Page 86 of The Next Lie

The first kick is garbage. My shin clips the bottom edge, and I almost fall on my ass.

That makes me angrier.

I kick again.

Better.

Again.

The impact rattles up my leg. I welcome it. Pain is honest. Pain does not tell you it loves you while deciding which parts of the truth you’re allowed to keep.

I kick until my hip aches. I hit until my arms shake.

Faces come faster now. Delia. Cal. Deacon. The house. The closet. The blank-faced woman who gave the order. The woman who still wants the job finished. The dead. The living. Me at seven. Me at twenty-two. Me walking into New Orleans thinking revenge would have one name and one throat.

I hit until the bag blurs. At some point, the sounds change.

The thud of the gloves on leather keeps coming, but something else threads through it. A low, broken noise. Rough. Animal. Too close to my own chest.

I don’t stop. If I stop, I have to hear it. If I hear it, I have to know it’s me.

A low whistle sounds behind me.

That is the only warning I get.

Arms come around my body, one across my chest, one around my waist, pulling me back before my next punch lands. I jerk against them on instinct. My elbow drives back, but the angle is wrong, and the body behind me is solid enough to take it without moving.

Panic flares white. For half a second, I am trapped. My breath vanishes.

Then his voice reaches me.

“Reva.”

Ever. The name drops through the noise in my head like a stone through water.

I still fight him.

Not well. Not on purpose. My body hasn’t received the update that this is safe. I twist, kick, try to shove an elbow into ribs, but Ever holds me through it. He doesn’t squeeze. He does not force me to be still. He just holds me with terrifying patience, giving me no room to hurt myself and no reason to believe he will hurt me.

“Reva,” he says again, lower this time. “I’ve got you.”

I try to answer. Nothing comes out. No, that’s not true.

Something comes out.

A sound I don’t recognize. A torn, keening noise that scrapes up from somewhere below language. It fills the carriage house, ugly and raw, bouncing off the brick and beams until there is nowhere for it to hide.

My knees give, and Ever goes down with me.

He takes the fall, turning us so we hit the mat together instead of me crashing alone. I end up half in his lap, half folded into myself, boxing gloves trapped uselessly between our bodies. The heavy bag sways in front of us like a witness who knows better than to speak.

Ever’s arms stay around me.

One hand comes to the back of my head. His fingers slide into my sweat-damp hair, smoothing it away from my face with slow, steady passes.

I hate that it helps.

I hate that I need it.