Page 38 of The Final Cut

Then I move.

The back door opens before I reach it. Shiloh stands in the kitchen, one hand on the frame, expression sharpening the second he sees my face.

“Ever—”

I pass him. Nash says my name from the living room. I keep walking.

Shiloh does not follow. Neither does Nash. They can be smart every now and then.

Reva’s bedroom door is open. The clothes she stripped off are still on the floor near the windows. Homer sleeps in the center of the quilt, unbothered by the humans in crisis, one orange paw over his face as if he has seen enough of us for one night.

Steam clouds the bathroom glass.

Reva stands under the shower spray with her hands braced against the tile, head bowed forward, water running over her shoulders and down her back. The glass door hides nothing important. Her body is all pale skin, dark hair, bruises, shadows. She looks up when I step inside the bathroom, and our eyes meet through the steam.

Neither of us speaks.

Words are waiting outside this room with the rest of the night. Cal. Delia. Isabel. Plans. Fear. All of it can wait for one goddamn minute.

I pull the belt through the loops of my pants and drop it. My boots come next. Socks. Pants. Every movement deliberate because if I move too fast, I will look as wrecked as I feel. Reva watches every move, her tongue darting out to taste her lower lip.

When I open the shower door, warmer air rolls over me. She straightens, water sliding down her throat. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her mouth is soft and stubborn and still trembling faintly at the edges.

I step in and close the door behind me.

The shower is large enough for two people to avoid each other. Fuck that.

I crowd her back until her spine meets tile. My hands brace on either side of her head. Her chin lifts. She’s breathing fast now, and so am I.

“Want me to leave?” I ask.

Her hands come to my waist. Fingers digging in. “No.”

The word shoots heat straight through me. I lower my head and take her mouth.

She opens under me with a sound that hits every raw place I have left, and my control fractures in one clean line. I kiss her hard, my body pinning hers, my hands sliding into wet hair and along the side of her throat. She kisses like she is angry at needing anything. Teeth. Tongue. Fingers biting into my skin. Her knee hooks against my thigh, trying to drag me closer.

I give her weight, enough to make her shudder.

I pull back only far enough to see her face. “Words. How do you want it?”

Her eyes flash. “Hard.”

My jaw locks. “I don’t know if I can be gentle today.”

Her hands slide up my chest, nails scraping through water. “Good.”

That breaks the last vestige of my hesitation.

I kiss her again, then move down her body because I need my mouth on more of her. Throat. Collarbone. The curve of one breast. A bruise near her ribs that makes me slow for half a breath before she grips my hair and tugs me back to task.

So I go to my knees.

Water beats against my shoulders. Her hand flies to the tile for balance. I hook one of her legs over my shoulder and put my mouth between her thighs.

She cries out, sharp and broken, then clamps her other hand over her mouth.

I pull it away and press it to the wall.