Page 66 of The Next Lie

“I came back,” he says.

The words rumble across every exposed nerve.

He uncrosses his arms. “You were with Nash.”

There is no accusation in it. That almost makes it worse.

My throat tightens. “Ever⁠—”

“I meant what I said.”

The room goes quiet. Shiloh looks away, suddenly fascinated by the heavy bag.

I remember the car. Ever’s forehead against mine. His voice, dark and heavy, telling me he would make sure I didn’t dream about closets.

“Then you shouldn’t have left,” I say.

His eyes move over me, giving no indication of his thoughts.

“Did you?” he asks.

“Dream about closets?”

He nods once.

“No.”

Something in his shoulders eases, small, but there.

“Good.”

Somehow that single word feels more intimate than a speech.

Shiloh claps his hands once, too bright. “Excellent. Feelings acknowledged. No one died. A banner day for the emotionally constipated. Shall we teach our girl how to injure someone?”

“Our girl?” I ask.

His grin turns wicked. “Would you prefer our terrifying liability?”

“Honestly, yes.”

“Noted.”

Ever steps closer. “First rule. You don’t fight fair.”

I look at him. “That’s the first rule?”

“That’s the only rule,” Shiloh says. “Everything else is footnotes.”

Ever gestures to the mat. “You are smaller than most men who will come at you. We don’t train you to win a fair fight. We train you to survive an unfair one.”

I give a clipped nod.

Because that is the part no one says in movies. The inspirational montage always skips over the fact that I am five-three on a good day and built more for fitting into ambulance compartments than overpowering grown men who murder as a hobby.

Ever steps in front of me. “If someone grabs you, your first job is not to prove you’re strong. Your first job is to make space.”

Shiloh sets his coffee down. “Eyes, throat, nose, groin, knee, instep. The classics are classics for a reason.”