Page 161 of The Next Lie

He withdraws carefully, then tucks himself away before helping me sit up. I hate that my legs shake. I hate more that he notices and puts a steadying hand at my waist without making a point of it.

I pull my bra into place, tug my shirt down, and wrestle with my jeans. Deacon helps, then picks up the letter from where it fell near the edge of the rug. The paper is crushed from my fist. One corner is torn.

He smooths it once against the desk and sets it beside me. I stare at it. Then at him.

“Don’t send another one.”

His eyes hold mine. “I don’t need to send any more letters, and we both know it.”

He steps close, takes my chin, and kisses me once. Brief. Hard. Nothing like the sex. More dangerous because it feels like punctuation.

“Get angry if you need to,” he says. “March into rooms. Yell. Throw paper. Lick my palm again if it helps.”

My stomach flips.

“But stop pretending I am writing to the girl I tricked,” he says. “I am writing to the woman standing in front of me. The one who knows my face now and still came apart on my cock.”

My face burns red and I stomp toward the door.

“Reva.” He catches me just as I’m about to make a dramatic exit, completely ruining it.

“What?” I snap, whirling around.

He’s holding the letter out, a shit-eating grin on his face.

With a growl, I snatch it and resume my march to the door.

“You’re welcome!” he sing-songs.

I fling the door open and launch myself through it, just to see absolutely everybody standing on the other side.

You have to be fucking kidding me.

Delia—

Here’s where it would’ve come in handy to have a sister to talk to you. I’d have told you that he’s been writing to me—Deacon, I mean.

And then I’d tell you that I slept with him.

Or fucked him. That’s probably the more accurate word, except nothing about Deacon feels simple enough for one ugly little verb.

You know him. That keeps scraping at me.

You knew his face before I did. You knew his voice. You knew the way he stands when he’s deciding whether to lie. You knew the man from my nightmares as something else.

I don’t know what to do with that either. I want to ask if he protected you.

I’m afraid of the answer. I’m more afraid that I already know it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SHILOH

I am halfway down the second-floor hall with a stack of bar towels over one arm when I see Nash Blackwood standing outside his own office like a man waiting on someone to finish disarming a bomb.

His arms are crossed.

His jaw is set.