Page 71 of The Final Cut

That was the first thing I said when we sat down in the cabin war room and started planning.

It was the only answer I could afford before Reva’s face from the hospital moved through my mind and ruined every clean calculation.

The war room is hidden behind a panel near the cabin’s back hall, another one of my expensive little sins disguised as preparation. Concrete walls. Six screens. A metal table bolted to the floor. Maps of the marsh and city. Communications gear, signal jammers, weapons locked in recessed cabinets. Reva saw it when we opened the door and went silent in that pointed way of hers, the one that means she is collecting evidence for a later fight. Shiloh would have made a joke about my commitment to hospitality, but he was at the hospital, sitting outside Cal’s ICU room because Reva needed proof that I was keeping my promise.

Ever stood at the main console, splitting feeds from the hospital, the cabin perimeter, and the city cameras he had managed to touch without leaving too obvious a print. Deacon stood opposite me with both hands on the table and a map of Isabel’s property between us.

“Okay, so the goal is to get Delia out,” he said.

“The goal is to keep Reva alive,” I said.

His eyes lifted. “They’re not necessarily competing goals.”

“They become competing goals the second you make a move Isabel can trace back to the cabin.”

He leaned in slightly. Anyone else might have missed it. I didn’t. “Delia tried to move Reva out of the chapel path. Isabel will know that by now.”

“And if Isabel wanted her dead immediately, she would be.”

“She may decide slowly is more useful.”

Ever’s fingers stopped over the keyboard for half a beat. He said nothing, but the air changed around him.

That was the thing none of us wanted to say plainly in any room where Reva might hear it through the walls. Delia alive did not mean Delia safe. Isabel’s affection had always looked like a hand around the throat, and Delia had just proved she could still turn that throat away from a blade.

Deacon wanted to go through the house. I saw it in him.

He did not say the words because he’s not stupid, but the instinct sat behind his eyes, patient and lethal. Walk in, cut through anyone between him and the girl, tear her out before Isabel could use another hour to make obedience hurt.

A younger version of me might have admired the simplicity. The man I am now has Reva to protect.

“I do not trust your judgment where Delia is concerned,” I told him.

His mouth barely moved. “You have made that clear.”

“I also do not trust your judgment where Reva is concerned.”

That one stung a little, judging by the way his gaze flicked up at me. Ever glanced between us and wisely kept his hands near the console.

Deacon’s voice went very quiet. “Careful, Blackwood.”

“No. We are past careful. You saved Reva once and buried the truth so deeply she had to dig it up with both hands. You protected Delia by staying close enough to Isabel to become useful. You have a long history of doing the right thing in ways that leave women bleeding afterward.”

His face emptied. For a second, I could see it on his face—exactly how dangerous he truly was. Recognition shuddered beneath my skin, and I straightened, preparing. For what, I wasn’t sure. I just knew I needed to be ready.

But all he said was, “And you have a long history of mistaking control for morality.”

Fair. I took a breath.

Ever returned his attention to the screen. “Both of you, shut up.”

That got our attention because Ever rarely wasted words on command when a glare would do.

He put Isabel’s house on the center screen. “You are both right enough to be irritating. We need current intel. We cannot breach blind. We also cannot wait until Isabel decides Delia’s loyalty needs correction. Deacon has a contact inside. We use that before we make a plan that gets Reva killed trying to rescue a sister we may be able to move clean.”

I looked at Deacon. He looked at the map.

“Name,” I said.