“Yet.” He reaches out to brush a strand of hair off my cheek, and something low in my gut curls tight with tension. “You shouldn’t trust us blindly, Reva. Not yet. You don’t know any of us well enough to. But you will. And until you’re ready to show me the hidden parts of yourself, I’ll take what I can get.”
Piece by piece. Like I’m something to be uncovered instead of something already broken open.
“So what? You’re going to keep me here knowing that I’m holding back and have every intention of leaving and killing Deacon on my own since you won’t help me?”
He shrugs, stands, and offers me his hand. “I don’t need to control you to own you.”
My mouth goes dry, and my pulse kicks. Something in me—something traitorous and dangerous—leans toward that instead of away from it.
Mouth hanging open at his audacity, and a little bit turned on by the confidence in his tone, I take Nash’s hand.
A prison made of glitter and gold is still a prison.
But prison or not, it’s the first place in a long time that doesn’t feel empty.
That’s not a question you ask lightly.
And it’s not one I answer carelessly.
There are names behind things like that. Systems. People who don’t disappear just because you want them to.
Things that don’t stay buried.
You don’t want guesses from me, Reva. You want certainty.
And certainty comes with a cost you’re not ready to pay yet.
You said you wanted something to fill the empty spaces. Be careful with that.
The wrong thing will fit just as easily as the right one.
Tell me something else instead. Something small. Something that belongs only to you.
—Ash
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NASH
The paper issoft from handling. Too soft.
It shouldn’t be. It should be crisp. Untouched. Private. Instead, it bends easily between my fingers, edges worn where she’s read it too many times.
I roll the corner between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the give of it, the slight resistance of fibers that have already been broken down.
I shouldn’t have gone through her bag. That thought comes late, after the damage is already done. The letter sits open in my hand.
Ash.
I huff out a quiet breath through my nose, the sound more tired than amused. Figuring that one out didn’t take long. Didn’t take anything at all, really.
It’s in the cadence of his writing. The restraint that echoes off the page. The way he answerswithout answering. The way he watches her without really admitting to it.
The way he circles the truth like it might bite him if he gets too close.
Ash is Deacon.
My jaw tightens as I flip to another page. Different letter. Same tone. Same control.
