Page 152 of The Final Cut

This is done. Over with.

Not so much the clock or Isabel’s threat—those things continue. But the way we’ve been handling it.

Moving after Isabel moves. Guarding what she targets. Patching holes after she opens them. Waiting for her to choose the next move, the next wound, the next person Reva has to watch bleed.

No more.

If Isabel wants a war played by rules, I’ll be writing new ones before breakfast. Reva was right.

Reva takes one step toward me. “Nash⁠—”

“Delia.”

Her sister straightens in the doorway.

“Get her into bed.”

Reva’s head jerks. “What? No.”

I cross the room before she can build anything more around the word. Shiloh’s arm drops away from her, but he stays close enough to catch her if her knees make different plans. Reva’s chin lifts, anger trying to climb out from under shock.

I put two fingers beneath her chin and tip her face up to mine. The protest dies in her throat.

Her eyes search me. Wet. Furious. Exhausted. Past the anger, fear keeps moving, small and frantic, looking for a place to go.

“Sleep first,” I say. “Planning after.”

Her lips part.

She wants to argue. I can see the exact shape of it. Cal. Marisol. Deacon. Shiloh’s conversation. The car that followed her from the hospital. Every reason she should be awake, armed, and setting fire to the city with her bare hands.

I keep my fingers beneath her chin.

“I’m not dismissing you. I’m not cutting you out,” I say. “I just want you to get some sleep.”

Her breathing catches.

“You rest. Then we plan. I give you my word.”

She stares into my eyes for a long time, the circles beneath hers dark and haunted.

A full minute, maybe more. Long enough for Ever’s computer to beep softly behind me. Long enough for Shiloh to shift his weight from one foot to the other and stop himself from speaking. Long enough for Delia to watch us with the guarded attention of a woman who understands promises only matter when they cost something.

Reva weighs me. I let her. Then she nods once, small and barely there, the tiniest of concessions.

I press a lingering kiss to her forehead and release her chin. “Thank you, little wolf.”

Delia moves first, stepping from the hall with care for her knees. She does not reach for Reva at once. Smart girl. She comes near enough to be chosen, and after one ragged breath, Reva turns toward her without another sound.

Together, they move down the hall toward the bedroom Reva and I used earlier. Delia says something low that I do not catch. Reva shakes her head, then leans a fraction closer anyway.

The door closes behind them, and only then do I look at Shiloh.

He looks like a man who has used every joke in his body as kindling and now has nothing left to burn. Rainwater drips from the hem of his jacket onto the stone floor. His mouth is flat, eyes darker than usual, one hand still curled like it wants a steering wheel or a throat.

“Talk to me,” I say. “Then you can grab a few hours of sleep too.”

“I’m fine.”