Page 56 of Filthy Little Fix

A part of me—a part I hate—likes this. This is what I expect: anger, humiliation; attempts to bargain. I want to know what he's going to do, if he'll find some sort of private revenge by blowing smoke at me and accusing me of killing him slowly. If he'll tell me how humiliating it was to face his coworkers knowing he was the cause of the corporate restructuring, or if he'll show a remnant of the real Nyx I know.

So I say, "Send him in."

He passes from camera to camera—hallway to hallway—until he reaches my office door.

His escort knocks on the door for him. He opens it without waiting for permission. Typical. I cross my arms, leaning against my desk, and he emerges through the opening.

It's strange seeing him in person now in formal clothes. Nyx is anything but formal. The image of an average office employee still feels like a fever dream.

He steps inside. I signal for the guard to leave us alone.

I wait for him to clarify what he wants. I search for signs of anger, signs that he hates me now. He remains neutral. If anything is different, it's the opposite of my expectations—Nyx's face is light today. His eyes are always stormy, his features always sharp—today his eyes are clear, his lines soft. Strange. He approaches me. He slips a hand inside his blazer pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Newly bought. He extends it to me. It's still wrapped in clear plastic.

"You bought my company, so I thought I'd buy something for you in return," he finally says. "Although a pack of cigarettes isn't very impressive."

I stare at the pack. Red and gold. Dunhill. The brand I usually smoke.

A lot happens in my head. He pays enough attention to me to know which brand of cigarettes I smoke. He's not angry, doesn't seem angry.

And his words take a moment to make sense.

Impressive? That's his conclusion?

I take the pack on impulse and force my voice to scrape its way up my throat. "Why the hell are you happy? We did this to control you."

His smile widens. It's the most insane and genuine thing I've ever seen.

"Yes," he says. "I almost got hard in public when I found out."

His reaction doesn't fit in any scenario I imagined. It doesn't make any sense. The image of this Nyx smiling happily in a corporate setting, happy to know his movements were being controlled by an army of goons and cameras, is ridiculous, incomprehensible. It's an impossibility—he takes every weapon I point at him and turns it into an offering. And it makes me want to throw him against the wall until that smile fades.

It makes me want to touch him.

My fingers tighten on the pack, crinkling the plastic. "You're fucking crazy."

He laughs. And, damn, that laugh is even worse. The sound of what he is—a man with no concept of danger.

"For you?" he says. "Absolutely."

No, Svetlana. You have no fucking idea.

His hand slides up the front of my shirt, and his eyes fall to half-mast as he toys with one of the buttons. His tongue peeks between his lips, tracing them, wetting them. It's such a smallgesture, yet it makes me think of a milliondisgustingthings at once.

I leave the pack on my desk to grab him by the throat. I need to know if he's real. I need to know that his insanity hasn't crossed a lineIdidn't draw, that it isn't something beyond my control.

That my hold over him still works.

"I control you now," I remind him, pressing hard enough to feel his heartbeat hammering beneath my palm. His breath quickens. And his smile disappears. He stares at me as if my words are sweet. "Completely."

He sighs. Delighted. "Do you know how fucking good that sounds?" he whispers. "Fuck me up. Do what you want. You bought me."

The words make me dizzy. I press harder. His face starts to flush. His eyes, dark and fixed on me, turn pleading. His hands lift, and he touches me, curling his fingers on my sleeves, sliding down to my arms, trying to pull me closer.

He would let me do anything. He would let me break him. He would let meendhim. And he would thank me for it.

With a curse, I let go.

I'm pushing us back to the beginning again. To Nyx burrowing into my head, pulling me to the edge of an abyss of violence I can't face right now.