"Yeah, I get that a lot."
For one long second, nobody moves.
Then Afon does.
I don't see how he gets his hands free. But all at once, Afon is up out of the chair, and his shoulder drives into Reznik. The pistol goes off—the shot punching into the ceiling, plaster raining down—and the two of them fall to the floor in a tangle in front of the fire.
"AFON!"
It's over fast. Afon is bigger and meaner and he's got twenty years of grief in his hands. Reznik is heavy but soft, a man who's spent two decades giving orders instead of doing the work. The pistol skitters away across the floorboards. Lukas's boot comes down on it.
And then Afon is on top of him, knee in his chest, one scarred hand around Reznik's throat, the other drawn back in a fist.
Reznik laughs. Blood in his teeth, gold tooth gleaming, choking out a wheezing cackle.
"There he is," he breathes. "There's the beast I knew. Do it slow, Afon. Make it hurt. Be what youare."
Afon's fist trembles in the air.
The whole room holds its breath. Lukas doesn't move. Nobody moves.
This is Afon's moment. We all know it. Whatever happens next is his and only his.
I watch his face. The rage in it, twenty years deep, a black storm. The blood and the bruise and the swollen eye. His hand shaking with how badly he wants to do exactly what Reznik is begging for.
"Afon," I say. Quiet. Just his name.
His eyes don't leave Reznik. But I see him hear me.
"Don't be what he wants," I say. "Don't give him that."
His fist stays in the air, shaking. Reznik keeps laughing under him, blood on his teeth, daring him to do it.
Then Afon's hand drops.
But he doesn't hit him. He lets go of Reznik's throat and pushes himself up off the floor, slow, every part of him hurting. His knees crack. He stands there over the man for a second, breathing hard, then says, "No. I'm not what I once was. Not anymore."
He turns away from Reznik like he's already forgotten him. He crosses the room to me. His face is a wreck and his eyes are damp as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest. I grab two fistfuls of his shirt and hold on.
"You came," he says into my hair. "You stupid, brave idiot. You came."
"Yeah," I breathe. "I'm still not very good with respecting boundaries."
He holds me tighter.
Then, over my shoulder, without looking back, he tells Lukas, "He's all yours. Do whatever you want with him. I don't care anymore. Everything I need is right here."
38
CAROLINE
Lukas takes care of the rest.
I don't watch. Afon keeps me turned into his chest, my face against the bloody, beaten front of him, as he walks me out of that room and onto the porch before anything else happens.
I'm glad for it. I don't want to see what Lukas does to Viktor Reznik. I only want to know that it's done.
Outside, the snow is churned to mud and Lukas's men are roaming everywhere. The bodies are being dealt with. I don't ask how. There are some things you don't ask about.
