“That’s enough,” I tell her, not unkind. “Save the fight for when you’re not leakin’.”
Her eyes flash at me—pure Reva. Even half-faint, she’s a damn bramble.
Nash looks at me. “House. Now.”
I don’t wait for Ever to argue. I climb into the truck, situating her on my lap, and wait as Nash slides behind the wheel. Ever jumps in the back. Nash drives as quickly and gently as possibly back across the yard, but Reva still grits her teeth against the jarring motion.
The stain on her shirt continues to spread.
“I think she’s going to need stitches at the minimum,” I tell Nash. He grunts in reply.
Back at the house, I climb out with her carefully. We hit the porch steps and the world narrows to one motion at a time: door, hallway, kitchen. Light. Counter. Stool.
I set Reva down on the edge of the island carefully andkeep one hand at her shoulder until I’m sure she won’t slide off.
Her head dips. She blinks slowly, then jerks it back up, refusing to pass out in front of us.
Nash’s gaze stays on the blood. “Get me towels. Now.”
I’m already moving, yanking a drawer open, grabbing clean dish towels, gauze, antiseptic. My hands are steady even though my insides aren’t.
Ever hovers a step too close, chest rising and falling like he’s still in the fight.
Nash turns on him, voice lethal. “What the hell happened out there?”
Ever’s eyes meet his. “Someone tried to take her.”
Nash’s jaw tightens. “And you let him cut her.”
Ever flinches—just once—like the words found something tender. Then his face turns hard again. “No, I did not just let someone cut her.”
Nash steps closer. “Then explain why she’s bleeding through her shirt.”
Ever’s gaze flicks to Reva’s side. “Because I didn’t get there fast enough.”
Reva’s breath catches. Her fingers curl on the counter like claws. “It’s my fault. I ran.”
I press a towel gently to the stain at her side and feel it soak immediately. Too much.
“Reva,” I say, calm and firm. “Lift your shirt.”
She glares at me, stubborn even now.
Nash’s voice cuts in, controlled. “Do it.”
Reva’s nostrils flare. She hesitates, then lifts the hem with shaking fingers.
The cut is longer than it looked outside. Still not deep, but it’s open and stubborn, the edges angry. Blood wells slow and steady, then slides down her skin in a warm line.
Ever’s face changes, fear, guilt, and rage all swirling together. The rage wants to crawl out of him and kill someone.
Nash sees it too.
And I know, with a sinking certainty, that whatever comes next—whatever the argument is about, whatever Nash is about to say—it won’t bejustabout the wound.
It never is.
I press the towel harder to her side. “Hold still.”
