink. “Or give her a spanking. Or maybe do both. Yes, now that I think of it, give her a spanking and then have her warm your cock.”
I point at him. “I know for a fact you are jealous I’m the pretty one.”
“That has never been a fact.”
“You cannot just tell me to win a fight with a cockwarming, Nash.”
“I didn’t tell you to do it. I suggested.”
“That’s worse.”
Ever says, “I think you’re afraid she’ll call your bluff.”
“One, I would not be bluffing, and two, she would not.”
“She would.”
I straighten. “Reva Hart cannot out-bluff me.”
Nash’s eyes sharpen, which should have warned me.
Just then the back door opens.
Rain air rolls into the room, damp and cool.
Reva steps inside first, soaked from the knees down, hair wet along the ends, cheeks flushed with something I would love to blame on the weather.
Deacon follows behind her, shirt plastered to his chest, expression carved from stone except for the corner of his mouth, which looks dangerously close to amusement.
I don’t have the time or the bandwidth to process that. My head is still spinning over cockwarming, of all things.
Reva stops in the kitchen, looking from Nash to Ever to me.
“Hey, guys.”
The silence is round and suspect.
Her eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”
I clear my throat. “Nothing.”
Nash says, “Shiloh thought you might like to try warming his cock since you were such a brat this morning.”
I close my eyes. “I did not—”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
Reva’s voice changes. My eyes open.