Page 67 of The Next Lie

I mutter the words to myself, forget them, try again.

Shiloh cackles. “I’m sensing this will not be a graceful martial arts journey.”

“No,” Ever says.

Shiloh smiles. “This will be a feral raccoon in a dumpster journey.”

“More on brand.” I grin, forgiving him.

Ever reaches for me without warning. His hand closes around my upper arm. My body locks.

Not freezes, exactly.

But the Hart house is still too close. Cal’s voice is still in my head. Delia’s face. Deacon’s eyes. Nash’s hands.

Everything.

For half a second, I am not in a carriage house with two men who would probably dismember anyone who hurt me.

I am seven.

I am twenty-two.

I am both.

I make a sound, and Ever releases me immediately.

“Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“No. You’re…panicking.”

I glare at him.

Shiloh steps into my line of sight. “That expression is excellent. Very murder-forward. Keep that.”

I laugh despite myself, and it breaks something loose. Ever waits until my shoulders lower. Then he reaches again, slower this time, and closes his hand around my arm.

“Make space,” he says.

I try to twist away. He moves with me.

I try again, harder. He catches my momentum, turns me without effort, and puts my back against his chest. One arm locks across my upper body. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to prove the point.

My pulse spikes.

His mouth is near my ear. “What do you have?”

“My rage.”

“Useful. What else?”

I try to think…past the rage, past the fear, past the—“My feet.”

“Use them.”

I stomp down. He moves his foot before I make contact.