Page 8 of The Next Lie

“I saw her dead.”

His eyes don’t move from mine. “Maybe you didn’t.”

My throat closes. “Then what else don’t I know?”

Ever does not answer, and that’s answer enough.

Shiloh curses softly behind me. He sounds ruined by it. I want to look at him, but Ever’s hands keep me facing forward.

“Again,” he says.

“I don’t want to breathe.”

“I know.”

“I want to go back in there.”

“I know.”

“I want to make her talk.”

“I know.”

“I want to hurt someone.”

His eyes change then. Not shock. Recognition.

“I know.”

The way he says it pulls another breath out of me.

We count again.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Hold.

The second time is not better, exactly, but it is less impossible.

The third time, my fingers uncurl.

I hadn’t realized my nails were still dug into my palm until the skin peels apart. Four crescent marks sit there, red and angry, almost bleeding.

Shiloh sees them. He makes another sound, low in his throat, and steps closer.

Ever releases my face slowly, as if sudden movement might send me back under. He doesn’t move away, though. He stays between me and the door.

Between me and Delia. Between me and Deacon. Between me and whatever truth is still waiting inside that club with its teeth bared.

“I need to go back,” I say.

“No,” Shiloh says.

I turn on him then, because anger is easier to hold than grief. “You don’t get to tell me no.”