“No.”
His own gaze narrows.
“Reva.”
My name is a warning on his lips. A low rumble from deep in his chest that slides under my skin and sits there.
I hate that I shiver and goosebumps rise on my flesh. I have to clench my fist to keep from snapping my rubber bands.
“I deserve answers,” I say, and the tremor in my voice pisses me off enough to make me firmer on the next words. “You expect me to work for you, live with you, trust you enough not to try to do this thing on my own, and you won’t even tell me there’s a whole hidden ass floor under the building?”
His mouth hardens at the wordtrust.
Good. Letit.
“Nash walks in, and everybody tenses. Shiloh goes quiet. You hide in the office. Then he disappears through a wall and suddenly I’m supposed to act like that changes nothing?” I shake my head. “It changes everything.”
For me, most of all.
If Nash is tied to the part of this place that stays hidden, then my entire approach may need to shift. If he’s Midnight, I’m in deeper than I thought. If he’s not, he may still be the door I need.
Ever closes the distance before I register he’s moved.
One step. Two.
Then his hand is in my hair. He’s not gentle. Not cruel enough, though, to call violence.
His fingers thread through the strands at the back of my head and tighten just enough to force my face up to his. My pulse punches hot in my throat.
“Ever—”
He kisses me.
It isn’t like the office. It isn’t like Shiloh. This kiss is all warning label.
Deep. Possessive. Punishing in the way a man gets when he wants to shut your mouth and mark the fact that he could.
He takes and takes, leaving no room for me to pace the contact or decide the rhythm, and my body—thetraitorous, stupid thing—answers him with heat anyway. My hands fist in his shirt.
His teeth catch my lower lip, a sharp sting, and he soothes it with his tongue before the hurt fully lands. The contradiction of it knocks me sideways.
Pain, then comfort.
Threat, then heat.
A warning dressed like desire.
My knees go weak for one humiliating second.
He smells like soap and smoke and the kind of salt-warm male skin my body already knows too well. It’s different from Shiloh, different from everything about last night—less coaxing, more impact. Less comfort, more control.
No better.
No worse.
Ever is his own brand of trouble.
I grip his shirt harder, and the second I do—as soon as I make it something he can read aswantinstead of resistance—he breaks the kiss.
