Page 49 of The Next Lie

“You’re the proof,” he says.

Something inside me cracks.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough for the pain to change shape.

Ever stands, pulling me with him. He doesn’t give me a choice, but he does it carefully, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around mine. “We’re leaving. You saw what you needed to see. Now we go back.”

I don’t argue. I don’t have the strength left for it.

I let him lead me out of the closet, down the groaning stairs, and through the foyer that smells like my mother’s ghost. As we step out onto the porch, the late day sunlight is blinding, a harsh, unforgiving glare that makes my eyes sting. The heat of the afternoon hits me, but it doesn’t wash away the chill of the closet.

I don’t think anything ever will.

We walk back to the car, and Ever doesn’t let go of my hand until we’re standing by the passenger door. He stops there, his body blocking the view of the house, forcing me to look only at him. He reaches out, his hand cupping my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lower lip. It’s a heavy, deliberate gesture that makes my breath hitch.

“You’re alive, Reva,” he says, his voice like grinding stones. “Focus on that. You aren’t that girl in the closet anymore. You’re mine. You’re ours. And we don’t let ours break.”

“I’m not a possession, Ever,” I say, but there’s no bite in it.

I lean into his palm, closing my eyes for a second, savoring the solid, living warmth of him. He’s a predator, a stalker, a man who probably hasn’t had a clean thought in a decade, but right now, he’s the only thing keeping the earth from opening up and swallowing me whole.

“Never said possession,” he mutters.

He leans down, his mouth brushing against my forehead, a brief, searing contact that feels like a brand. Then he opens the car door and waits for me to get in.

As I slide into the seat, I look back at the house one last time.

It looks smaller than ever, a rotting husk in a sea of weeds. The secrets are still there, but they don’t feel like ghosts anymore.

They feel like targets.

The drive back to Blackwood House is silent, but it isn’t the suffocating silence of the Hart estate. It’s charged, thick with the things Ever and I haven’t said yet. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, palm up, waiting.

I don’t take it immediately.

I watch the trees blur past, the Spanish moss swaying in the wind like tattered gray flags. I think about Deacon’s eyes. I think about Delia’s rosary. I think about the fact that my life has been a carefully constructed lie for fifteen years, and the only people who might know the truth are the men who keep deciding how much of it I’m allowed to have.

When we pull into the long, gravel driveway of Blackwood House, my stomach does a slow, sickening roll. I see Nash’s black SUV parked near the front steps, and even from here, I can feel the tension radiating off the house. Nash does not like it when things don’t go according to his plan.

And taking the broken girl back to the scene of the massacre was definitely not part of the plan.

“He’s going to be pissed,” I say, watching the front door.

It’s an understatement of such monumental proportions it’s almost funny. Nash Blackwood in a fury is a force of nature, a hurricane of possessiveness and cold, calculated violence.

“Let him be pissed,” Ever says, killing the engine.

He turns in his seat, his gaze fixing on me with that unblinking intensity. “I did what was necessary. You needed to see the grave before you could move past it.”

“And did I? Move past it?”

Ever reaches out, his hand sliding into my hair, his fingers curling around the base of my skull. He pulls me toward him until our foreheads are touching, his breath hot against my face.

“Not yet. But you’re closer than you were this morning. And tonight, I’m going to make sure you don’t dream about closets.”

The promise in his voice is dark and heavy, a weight that settles in my lower belly and makes my skin prickle with anticipation. Ever Rousseau doesn’t make promises he doesn’t intend to keep with every inch of his broad, scarred body. He’s the silent one, the observant one, but when he decides to act, he doesn’t do it by halves.

“Ever,” I whisper, my hands coming up to rest on his forearms, feeling the intricate ridges of his tattoos beneath the skin. “I don’t know if I can do this. The training. The Syndicate. All of it.”