The impulse to put her across my knee and lay my hand on her ass was immediate, as was the hardening cock in my pants. I’d never been so glad to have a desk between me and a woman as I was right then.
The way she stood in front of my desk, angry and scared and refusing to fold. The way she gave me Deacon’s name like she was done bargaining with fear. The way she held my stare as if she’d rather die than bow.
That kind of woman changes the shape of a room. Makes it and everyone in it hers to do with as she wishes.
She’s young, and I don’t even give a shit. I don’t see those ten…okay, fifteen…years when I look at her.
Shiloh’s chin is jutted out, his gaze moving between me and Ever. “So don’t mess with her if you don’t mean it.”
Ever’s jaw hardens. “You think I’m playing?”
“I genuinely don’t know what you’re doing,” Shiloh says. “You’ve got her about as twisted as a damn pretzel wondering where the hell you stand.”
I look at Shiloh. “And what about me?”
He snorts, some of the old grin coming back at the edges. “What do you mean, what about you? Are you asking my permission to…go after her? Reva’s not my property.”
“I just wasn’t clear if either of you had staked a claim.” I push a hand through my hair, aware suddenly that this is not a conversation we’ve ever had. We’ve never fought over a woman before. Never even really been interested in pursuing the same one at the same time. If one of us showed interest, the others just backed off.
It was never significant.
I don’t know why, but something about this feels significant. None of us really seem to want to back off.
“Reva’s not the kind of woman you stake a claim on,” Shiloh’s saying. “I get the impression she’ll stake her own claim when she’s ready.”
“And what happens if she…stakes a claim…on one or the other of us? What happens then?” I ask.
We’re quiet a moment, all of us processing the question. Ever finally breaks the silence.
“What happensif she doesn’t?”
I run a hand over the scruff on my jaw, eyeing them both, these men, these brothers I’d kill for—these men Ihavekilled for before. And then I hold out my hand to Ever.
“Give me the cat,” I tell him. “If he’s coming to my house, he needs a fucking bath first.”
Don’t call me that.
…
But maybe I don’t hate it.
—Reva
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
REVA
The meetingwith Nash was a waste of my time. He didn’t even flinch when I said Deacon’s name.
He didn’t ask who. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t give me anything I could grab and shake loose except the smallest hitch in his breathing, so slight I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been studying him as closely as I was.
Then he broke eye contact, rapped his knuckles on the stainless steel desk, and said, “I can’t help you.”
The words landed flat. Too flat.
Anger caught fast, bright and hot. “Can’t or won’t?”
He didn’t bother answering. It was dismissal by posture. By silence. By the noiseless scrape of his thumb along the surface of the desk as if the conversation was over before it had even begun.
