Page 89 of The Final Cut

“Private correction,” I say.

Deacon’s face is stone.

I look at Nash. “What does that mean?”

His jaw works once. “Isabel is bringing her in before the public event.”

“For what?”

No one answers fast enough, which is answer enough.

My brain supplies ugly theories: canings, floggings, all kinds of medieval ‘correction.’ I have no idea what kind of hell Delia has suffered through in the past.

All I see is Delia’s mouth saying I should have stayed dead while her body still moved to save me. Isabel’s jeweled hand. Rosaries. Chapel stone. Punishment dressed up as devotion.

“No,” I whisper.

Nash turns to Ever. “Lock the cabin. Full perimeter. No one opens the doors unless I give the code or Shiloh confirms hospital transfer protocol.”

Ever is already moving. “Done.”

“Cal?”

“Still stable. Hospital team checked in twelve minutes ago.”

“Keep eyes on him.”

“Already have three.”

Nash looks at Deacon. “Gear.”

“Ready.”

Deacon takes the phone, sends one message, then heads for the weapons cabinet.

I follow Nash toward the door. “I’m coming.”

He turns so fast I nearly run into him.

“No.”

The same word I used at the range. He makes it sound like a wall.

“She’s my sister.”

“And you are the reason Isabel wants a message carved into her.”

The sentence punches the air out of me.

Nash catches my face in both hands before I can recoil. His thumbs press along my jaw, forcing me to stay with him.

“Listen to me. If you come, Isabel gets Delia and you in the same room.”

My eyes burn.

“I can’t sit here.”

“You can.”