Page 112 of The Next Lie

“She is hiding something,” I say.

Delia folds her hands in her lap. “Yes.”

That shuts me up.

She looks at me without blinking. “I am. So is he. So is Cal. So is every man at this table except maybe Shiloh, although I suspect he hides things for funsies.”

Shiloh lifts his glass slightly. “I feel seen.”

Delia ignores him. Her eyes stay on me. “The difference is that some secrets belong to people who are not sitting here.”

My throat tightens.

“Convenient,” I say.

“No,” she answers. “Necessary.”

The word is clean. Calm. Infuriating.

I look at her wrist. The marks peek from beneath her sleeve, inked beads and dark gaps. “Did you want the tattoo?”

Her gaze drops to her own wrist. Every man at the table stills. Delia covers the marks with her other hand. Not from shame, I don’t think. From habit.

“That is not dinner conversation.”

“We’re here. At dinner. Having a conversation. I don’t see the problem.”

“Then you are going to be disappointed.”

I push back from the table. Ever’s hand moves under the table, lightly catching my knee. Not stopping me. Just checking.

I look at him. He lets go. That small release is the only reason I stay seated.

Nash speaks before I can start another fire. “We’ll continue this conversation after dinner.”

“Which means never.”

“It means after dinner.”

“You people love scheduling my breakdowns.”

Shiloh leans closer. “To be fair, darling, you have quite a few. A calendar helps.”

I should not laugh.

A tiny sliver of one escapes anyway, and Ever’s hand returns, sliding over my knee and up my thigh to stroke small, soothing circles. Shiloh pushes my chair back in the inch I’d shoved it out, and then settles his hand on my neck, beneath the fall of my hair.

I draw in a deep breath. Beside me, Ever whispers. “One…two…three…”

I let the breath out. Slowly.

The pressure in the room shifts, just enough for everyone to breathe again. Dinner resumes, or pretends to. Plates are cleared. Dessert appears, because Blackwood House apparently believes emotional warfare pairs well with chocolate. I eat three bites because I am furious, not dead.

Cal does not look at me for the rest of the meal. That hurts more than when he does.

Delia speaks to Nash about something related to Noir Night, coded enough that I catch only pieces. Staffing. A shipment. Someone named Pascal who needs watching. Deacon adds little, but when he does, Delia listens.

There is trust there.