Shiloh jerks his chin toward the man behind the bar. “I see you’ve met Ever.” He glances at him like this is an old, tired argument. “He’s a decent enough guy if you ignore the caveman way he talks.”
Ever. So that’s his name.
I keep my gaze on Ever and aim my words at Shiloh. “Apparently I’m not good enough for a position here.” My voice stays even. “He won’t tell me why.”
Ever shrugs. “Sign’s old.”
Quiet fury settles into my bones—cleaner than panic, more useful.
So far, it’s been one hell of a long, strange trip. I’ve had to deal with my truck breaking down, a charming playboy, a stranger who took it upon himself to touch me in the dark and take what wasn’t his to take…and now this asshole who apparently doesn’t think I’m good enough for a job in a fucking bar.
My gaze flicks from Shiloh to Ever, and I hitch a hip onto a barstool. “Pour me a Guinness,” I tell Ever.
He blinks, the first sign of…anything…and inwardly I cheer. I can’t stand a fucking Guinness, but I’ll sit here and drink ten of them if I have to in order to prove myself.
I’m going to have to learn how to take myself back.
Step one: get inside Noir.
Step two: find Midnight.
Step three: hire him to kill Deacon without alerting him that I’m hunting him.
I’m not asking any man for permission for what comes next. But first, I need this job.
I’m not leaving without it.
I don’t remember enough, that’s the problem.
I can’t hear my mom’s voice in my head anymore.
I remember, just barely, what she looked like. I have a bottle of her perfume, so I know what she smelled like. I remember how she used to hum when she cooked.
But the sound of her voice is just… gone.
Like it got erased. How does that even happen?
And my dad, and my sister…
Ash, I’m so fucking angry sometimes. I get so mad I don’t know how I can stand it one more minute.
—Reva
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVER
I noticedher the moment she walked through the door and stepped up to the bar.
It wasn’t anything obvious. Not what she was wearing or anything like that. We get all types in Noir—tourists, locals, people looking to disappear for a few hours. It’s the way she carries herself.
She’s built light, deceptively so—fine-boned, narrow through the shoulders, the kind of frame most men would underestimate without thinking twice. That doesn’t hold up under a second look.
There’s tension in the way she stands, something held tight beneath the surface, and weight in her hips that keeps her grounded like she already knows how to hold her ground if she has to. Her hair falls in a dark, unruly cloud around her face, like she doesn’t see the point in controlling it, and her eyes—brown shot through withgold—track everything like she’s already learned the cost of missing something.
She’s trouble. I don’t need trouble.
“Can I help you?” I ask, already bracing for whatever comes next.
