Page 174 of The Next Lie

No guests. No substitutes.

That’s a threat if ever I saw one.

The masquerade with its charity front. Isabel Rosario smiling behind old money and Catholic guilt while El Sindicato de la Rosa fills the room with people who know how to hide knives under formalwear…all of it.

But most especially the exclusion. Getting her alone.

Nash will stand beside Reva.

I won’t be able to. Neither will Shiloh, nor Deacon. Not even Cal. She’s taking away her entire army, and I don’t fucking like it.

Reva will walk into the center of the Syndicate’s web with one man at her side and a tracker under her skin that tells me where she is, not what is happening to her. Location is useful after something goes wrong, but it’s not going to stop a knife at her back. It’s not going to catch a whispered threat, a forced drink, a door closing between her and Nash.

I spend most of the next morning in my equipment room, building around the parameters of what I know and don’t trust.

The chip in her arm stays active. That’s baseline. I add a second layer anyway, small enough to hide in plain sight, strong enough to give me sound, position, and limited visual if she keeps it where I put it. It’s not perfect. Nothing is. A ballroom full of old plaster, mirrors, and people wearing masks is bad terrain. Too much movement. Too many blind spots.

I make it better.

Then better again.

By noon, I have a black enamel hairpin on the table in front of me, shaped like a rosebud with a tiny dark stone at the center. Pretty enough for a masquerade. Small enough not to draw attention. Useful enough that my hands stop wanting to break things for three whole minutes.

Shiloh would call that progress. He would also make a joke. Something about romance, probably. Or paranoia as a love language.

He wouldn’t be wrong. Fucker irritates me.

I test the feed one more time, pair it to the receiver, then to the secure phone I will keep on me outside the venue. The audio comes through clean when I tap the workbench. The visual is narrow but usable. Not ideal. Usable.

I put the pin in a small velvet pouch and head for the carriage house.

Reva is inside with Shiloh.

The double doors are open to let in the afternoon heat. Fans turn overhead. Training mats cover the center floor, and the heavy bag hangs quiet in the corner, no longer carrying the damage she tried to beat into it a few mornings ago.

She is barefoot on the mats, hair tied up, wearing black leggings and a cropped shirt from the new closet. Sweat darkens the fabric at her spine. Shiloh circles her with his hands loose at his sides, smiling in a way that usually means he is about to be either helpful or insufferable.

“Again,” he says.

Reva exhales hard. “This is bullshit, you know that.”

“Everything that makes you better is bullshit.”

“I hate you.”

“All I heard was blah blah blah, I’m a little teapot⁠—.”

She lunges for him. Shiloh sidesteps, catches her wrist, and turns her momentum against her. He does not throw her. He guides her, firm and clean, until she lands on one knee with a string of curses that would make Cal develop another gray hair on the spot.

Shiloh offers a hand. She slaps it away, gets up on her own, and looks pleased with herself for the rejection.

I should be reveling in that. Instead, I look at the open doors, the windows, the shadows behind the racks, the distance from here to the main house, the line of trees beyond the drive. My body keeps measuring exits.

Reva notices first. Her eyes move from the pouch in my hand to my face.

“What is it?”

Shiloh turns. His smirk fades a fraction.