That.
Fucking.
Deceitful.
Voice.
Sunlight cuts across Reeve’s hat-free hair and reflects off the lenses of his glasses as he observes his car’s new parking job.
I want to scrub my name off his lips with a Brillo pad. Perhaps I will once I bring him somewhere private.
Fingertips tingling with magic, I cock my head to the side and curl my lips up into a smile that would make most men cower.
But not Reeve Rafferty. If anything, the line of his shoulders seems to develop and his chest to expand.
Until I say, “Hello, Reeve.”
Chapter 48
Reeve
Idreamed of the day Electra would know my name, but in every version of that dream, I whispered it to her first.
A snarl followed by a low curse snaps my attention off the Atlantean. Metal arcs through the air and hits the gravel road—her father’s knife. The reddened blade makes me scour what I can see of Quinn’s chest and neck behind Malachi’s large paws.
He better not have cut her.
I start toward them, but my body collides with…nothing.
I shoot my gaze toward Electra just as Quinn growls, “Get your hands off me, you brute.”
Malachi shackles my friend’s flailing wrists in one fist while using the other to cuff her neck. “Now, why would I do that, Mrs. Caruso?”
If Quinn wasn’t already pissed, the sound of the hateful last name I haven’t been able to free her from turns her cheeks a flaming red. Even her scar seems to color beneath the brim of my cap. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
“It’s your name, isn’t it?” Malachi jerks his chin toward me, the lenses of his sunglasses glinting in the afternoon sun. “Just like Reeve is his.”
I look back toward Electra, whose expression is as bladed as the tip of my fallen knife. “How did you find me?”
Electra’s lid twitches. “You mean…how did I find outaboutyou?”
“No. I meant, how did you locate me?”
“That’swhat’s preoccupying you?”
“Yes. Because if you found us, then so could Quinn’s ex.”
Electra’s eyebrows jolt before slanting so low they cast her beautiful eyes in shadow. I wished she’d thought of shading them like Malachi to hide their reflective quality, considering the handful of onlookers that are peering at us from the safety of the surrounding shops.
When I realize that those videos will end up on various social platforms, I mutter a quiet, “Quinn, stop fighting them.”
“Stop fighting them?” My friend blinks as though I’ve lost my damn mind.
I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t.
“We have an audience,” I whisper.
The blood drains from her face because she knows Trenton has a team of people monitoring social media at all times.
