I should throw the towel in his face, grab the duffel, and prove him wrong out of spite.
Instead I stand there fighting my own body and my own fear and the fact that he might be right about things I can’t even see yet.
Very slowly, I slip one hand in the duffel bag and fish my keys out from where I tucked them, and slap them into his palm. The contact is brief.
Electric.
His fingers close over mine for one beat too long before he takes the keys fully.
“There,” I snap, yanking my hand back. “Happy?”
“No.”
That answer surprises me enough I look up.
He’s watching me with that same dark, controlled stare, but something in it has shifted—less command, more grim resolve. Like he didn’t want this job and took it anyway.
Fuck my life.
He hooks my keys on one finger and glances toward the door. “Get inside. Dry off. Lock your door.”
I lift my chin. “Or what?”
His eyes move over me once, deliberate and hot enough to make my skin tighten under the towel.
“Or you’ll learn exactly why I told you you’re not safe with me.”
He turns and walks toward the house, duffel in one hand, my keys in the other, like he’s carrying off pieces of me he has no right to touch.
I stand on the patio in wet underwear and a towel, furious and humiliated and far too aware of the way my body is still answering him.
He won’t help me kill Deacon.
He won’t let me leave.
Somehow, in the span of five minutes, he’s taken my keys, my bag, and any illusion that I was in control of anything that happens next.
And I’m shaking with relief that he did so.
Let’s take the obvious things—bringing your family back, getting revenge—off the table.
If you could have any wish come true, what would it be?
—Ash
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
REVA
The problemwith a cage is that you don’t know how strong the bars are until you hit them.
Mornings should feel normal.
Coffee in the kitchen, sunlight through the windows. A quiet house with polished floors and too many doors.
Instead, everything feels staged. Domestic as camouflage to hide the monsters where they live.
Ever made coffee. I know because I can smell it all the way down the hall—dark roast and chicory and something rich enough to make my mouth water in spite of myself.
