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Mercy’s tears have slowed, but not stopped. Her breathing is still uneven, but it’s not the sucking, sawing gasps of before. We stand frozen in the hallway, just watching each other.

Neither of us speaks, or moves to pull away.

My hand still rests at her throat, but the pressure is gone. It’s just skin against skin, a point of contact to keep me in the moment.

The rage that drowned me is gone now, like it was a tsunami wave that’s pulling back, retreating back into the ocean. I feel hollow, like someone scraped out the wound that finally burst, leaving only raw, bleeding flesh behind.

I step back, releasing her, watching as she slumps against the wall. I can see the imprint of my hand on her wrist, fingerprints that will bloom into bruises, and I hate it.

Evidence of what I am.

What I’ve always been.

Broken.

A monster.

A wounded animal lashing out.

An abuser.

I’m just as bad as him.

My mouth floods with saliva. The thought makes me nauseous. Looking in at myself makes me want to puke, but she’s still watching me. She doesn’t run, though the door is right beside her. I’ve given her every reason to run away from me, to run to the police and tell them what I’ve done.

I wouldn’t stop her if she tried.

I can feel blood dripping from the tips of my fingers, and when I listen carefully, I can hear the plop as it drops down onto the tile. I flex my fingers, thanking the pain that stabs into my skull.

It’s familiar.

It’s comforting.

Pain is something I can understand, not whatever is throbbing in my chest, in the dark void where my heart should be.

“Draco.”

That’s all it is, just my name. But on her lips, it sounds different. It sounds like I’m human.

And that is suddenly so terrifying to me.

Before I can think, I pull her away from the wall, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arm. I wrap my arms around her and pull her into me, crushing her against my chest and letting my body fall against the wall behind me. When we settle on the floor, nestled in a nest of dust and the scent of blood, she leans her head on my shoulder, and I can feel the wet skin of her cheek against my skin.

The change confuses me as much as it must confuse her.

I need to touch her.

I need to feel her skin, and know that she’s real.

My eyes burn, and I blink furiously, refusing to let the tears fall. But my body betrays me, as it always has. A single drop escapes, trailing down my cheek to land on her skin.

“I hate you,” I whisper, but the words are weak and fluttering.

They sound like what they are—a lie I told to protect myself.

The last flimsy attempt at a shield.

Her hands come up to press against my chest, right where my heart is. I should push them away. I should remind her of her place.