Nisa limped. Aslan bore his weight down onto the leg upon her – no, their – victim. She implied rape. He let his weight settle hard onto the heel, concentrating it in one painful center.

Then she mentioned his ‘friend’. His ‘friend’, who was likely the other trail of blood, apparently seizing to death in their bathroom if her testimony was accurate. What was her crime? Trusting the wrong man? All he’d seen of her was humiliated devastation. ‘Too timid,’ as his sister put it.

Finally. A moment of truth, hot as the poker she held with relish. Copper and fire and smoked coals. How many times had he smelled something fainter, something that made him wonder? Something that seemed to swelter, stale and sickly sweet, every time the walls swelled with the rain?

He had a nearly-dead man under his boot. Barred him from his escape, for the sin of being too much like Nisa.

“Oh, Nisa,” he said instead, something hollow in his voice. “I would not take such a gift from you.”

His hand covered hers, carefully lifting her hand from its resting spot and squeezing her hand in his.

He couldn’t stand her hand so close to his neck. It reminded him too much of the stranglehold she had on everything else.

“I wouldn’t dare handle this improperly,” he reassured, though there was something even harsher in his gaze than usual.

With that, he let go of her hand and stepped off of the man (was he even still alive?). Closed the door with exceeding gentleness behind him. Went to the bathroom to wash the blood off his boots.