For a second, I think I imagined them. That I’m still half-dreaming, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the aftershocks of him. But his hand doesn’t move again, doesn’t soften or distract, and the silence stretches just long enough to make it real.
He said it. He read them. There’s no taking that back.
“You what?”
My voice comes out in a rasp, rough around the edges. I don’t know if I’m angry, embarrassed, or something worse.
“I read them,” he repeats, like we’re discussing something inconsequential. Like it doesn’t matter. “All of the letters in your bag.”
That slow, steady warmth drains out of me in an instant.
I roll onto my side, then push up onto my elbow, turning to face him fully. The sheet slides down my back, but I don’t bother pulling it up. Modesty feels irrelevant compared to the sharp burn crawling up my chest.
“You went through my things.”
It’s not a question, but he answers it anyway.
“You brought a man tied to my past into my house,” Nash says, his gaze steady on mine. “You expect me not to look?”
Yes. No. Hell, I don’t know.
“That doesn’t give you the right,” I snap, heat flashing quick and bright. “Those are mine. You had no business?—”
“It gives me every reason,” he cuts in, not raising his voice, not pushing—just stating a fact. “And every fucking right, Reva. You don’t get to walk into Noir, start asking about Deacon, and try to keep secrets from me.”
The name hits harder now, because now I know he knows…everything. All the little parts of me I’ve tried to keep hidden.
“You don’t get to decide what I keep to myself,” I shoot back, even though my pulse has already kicked up, my body betraying the tension I’m trying to hold in place. “You don’t get to read something that?—”
“That what?” His gaze sharpens, just slightly. “Matters to you?”
Yes. That’s the problem. It mattered.
My jaw tightens. “That’s not the point.”
“It is the point,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to shift the air between us. “Those letters are the only place you’re honest. The only place you don’t posture. That makes them important. So you’re damn right I read them. And I don’t care if it pisses you off. I’d do it again.”
The words land too close, with too much accuracy. I hate that he sees me so fucking clearly.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say, but it sounds thinner now, less certain than I want it to.
Nash watches me for a long moment, then reaches out, catching my wrist before I can pull back. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s not gentle either—firm, grounding, holding me in place when everything in me wants to either bolt or push harder.
“I know enough,” he says quietly. “Enough to know that whoever this Ash is… he’s been in your head for a long time.”
My stomach twists.Don’t say his name like that. That’s not for you.
“You don’t get to talk about him,” I snap, sharper now, something defensive and instinctive rising up before I can stop it. “You don’t know who he is, what he?—”
“I know exactly who he is.”
That stops me. My chin angles toward him, a question rising to my lips.
The words don’t come out loud. They don’t need to. Their presence sits tangibly between us, cutting straight through everything else. I stare at him, lips parted.
“Then tell me,” I finally say, and this time there’s no heat in it. No snap. Just something tight and focused and dangerously close to breaking. “Tell me who he is.”
Nash holds my gaze for a beat, then reaches behind him, grabbing his shirt from the floor and tossing it at me.
