Page 164 of The Final Cut

Nash lets that hang there, and the promise is worse than denial.

They move me again. On my back. One leg over Ever’s shoulder while his mouth works between my thighs until I am shaking too hard to pretend dignity. Shiloh beside me, kissing me with the taste of salt and himself on my lips, one hand wrapped around my throat lightly enough to anchor, never squeeze. Nash tells me not to come, and I curse him. He tells Shiloh to pinch my nipple, and I arch so hard Ever has to hold my hips down with both hands.

When Nash finally says, “Now,” I shatter.

It rips through me with no room for grace. My hands find Shiloh’s hair, then Ever’s shoulder, then the sheets. I cry out, blind and shaking, my whole body seized around pleasure so sharp it feels almost like pain.

Nash gives me thirty seconds. Maybe less. Then he starts again.

Time breaks after that.

Ever’s cock inside me. Shiloh’s mouth at my breast. Shiloh inside me while Ever holds my thighs open and tells me to breathe against my ear. Nash’s hand in my hair at some point, because he leaves the chair, because restraint has limits and apparently I have found his. His mouth takes mine, slow and devastating, while someone’s fingers circle my clit and another orgasm rolls through me, softer than the last, then another, until I am boneless and damp and barely able to lift my head.

I do not think about Isabel.

I do not think about my mother.

I do not think about Cal’s machines or Delia’s flinch or Deacon’s silence.

For a little while, my world is black silk, male hands, low voices, and the aching certainty that every person touching me knows exactly where I end and will not let me disappear past it.

Eventually, Nash unties the blindfold. Light returns slowly.

I blink up at him through wet lashes. His face is close, hair falling forward, eyes dark and almost tender in the way that nearly scares me. He strokes two fingers along my cheek.

“There you are,” he murmurs.

The line lands near something he has said before, and he seems to catch it too because his mouth tightens faintly. “With me,” he corrects.

I manage a nod.

“With you.”

“Color?”

I smile without much strength. “Green. Sleepy green.”

Shiloh laughs softly against my shoulder. “That’s my favorite shade.”

Ever pulls the blankets up around me. Someone wipes between my thighs with a warm cloth. Someone brings water to my mouth. Nash makes me drink. Shiloh kisses my temple and tells me I was perfect.

The room settles around me.

Bodies close. Sheets warm. The air smelling like sex and hotel soap and the strange, impossible safety of being held by more hands than grief can fight at once.

I’m still angry.

I’m still hurt.

My mother is still alive, Cal is still unconscious, Isabel is still breathing somewhere she should not be.

But my body is no longer trying to outrun itself.

Sleep pulls at me in thick, dark waves. I feel Shiloh’s fingers in my hair, Ever’s chest against my back, Nash’s hand heavy on my hip. Their voices blur above me, low and careful, already shifting back toward guards and plans and whatever war waits on the other side of morning.

I should listen. I should stay awake. I should hold on to every sharp thing in case I need it.

Nash’s mouth brushes my ear. “Rest, little wolf.”