Page 46 of The Final Cut

“Well. I guess since the news was meh, the coffee better be good.”

A little smile dances on his lips. “Brat.”

Shiloh appears from the pantry carrying a skillet with one hand and a loaf of bread tucked under his arm. His hair is a mess, his eyes tired, and his smile absent. That absence pulls my attention more than any grin would have.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning.”

He sets the skillet on the stove harder than necessary. Metal rings against the burner.

Ever glances at him. Shiloh ignores it.

Breakfast happens around me. Eggs, toast, fruit, coffee. I eat because Ever gives me a plate and watches until I pick up the fork. Deacon drinks coffee like it is punishment. Shiloh moves too fast, reaching for things before anyone asks, his shoulders tight beneath the old T-shirt he found somewhere in the cabin. Nash is a hole in the room. Cal is a bigger one.

No one talks about the hospital at first. That silence lasts until I ruin it.

“We have to go after her.”

Ever sets his fork down. Shiloh stops at the sink. Deacon looks at me over the rim of his mug.

I grip my coffee with both hands. “Delia. We have to get her out.”

Ever’s voice stays even. “We talked about this. We will.”

“When?”

“When we know where she is and how to extract her without getting everyone killed.”

“My grandmother came after me with guns.” My jaw tightens around the word grandmother. It still tastes wrong. “What exactly am I supposed to do if she sends men here with rifles? Escape holds? Throw a decorative pillow? You can train me all day, Ever, but I can’t defend against bullets.”

His face hardens. “That is why we don’t let you stand in front of them.”

“We have to go after her.”

Something slams onto the counter, hard enough to stop the conversation dead. Shiloh stands with one hand on the edge of the sink, the other still curled around the plate he just put down. His expression is flat in a way I have never seen on him.

“We’re not arguing about this every day, Reva.”

The kitchen goes still as I stare at him.

Shiloh has snapped at me before, sort of. He has teased too sharply, flirted to deflect, tossed words like knives and then smiled so everyone would admire the shine instead of the cut. This is different. No charm. No cushion. No quick apology chasing the words.

Just frustration, raw enough to show.

My face heats.

He looks at me for half a second, and I see regret flicker. Then he turns away from it, drops the plate into the sink, and leaves the kitchen without another word.

The back door shuts behind him, the snap of the screen behind him making me flinch. I sit there with my coffee going cold between my hands.

No one tries to fill the space.

Training begins twenty minutes later. Shiloh does not come.

Ever leads me to a covered space off the side of the cabin, where mats have been rolled out over concrete and a rack of practice weapons hangs along one wall. Deacon follows with a duffel and a second cup of coffee he does not drink. The marsh presses close around the enclosure, all reeds and water and low morning haze.

The air smells like damp grass, river mud, and wood split fresh from Ever’s midnight ax work.