Page 65 of The Next Lie

This time, he actually does almost smile.

The converted carriage house sits behind Blackwood House, half hidden by oaks and a wall of climbing jasmine. From the outside, it still looks old—white brick, black shutters, wide double doors that probably once opened for actual carriages when everyone here wore gloves and had tea parties.

Inside, it is something else entirely.

The old ceiling beams are exposed and dark with age. The brick walls have been sealed but left rough, pocked with marks and old repairs. Thick rubber mats cover most of the floor. Heavy bags hang from steel mounts bolted into the beams. There is a wall of mirrors, a rack of weights, a row of wooden practice knives, and a locked cage in the back that holds things I am not interested in identifying this early in the morning.

Industrial fans turn lazily overhead, doing absolutely nothing about the heat.

The whole place feels like money took a stab at renovating pure violence but only managed to give it good lighting. It’s a man’s space, pure and simple.

Ever stands in the center of the mats in black athletic pants and a fitted shirt, arms crossed over his chest. Shiloh leans against the weight rack with a mug of coffee, looking offensively pretty for someone about to watch me embarrass myself.

Nash doesn’t join us. I glance back toward the house as I step over the threshold.

Shiloh notices and speaks around a mouthful of muffin. “He’s not training you today.”

“Why?”

Ever’s eyes find mine. “Because you’re already annoyed at him.”

“That feels like a pretty good reason to me.”

Ever snorts.

Shiloh lifts his coffee. “Also, if he throws you on a mat this morning, the two of you will either murder each other or end up naked, and we are trying to establish structure.”

My face heats. “I hate everyone in this carriage house.”

“No, you don’t,” Shiloh says. “But I respect the effort.”

Ever’s gaze does not leave my face.

“I’m annoyed with you, too,” I say before I can decide not to.

The unfinished thing between us settles onto the mats.

I hate unfinished things. They trip you when you are trying to look composed.

“You left last night,” I continue.

Shiloh’s eyebrows lift. Ever doesn’t blink.

“Yes.”

“Nash was angry.”

“Yes.”

“You were angry.”

“Yes.”

I wait. This is apparently all I am getting. Fantastic.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Are we doing monosyllabic emotional processing? Because I need a warning. I didn’t stretch for that.”

Shiloh coughs into his coffee. Ever’s mouth barely moves. Almost a smile. Almost not.