Page 217 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

Now we’re inside and the silence has weight. Tension. All four of us standing in the main room while the single overhead bulb flickers, casting shadows that make everyone look dangerous.

They’re still bleeding. Still riding that post-fight high that makes their pupils dilated and their movements restless. I can smell the sweat and ice melt clinging to them, mixed with something darker—adrenaline and testosterone and barely controlled violence.

Koa breaks the silence first. “You shouldn’t have come.”

I turn to face him, and I see the contradiction in his eyes—glad I’m here, terrified I’m here, unable to decide which feeling wins. “Where else would I go?”

“Somewhere safe.” Revan leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Away from us.”

“Then maybe I don’t want safe.”

Atticus laughs, the sound rough. “Yeah, we’ve noticed.”

I look at each of them—these three men who’ve killed for me, bled for me, fought each other over me. Who can’t figure out how to exist in the same space without turning it into a battlefield.

“You don’t want to share?” I ask, and I hear the mockery in my own voice. “Going to fight with your fists to prove who’s the bigger man? Who gets to stake their claim first?”

Koa’s jaw tightens. “Lexi—”

“No.” I cut him off, taking a step forward. “We’re done with that. Done with the posturing and the jealousy and the constant fucking competition over who owns me.” I look at each of them in turn. “Because here’s the truth: none of you own me. And all of you do.”

The words settle into the room like stones dropping into still water.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Revan says quietly.

I move closer to him, close enough to see his pupils dilate. “You think ownership is about control. About possession. But it’s not.” I reach up, fingers ghosting along his bloody jaw. “It’s about surrender.”

His breath catches.

I turn to Atticus next, crossing the space between us. He watches me approach with those calculating green eyes, trying to read my play. I don’t give him time to figure it out—just grab the front of his torn jersey and pull him down to my level.

“You think you know what you want,” I murmur against his mouth. “Think you’ve got it all figured out.”

“And I don’t?” His British accent is thicker now, rough with want.

“You want me to choose. To pick one of you and make it simple.” I press my lips to his, just barely. “But I’m not simple. And I’m not choosing.”

I kiss him before he can respond. His mouth tastes like blood and mint gum he must have been chewing during the drive. The kiss is fire—heat and hunger. His hands come up to my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, and I let him. Let him pour all that frustrated desire into this one moment before I pull away.

He’s breathing hard when I step back. “Bloody hell, love.”

I move to Koa next. He’s still standing rigid, every muscle coiled tight like he’s ready to fight or flee. His eyes track my movement across the room, predatory and possessive.

“You’re the hardest one,” I tell him, stopping just out of reach.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you actually believe you can keep me.” I take that final step, closing the distance. “You think if you’re strong enough, dominant enough, protective enough, I’ll stay.”

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Won’t you?”

“I’ll stay,” I whisper. “But not because you kept me. Because I chose to.”

I kiss him and it’s different from Atticus—dominant but reverent, like he’s claiming something sacred. His other hand slides into my hair, controlling the angle, and I let him have that control because giving it freely is its own kind of power.

When I pull back, his forehead rests against mine. “Lexi—”

“I know.” I do know. Know what he’s trying to say, what he can’t say, what none of them can say because putting it into words makes it real and real things can be destroyed.