Page 44 of Hush, Little Baby

Not sleepy.

Not confused.

Furious.

“What the fuck is this?” he growls. The words are English, but then he shifts into the other language so quickly that I barely understand that he’s stopped using words I know. His voice cracks through the room like a whip. “Ti diáolo kánete, ilíthioi, tésseris i óra to gamiméno proí?” What the hell are you idiots doing at four in the fucking morning?

“Afendikó, o kalesménos sas píge na fígei. Emís aplós ton férname píso mésa,” the man holding my legs answers, sharp and defensive, and Nikolaus’s expression changes. Boss, your guest went to leave. We were just bringing him back inside,

I have never seen someone become more furious that fast.

His eyes drop to me.

To the hand over my mouth.

To my bare legs kicking weakly under the robe.

To the way the most awful parts of me are exposed.

Something in his face goes blank.

Not calm. Something far worse.

Empty in a way that makes the whole room feel colder.

He speaks again, deathly low this time, “Tha sas skotóso. Tha sas kópso éna-éna ta vrómika dáchtyla pou ton ángixan kai tha sas ta káno na ta katapiíte prin sas tináxo ta myalá ston aéra.” I’ll kill you. I’ll cut off each of your filthy fingers that touched him and make you swallow them before I blow your brains out.

The man holding me releases my mouth so suddenly I suck in a broken breath that turns immediately into a sob. He does not let me go, though. His arm is still around me, and the other guard still has my legs, and I am hanging between them.

“Afendikó, ti káname? Tis entolés sas akolouthoúsame.” Boss, what did we do? We were following your orders.

Nikolaus takes one step forward.

The guard says something. “Sygnómi, afendikó. Sygnómi. Den to ennooúsame étsi. Synchoréste mas, sas parakaloúme.” Sorry, boss. Sorry. We didn’t mean it like that. Forgive us, please.

Nikolaus explodes, “Den to ennooúsate étsi? Étsi pós, re malákes? San na sas vlépo na kakopoieíte kápoion pou mou aníkei? Tha apoláfso na sas skotóso.” You didn’t mean it like that? Like what, motherfuckers? Like I’m watching you assault someone who belongs to me? I’ll enjoy killing you.

I don’t know the words, but I understand the meaning. Anyone would. His voice is thunderous, vicious, every syllable sharpened until it sounds like he is cutting pieces off the air. The guards go rigid. The one at my legs lowers my feet to the floor so quickly that I begin to fall to the floor, but the other keeps a hand on my arm.

“Óchi, den káname káti tétio. Óchi—” No, we didn’t do anything like that. No—

Nikolaus lunges forward, and the man lets go like he has been burned, practically throwing me away from himself.

I fall forward and hit the floor, lungs still not working right. My vision spots at the edges. I think I might pass out. I think maybe that would be better. Maybe if I pass out, this stops being my problem for a few minutes.

Nikolaus grabs me, but not the way they did. He falls to his knees in front of me, then gathers me to his chest. After a second, he pulls me away, eyes flicking over me again, fast and assessing, taking in my face, my mouth, my chest, the open robe, my bare body, and my shaking hands. His jaw grinds, and he pulls the robe closed himself, not gently exactly, because I don’t think he is capable of gentle in this moment, but carefully.

Then he turns back to the guards.

And I realize with a terrible, dizzy kind of disbelief that he is not angry at me.

He is angry at them.

He steps between the two men and me, putting his own body in front of mine like a wall. The room feels too small for him. Too small for his voice. Too small for the rage rolling off his skin.

More foreign words pour out of him again, faster now, colder, and the guards answer less and less. One of them looks down. The other keeps his eyes forward, but his face has gone pale.

Nikolaus aggressively gestures to my crumpled, trembling form.