Her voice is raw. Wrecked from crying, from screaming, from whatever she’s been doing alone in this room for the past three hours while I made myself wait. Made myself give her time to adjust to her new reality before I came to explain it.
I catch the third one mid-air—The Divine Comedy, fitting—while she’s already grabbing a fourth, her arm cocked back, that auburn hair wild around a face twisted with pure, incandescent rage.
Paradise Lost. She has excellent taste when she’s furious.
“—I’ll kill you, I swear to God I’ll fuckingkillyou?—”
I let that one hit my shoulder. A gift. The sting of it, her violence made physical, is more satisfying than I anticipated.
Then she runs out of books and changes tactics. Bare feet slapping marble, fists raised, she’s coming at me with absolutely no technique, and absolutely no hesitation.
There she is.
I’ve waited weeks to see this. The careful, controlled restorer who measured her words and her smiles, who held herself apart from everyone in that sad little apartment, alone with her sketches and her blood oranges and her loneliness. I knew there was more underneath. I knew if I peeled back enough layers, I’d find something worth keeping.
This is it. This feral creature, all bared teeth and swinging fists, and creative profanity.Thisis what I wanted.
Her knuckles connect with my jaw. The impact is nothing, she doesn’t know how to throw a proper punch, but I let her have it. Let her feel like she’s doing damage. Her nails rake toward my face, and I catch her wrist, then the other when she swings again.
“Get your fucking handsoffme?—”
She writhes in my grip, trying to twist free, and lands a kick to my shin that actually hurts. Good. Strong legs. All that climbing on the scaffolding definitely helped.
“Let mego, you bastard?—”
I spin her, pulling her back against my chest, her wrists crossed and pinned at her waist. She thrashes, kicks backward, tries to slam her head into my face, but I tilt my chin and take the blow on my collarbone. It hurts. I don’t care.
“Breathe.”
“Fuck you.Fuckyou?—”
“You’re hyperventilating. It won’t help.”
She screams. Pure rage, no words, just sound ripping out of her throat like she’s trying to expel demons. Her body convulses against mine, every muscle straining. I hold her through it. Wait for the storm to pass.
Bit tt doesn’t pass. Ittransforms.
She stops thrashing and goes still in my arms. When she speaks again, her voice is ice.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Progress. I release her wrists. She spins immediately, backing away, her eyes scanning the room for something else to throw. Let her look. She won’t find anything I haven’t already considered.
“You know who I am.”
“I know you’re a fuckingpsycho?—”
“Obsessed.”
She stops. Blinks.
“There’s a difference. Insanity implies a lack of control. I’ve been nothingbutcontrolled.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. Good. Let her understand exactly what she’s dealing with.
“What does that mean? Obsessed withwhat?”
“You throw left when you’re angry.” I take a step toward her. She takes one back. “But when you’re thinking through a problem, really working it, you use your right hand. You gesture at whatever you’re examining like you’re having a conversation with it.”
