Page 53 of The Next Lie

She appears at the landing in black leggings and one of Shiloh’s oversized hoodies.

The thing swallows her whole, sleeves hanging over her hands, dark fabric brushing mid-thigh. Her hair is damp. Her face is clean, scrubbed raw as though she’s tried to wash off more than dirt.

The hoodie irritates me for reasons that have nothing to do with Shiloh.

Well. Not entirely nothing.

But mostly, it is the reminder that she came to New Orleans with a duffel bag and a death wish, and we have had her in this house for God knows how many days while she rotates through the same few pieces of clothing and whatever she steals from us. That should have been handled already.

Tomorrow, it will be. If she lets me send someone, fine. If not, I will take her myself and terrify a boutique into closing for the afternoon.

Her gaze drops to the front door, then to me.

She comes down the stairs one step at a time, and I hate every bruise the day has left on her. Not the visible ones. There are none of those. The damage is elsewhere, behind her eyes, in the way she holds herself like something inside her is still crouched in that closet.

“Where’d Ever go?” she asks.

“Gone,” I say. My voice isn’t loud. I get quiet when I get angry.

She takes another step down. Then another. “Don’t be angry at Ever, Nash. I needed to see the house. I needed to know that my memories were real.”

The fact that she thinks I can be directed out of my anger right now is kind of cute. Ever knew better. He knew the best course of action was to just walk away for a while.

I watch her descend, my gaze tracking every movement. Her bare throat above Shiloh’s hoodie. The pulse fluttering there. The way her hand trails along the banister even though she pretends she does not need it.

“You needed to see a grave,” I say. “You needed to walk through a crime scene the Syndicate already erased once. Do you have any idea how much of a target you were, sitting in that house? Do you think I’m keeping you here because I like the company, Reva?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course you like my company. Duh.”

I don’t take the bait, and she huffs. She reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops five feet away. Not close enough and entirely too close for my peace of mind.

“I think you’re keeping me here because you’re a control freak who can’t handle the fact that I’m not one of your soldiers. I’m not Shiloh, and I’m definitely not Ever. You don’t get to decide where I go or what I look at.”

The words hit where they are meant to, and I half-smile despite myself.

Good girl. Still standing. Still swinging. Still determined to make me insane.

“In this house, I decide everything,” I growl, stepping toward her. “I decide who breathes and who bleeds. And right now, I’ve decided that you’re done playing tourist in your own trauma. You want to be a weapon? Kill people? Fine. But weapons don’t get to wander off the firing range.”

“I’m not a weapon yet.” Her anger rises to meet mine, bright and reckless. “Right now, I’m just a girl who was lied to for half her life. And if you think making me a prisoner in this house is going to make me more compliant, you’ve got the wrong girl, Nash.”

I close the distance before I can think better of it.

My hand catches the front of Shiloh’s hoodie. I don’t yank. I just hold her there, my knuckles brushing the hollow of her throat. I feel her breath catch. Feel her pulse hammer against the back of my fingers.

Her eyes stay on mine, unflinching. No surrender from her, of course not. That would be too easy.

“So fucking stubborn,” I whisper. “Stubborn, impulsive, and completely oblivious to the shadow you’re standing in. You think the Hart house was scary? That was a memory. The people coming for you now are very, very real. And they won’t stop at the closet door.”

Something moves across her face.

Fear.

Then anger comes, fast enough to eclipse it.

“Then let them come,” she says, voice trembling and still somehow full of teeth. “I’m tired of waiting for them. I’m tired of you all treating me like I’m made of glass. If I’m going to die, I’d rather do it in the open than hiding behind all of you.”

My jaw locks. There are sentences a man hears and knows they will stay with him. That’s one of them.