The cut is longer than I wanted it to be. Not deep. But it’s still bleeding, slow and stubborn.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, and the words scrape out of him like blame.
“I didn’t feel it,” I lie. Then, quieter: “Not at first. And then I did. I just didn’t care.”
Ever’s eyes flick to my face—sharp, furious, scared in a way he’s trying to kill.
“You’re gonna get infected,” he mutters.
“I’ll be fine. I’m an EMT.”
“Then act like one,” he snaps. “It’s still bleeding…”
He presses his palm to the wound to stop the bleeding, and the pain finally blooms—late, mean, and real.
I gasp and clench my teeth.
Ever’s jaw flexes. “I’m taking you home. Now.”
Taken by who? Who killed my family, Ash?
—Reva
CHAPTER TWENTY
SHILOH
The text comesthrough while Nash and I are still two miles out. We’d gone out for beignets, leaving the kitten in the sunroom and Reva with Ever.
EVER
Need you in the woods Reva help
No punctuation. No explanations. Just enough words to send most people into an immediate spiral.
I step on the gas. Ever doesn’t text unless it matters.
Nash reads his own message, jaw tightening in a way that makes the muscle in his cheek jump. He doesn’t say anything, just curls his fingers around the device and squeezes.
The truck eats up the last stretch of drive, tires spitting pea gravel as I take the turn. I don’t stop, continuing instead past the fence and over the impeccablymanicured lawn toward the stretch of woods that dribbles into marsh and ends in bayou a quarter mile out.
The day is too pretty for whatever’s happening—bright sun, green lawn, moss drifting from the oaks like lace. Heat already sits heavy on the property like a wet hand.
I bring the truck to a lurching stop ten feet out from the tree line, and we pile out. Nash cuts across the yard at a fast walk that’s one inch from a run. I’m beside him, eyes scanning the open stretch ahead, then the darker line of woods where the light changes.
Ever appears first as movement—bare feet, dark shirt, shoulders tense. Then I see what’s in his arms.
Reva.
He’s carrying her like she weighs nothing, but there’s strain in his jaw, the kind that comes from more than the weight. Her head lolls against his shoulder. One arm hangs loose, fingers slack.
She’s covered in blood and scratches and dirt and dark spots that might be bruising.
The blood, though. My breath catches in my throat, and I start running. It’s not a smear. Not a little spot.
It’s a dark, spreading stain on the side of her shirt, wet enough that it’s started to drip.
My pulse spikes.
