His hand stays out.
“Reva.”
The way he says my name should be illegal.
“House rules,” he says. “You want to stay in my house, keep your room, keep your job, eat my food, and breathe long enough to hate me for it, then this is how it works.”
I grit my teeth. “Let’s hear your precious rules.”
He lowers his hand but doesn’t step away.
“Your keys stay with me at night.” He ticks them off calmly, like he’s discussing weather and not stripping me down to terms. “You don’t leave this property after dark without one of us. You don’t go into town alone unless we tell you that you can. If you leave during the day, oneof us knows where you’re going and when you’re expected back.”
I open my mouth.
He keeps going.
“You do not ask my staff about Deacon, hired men, or anything connected to either one. You don’t wander this property after midnight. You lock your bedroom door. You answer when one of us knocks. If you don’t, we’ll remove the door entirely.”
Every line lands like a latch sliding into place.
“This is a prison.”
“No,” he says. “Prisoners don’t get to leave at all.”
He nods toward the house. “You can leave under the stipulations that I gave you. They’re all meant to keep you alive, even if you disagree. You have no idea the world that you’ve stepped into, Reva. Ever, Shiloh, and I? We live here. We’ve bathed in the blood of the city and walked away. You wouldn’t be that lucky. But if you want to go? You want to try to leave? Go ahead.”
I stare at him.
We both know he left out the part where they’d follow me and force me back to the house kicking and screaming.
I let that ride for now. I’m busy trying not to shake.
“And if I stay?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine. “Then you follow the rules until I know what came awake when you started asking questions.”
The phrasing sends a fresh chill through me.
I hate that some tired, ugly little piece of me loosens at it too.
Protection, my brain whispers, treacherous as hell. Structure. Someone paying attention.
Fuck that. Fuck all of this shit.
I straighten under the towel, trying to gather whatever dignity I can with wet hair dripping down my spine and my bra still soaking through cotton. “You make it sound like you’re doing me a favor.”
He steps in once more, close enough that the air changes.
“Call it whatever helps you sleep at night.”
My breath catches. His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, to the pulse in my throat. He doesn’t touch me, but the space between us feels crowded with phantom contact.
“Keys, Reva.”
It comes out rougher this time.
I should tell him to go to hell.
