Page 46 of Hush, Little Baby

I don’t want to know.

But whatever he sees makes some of the terrible stillness in him crack.

I am shaking so badly I can barely stay upright when the gun lowers by an inch.

Constantine takes the opening and steps closer, murmuring something I don’t understand, one hand closing around Nikolaus’s wrist. Not forcing, but guiding. It’s insane to me that anyone can touch him right now and keep their hand afterward.

For one second, Nikolaus resists, but then he takes a deep, rough breath and lets Constantine push the gun down.

Not away.

Not completely.

But down.

Constantine immediately looks at the guards and says something that sounds like an order, a threat, and a prayer all at once. The men obey without hesitation. They back toward the door, faces stark white, and leave the suite so quickly it almost feels like they disappear.

After the door closes behind them, my breath comes back in a rush that is too fast, too shallow, and too loud. I make a sound I hate, a high, thin wheeze, and squeeze my eyes shut so hard it hurts.

Nikolaus turns fully then.

The gun is no longer in his hand. I don’t know where it went. Constantine must have taken it. Or maybe Nikolaus set it down. I don’t know. I don’t care. I can’t stop staring at his hands.

Big hands.

Empty hands.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he rasps.

I shake my head.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

I want to say, I’m sorry.

I want to beg him, please don’t kill me.

I want to say, I want to go home.

I want to say, you said you weren’t going to hurt me, and they touched me, and I couldn’t breathe, and I thought I was going to die, and why are you mad at them if you’re the reason they were there?

But all of that is too much. So I just sit there, clutching the robe closed, trying to breathe through a throat that feels smaller than it should.

Constantine moves first.

He steps around Nikolaus carefully, never getting fully between us. His eyes are on me now, and there is something different in them than before. Not pity. I hate pity. But maybe apology. Maybe calculation with a little regret mixed in.

“Charlie,” he says, voice calm. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head weakly, my vision starting to blur from all the tears I hadn’t let fall until just now.

“Okay,” he answers, crouching down into a squat. “Are you hurt at all?”

My eyes dart to Nikolaus, and I give a tiny nod.

Constantine follows the look, eyes narrowing, and asks, “Did Niko hurt you?”

A muscle in Nikolaus’s jaw pops at the question.