Page 40 of Filthy Little Fix

And Nyx.

He looks at me with those pale, unnerving eyes, and he sees a kindred spirit. He sees the monster I've spent half my life trying to bury. And he begs for it. He moans for it. Hegets hardfor it.

What is so different about him?

He is the only person I have ever met who looks at the worst part of me—the part I inherited from my father, theonlypart that terrifies me—and calls it salvation.

"He's not... he's not normal," I say. I walk to the leather-padded bench in the corner of the gym and sit down. There's no way to explain how sick Nyx can be. "He asked me to... to hurt him."

Dmitry approaches me. In silence, he sits down next to me. "And you did?"

He knows me well enough to know the answer is yes.

"He was provoking me. And he... helikedit. He doesn't mind getting beaten, Dmitry. He wants more."

The sight of Nyx's smile, the blood on his lips, the admiration in his eyes, haunts me. I remember the pleasure he felt, and the bile rises in my throat.

"Butyoumind the beating," Dmitry states, without preamble. "Why?"

My shame and my disgust are not for Nyx. They're for myself.

Dmitry sighs, carrying years of living with my explosive temper. He knows that rage is my armor.

"Donya," he says. He uses that nickname that I hate. "Sveta said the kid's face is all messed up. You know we love you, but... you need more control."

Control abandoned me from the moment I pointed a gun at Nyx's head. That night was my cataclysm.

The whisper comes out before I can think. "I am not my father."

I don't look at Dmitry. I stare at the wraps on my knuckles, the reddish spots that start to appear. I try to convince myself.I'm not my father and I don't see pleasure in hurting someone else.

I've been trying to convince myself of that for years.

I feel Dmitry's hand on my back. A brother's gesture, one I would have gladly received years ago. Now, it only serves to remind me how exposed I am.

"No, Donya. You're much better."

I don't answer. I don't know how. To thank him would be a weakness. To disagree would give voice to the monster.

"Sveta is just worried," Dmitry continues, with that calm, irritating voice of someone who always knows the right thing to say. "I know you don't want to hear this, but she's right. The kid is a valuable asset. Maybe... maybe we should treat him as such. Give him what he wants, within limits, to keep him cooperating."

Of course. And there it is again, the normalization of what they think is just another fucking asset. I stare at him. For him, it's trivial.

"You have no idea what he wants, Dima. You think he's one of your programmers who gets satisfied with an end-of-year bonus?"

Dmitry shrugs. "Whatever it is. Pain, attention, a leather whip with the Volkov logo, or his girlfriend tending to a fern. What does it matter? It's a means to an end. If he needs to getbeaten to code better, then we hire a goon to do the job. Problem solved."

I stand up abruptly.

"You don't understand a fucking thing. Svetlana thinks he's a depressed wretch. You think he's an HR problem that can be solved with a standard procedure. You'rebothwrong."

I turn, not caring about the towel on the floor. I don't know what Nyx said to Svetlana, I don't know what kind of shit he's plotting now, and I need to fix it.

I feel Dmitry's eyes on my back. "Where are you going? We were doing so well..."

I open the gym door and slam it shut behind me, on my way to the demon who calls me salvation.

The doorto his room opens, the silent sound of metal against concrete echoing in the quiet. I slam it shut behind me, the final, loud thud a full stop. I don't give a damn about knocking. This ismyhouse,myproblem.