Page 190 of The Next Lie

Nash stands at the base of the stairs in a black tuxedo that looks less rented than inherited. Ever leans against the wall, one hand in his pocket, eyes going immediately to the hairpin in my hair. Shiloh stands beside him, smile gone soft at the edges. Deacon is half in shadow near the library door, dark suit, black shirt, no tie, gaze fixed on me with a stillness that feels dangerous.

I’m guessing the suit means he has to go in some capacity for Mother Superior.

Cal stands a few feet away from them with his arms folded. He sees me and forgets to hide everything. That nearly breaks me.

No one speaks at first. For once, even Shiloh has nothing. My hand tightens on the banister.

Then Nash steps forward. His eyes move over me slowly, not like an assessment, but in recognition. Like the woman walking down the stairs is not fragile, not hidden, not anyone’s mistake.

When I reach the bottom, he takes my hand.

“You are extraordinary, Little Wolf,” he says.

The words are simple, no performance behind them. My throat tightens.

Ever comes next. He touches the side of the hairpin with one careful finger, then drops his hand to my jaw. His kiss is brief and steady.

“Signal is live,” he says.

Shiloh catches my wrist and lifts the bracelet. “Mine is prettier.”

“Yours has a cat on it.”

“You have a cat.”

“A truly weird one.”

“A beloved weird one.”

He kisses the inside of my wrist, right beside the bracelet, and the nerves in my stomach loosen for half a breath.

Deacon approaches last.

I expect a joke, an order, something infuriating about time or acceptance or ownership. Instead, he looks at me for a long moment, then reaches up and adjusts one loose wave near my shoulder.

“Little Ghost,” he says quietly.

My pulse stutters. He bends and kisses my cheek.

Softly. It’s almost cruel, how gentle he is.

He steps back before I can decide what to do with it.

Cal clears his throat. I look at him. His eyes are shiny, which is wildly unfair.

“You look like your mother,” he says.

The room goes still. My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe. No one moves. No one rescues either of us.

I hold his gaze. “Thank you.”

His jaw works. He nods.

Nash takes the mask from my fingers. I turn and let him lift it to my face. He ties the ribbon behind my head with fingers far more steady than my own, careful of my hair and the pin nestled in my waves.

Then Nash holds out his arm.

The invitation sits somewhere in the car waiting to carry us into Isabel Rosario’s world. To El Sindicato de la Rosa. Into the room where someone is waiting, someone who’s decided my life was an error and my sister’s was a possession.