They share history; this I know. It’s not new. This wasn’t a rumor—they told me, themselves. This is real.
The men I’ve given pieces of myself to are tied to him. I knew that before I ever stepped over the line with them.
Deacon’s gaze moves past Nash. Past the tables. Past the glittering room.
And lands on me.
For one awful beat, everything in me stops.
Those eyes are familiar now. More than familiar. Something in them slides into place with a sick, final click. The sense of being seen and not understanding why. The old shiver at the back of my neck.
His mouth curves in recognition.
He steps away from Nash and comes toward me with the measured confidence of a man who has never had to hurry for what belongs to him.
Ever’s hand flattens at my back, a brace. Shiloh’s fingers close more firmly over my elbow.
I should be afraid. Shit, I am afraid. But underneath the fear is something darker and harder. A filthy, feverish triumph.
This is it.
This is him.
I force myself to stay upright as he stops in front of me.
Up close, he smells expensive. Smoke and clean starch and some darker note that reminds me of old churches and blood on stone. His scar is worse near than far. His eyes even less forgiving.
He looks me over once, head to toe, in a way that feels less like desire than assessment.
Then his gaze returns to my face.
“Hello, Little Ghost.”
The world tilts.
Little ghost.
Something starts sliding home inside me so violently it almost hurts with the precision of it. Every near miss. Every file that led me nowhere but the bayou. Everywhisper. Every impossible instinct I’ve had since stepping into New Orleans.
That fucking bathroom.
The man from the bathroom. The one whose voice chased me. The one whose presence brushed me like death stepping politely aside.
I go cold and hot all at once.
The strange pull. The certainty that something had brushed past me in the dark and known exactly what I was.
I stare at him, lips parting, but no sound comes out.
He knows. He knows me. Or enough of me to call me that. He’s not just the man from the bathroom. He’s…
“Ash?”
Behind me, Ever goes taut. Shiloh’s fingers bite. Somewhere to my left, Nash says Deacon’s name in a warning tone that doesn’t so much as dent the moment.
Deacon barely flicks him a glance. His attention remains fixed on me.
And then I seeher.
