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The Pit, said the voice. Ozzy’s there. Vic’s there. Ten grand, and you’ll feel better in ten minutes.

No.

Then the garage, and the punching bag, and the wall, or anything at all.

No.

You promised your mother you’d use your words.

Shut up.

You promised your dad. You promised him.

I hadn’t. I’d never promised him anything. It was a lie the voice was telling me, a trick, a bit of cheap psychology, and I knew it, and it still made my eyes sting.

I rolled over. I put my fist in my mouth and bit down on the knuckle until I tasted blood.

The door opened.

I didn’t look up, because I knew the footsteps, slow and measured and silent on the carpet, though I always heard them anyway.

The mattress dipped.

“Lex,” said Maksim.

“Go away.”

“No.”

“I mean it. I’m not safe.”

“I know.”

“I’ll hurt you.”

“You will not.”

“I will. “ My voice cracked. “I’ll say something. I’ll do something. I always do. It’s what I’m for.”

“That,” said Maksim, calmly, “is not true.”

He didn’t touch me. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees, and I could feel him looking at me. The bond had woken a warm steady thread in my chest, and it pulled tight and hummed, and I felt him feeling me, my fear and my fury and a shame so thick I could hardly breathe.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“I need to hit something.”

“Very well.”

“I need to hit something hard. “

“Then hit me.”

I froze.

I turned my head. He was looking at me with an odd, level, gentle expression, as though he had just proposed a stroll in the garden. His jacket was off. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow.

“What?”