Page 95 of The Next Lie

“No.”

“Not no.”

“Not now.”

His smile sharpens. “So we’re negotiating timing.”

I look at Reva. She is pretending not to listen. Badly.

“Later,” I say.

The word lands between all three of us. Reva’s eyes flick to mine, then to Shiloh’s. She takes another bite.

No denial. No retreat. Shiloh’s grin softens at the edges, turning into something more dangerous with the promise.

Later, then.

For now, she eats.

For now, she breathes.

And the ghosts stay quiet.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

REVA

Every muscle I own has filed a complaint. My shoulders ache from working the heavy bag. My wrists feel tender from my terrible attempt at taping them. There’s rug burn forming on one knee from the mats, and several other parts of me are making it clear that sex on a gym floor should probably come with a waiver.

I stand under the hot water of the shower, letting it beat against the back of my neck while I try to convince my brain to reboot.

It’s committed to chaos, though.

Ever’s hands. Deacon’s mouth. Cal’s lies. Delia’s face. Nash’s voice. Shiloh in the carriage house doorway, looking at me like I had become a very interesting problem he intended to solve with his whole body.

I press my forehead against the tile and breathe through my nose.

My life used to be shift work, Starbucks coffee, bad takeout, and Chicago traffic. Now it’s assassins, syndicates, inherited trauma, group scheduling negotiations, and whatever the hell just happened in that carriage house.

The shower curtain twitches, and I lift my head. A tiny orange paw appears around the side of the plastic liner and bats at my ankle.

“Homer. No.”

The paw disappears. A second later, the curtain moves again, more aggressively this time.

“Homer, I swear to God, if you climb in here⁠—”

He climbs in. Or tries to.

The kitten launches himself halfway up the inside of the curtain, loses traction immediately, and drops straight into the tub with a wet, offended plop.

For one stunned second, he sits in the spray, all fur flattened to his skull, blue eyes enormous, whiskers dripping. He looks like someone has betrayed him on the basest of levels.

Then he opens his tiny mouth and screams.

I start laughing. “You did it.”

I cannot help it. The sound breaks out of me and bounces off the tile, rusty from disuse and ugly at first, then real. Homer looks even more insulted, which makes it worse. I scoop him up before he can drown himself out of spite, holding his soggy body against my chest while he complains directly into my collarbone.