Page 69 of The Next Lie

“Better,” he says.

I put my hands on my knees and drag in air. “I almost killed you.”

He huffs. “No.”

“I spiritually almost killed you.”

Shiloh nods solemnly. “I did see his soul flicker.”

Ever ignores him. “Again.”

I groan. “You’re killing me. A little praise wouldn’t hurt.”

“Praise after repetition.”

“That sounds like something a serial killer would put on a throw pillow.”

Shiloh laughs.

Ever’s mouth moves again. This time, it is definitely almost a smile.

We train until my arms shake. Until my thighs burn. Until sweat runs down my spine and my hair comes loose from its knot.

Ever teaches me how to break a wrist grip. Shiloh teaches me how to use distraction without apologizing for it. They show me how to drop my weight, how to turn toward the thumb, how to drive my palm into the base of a nose and not stop to feel bad about cartilage.

It is all very ugly and practical, nothing like the clean choreography of revenge I had built in my head.

Good. Clean things have not served me well.

And now that I know Deacon is not the simple answer I wanted him to be, the shape of my vengeance has changed. Not disappeared. Changed.

Because someone still gave the order. Someone still came for my family. And fifteen years later, someone still wants to finish what they started.

At some point, Shiloh tosses me a towel and a bottle of water. I catch both, which feels like personal growth. I used to not be able to toss a ball of paper into a trash can five feet away.

“Ten minutes,” he says.

I sit on the edge of a weight bench, breathing hard, and stare at my hands.

They look the same.

Small. Pale. A little scraped from the mats. Rubber band marks around one wrist. No obvious transformation. No cinematic glow. No sudden sign that I am becoming someone dangerous.

But when I flex my fingers, I remember Ever’s grip loosening.

Just a little.

I remember making space.

Shiloh sits beside me, close enough that his thigh brushes mine. “What did Cal say?”

I stiffen. “He said enough.”

Ever stands a few feet away, drinking from his own water bottle. His gaze shifts to me.

I rub the damp towel between my hands. “He knew Delia was alive.”

Neither of them reacts.