Page 101 of Filthy Little Fix

There are more sounds. I blink and my vision clears. I see a room. A chair.

And him.

Yes. He's alive. His hands and feet are tied, but he'salive.

I approach.Nyx.

He saw this. He saw this fucking loss of control.

Fuck it.The thought is automatic.It means nothing. I'm still holding the knife, the blade covered in blood. My hands are soaked, viscous. The ebony handle has turned red.Fuck it.

I ignore the heat rising up my neck. I approach him, kneel before his chair. I reach my hands behind him. The same bloody blade frees the cords on his wrists. I untie his feet. I hesitate before looking at him. This ugly, animalistic carnage doesn't align with the control I project for him. I shouldn't have let him see this, the opened remains of a thug for talking shit.

His face. I avoid his eyes. I see bruises. The bridge of his nose, crooked. His lips are cut, his temple swollen. One of his sclera has a red blotch. He was beaten. The bastards put their hands on him.

I touch his face. I try to wipe away the dried blood from the corner of his lips, but my thumb only leaves a smear of fresh blood.

"They hurt you," I say. My voice comes out harsher than I wanted, and I'm holding his face too tightly. An automatic impulse.

I feel his hands on my chest. Light. One of them slides up, up to my neck, his thumb brushing my jaw.

Fuck it.I meet his eyes.

There's no disgust there. No disinterest, no disappointment. There'sreverence. Something feverish that looks far too much like idolatry. He looks at me like a lover.

He pushes himself forward.Devoted, he grabs my shirt and kisses me like he can't wait, like there's no one else in the room.

For an instant, I allow there to be no one else.

I hold his waist. I bring him close to me, fitting myself between his legs. His body is a perfect fit against mine. I let the knife fall to hold him properly. I'm still shaking, still holding him too tightly, and he melts, tangling his fingers in my hair, rolling his tongue against mine. He touches all this blood. He gets dirty with me.

"They don't punch hard enough, mister," he whispers against my mouth.

It's almost a relief to hear that voice. I have the urge to laugh. I hadn't dared to think about never hearing it again, hadn't dared to think what that would be like.

"Fucking lunatic," I say. He kisses me again.

The noises grow louder. Voices in the corridor. The haze that had erased everything but Nyx falls apart, dissolving intothe metallic smell of blood, gunpowder, and melted paint. Warehouse. We're still with the Malakovs.

Luca's voice cuts through whatever obfuscation is still alive.

"Sir," he calls. His voice falters with a stutter I've never heard.

I glance at him over my shoulder. Nyx is wrapped around my neck, nuzzling against me, kissing the blood on my jaw.

Only Luca sees this. Good.

"We have to go. Now," he says, urgent, with a forgotten confusion in his eyes.

He's right. The breach wasn't silent.

I push Nyx away. I need to distance myself from what he does to me to be efficient. I don't know how long we spent here—too long. The silence we entered into is violated by a chaotic confusion of voices and doors.

We need to get out before they corner us in this dead-end hall.

"Get up," I order Nyx. I retrieve my knife, forgotten on the floor, and sheathe it. "Can you walk?"

He nods. He pushes himself up against the arm of the chair. He's weak. But he's walking. It's enough.