Ever’s face is tight with fury and fear and somethinguglier—self-reproach, maybe. His eyes snap to Nash, then to me.
“She wouldn’t stop,” he says, like he has to get it out first. Like he’s bracing for the punch.
Nash’s gaze goes straight to the blood. “Let me see it.”
“She’ll fall,” Ever snaps back.
Reva shifts weakly, a small sound in the back of her throat. Not words. Not a protest. Just a reminder she’s still in there.
Ever adjusts his grip, tightening his hold around her thighs and back. His forearm is streaked red, and there’s a thin cut near his wrist—nothing compared to hers, but it’s there.
I step forward and put my hands out. “Give her to me.”
Ever’s eyes flick to mine—sharp, reluctant. Like handing her over costs him something he doesn’t want to admit.
“Shiloh—” he starts.
“Now,” Nash says.
That voice is the knife. The verdict.
Ever’s jaw flexes. Then he shifts Reva carefully, transferring her weight into my arms.
The moment I take her, I feel it—how light she is, yes, but also how wrong. The limp heaviness of someone who’s lost too much blood too fast. Her skin is damp. Too warm. Her pulse at her throat flutters quick and thin.
Reva’s lashes lift.
Her eyes find mine, glassy with pain and shock and anger that doesn’t have enough strength behind it yet.
“Hey Yank,” I say low. “Stay with me.”
She tries to straighten. Tries to fight being held.
Her hand goes to her side and comes away red. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Nash is already moving, circling behind me, one hand braced lightly at the small of her back as though he’s keeping her steady by strength of will.
We start for the truck.
Ever’s pacing in a tight half-circle, eyes cutting back to the woods like he expects the attacker to come crawling out any second.
“He ran,” Ever says again, like Nash didn’t hear the text. “The man with the knife. He cut her when he grabbed her. I—” His throat works. “I didn’t see how bad until?—”
Nash’s head snaps toward him. “Until what?”
Ever’s gaze flicks to Reva’s mouth. To her throat. Then away, jaw grinding.
Nash’s eyes go colder.
Reva lifts her chin like she can still win with pride if she can’t win with strength. “Don’t—” she manages, voice thin. “Don’t talk about me like I’m?—”
Nash leans in and brushes her hair back from her forehead. “Shh. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
No. She’s not.
She makes a move like she’s going to come out of my arms and walk, and I tighten my hold to keep her from sliding free.
