My jaw clenched painfully with anger, and I wanted to strike out, to channel it somewhere—anywhere. The only thought that came to mind was to return the gift to its giver: I swung my hand and slapped Denis on the shoulder.
"Why do I have to pry everything out of you today?" I snapped.
"Because I'm not the one who should be telling you everything!" Drozdov shot back, rubbing the sore spot.
The sting in my palm was almost pleasurable, yet it brought no relief. If anything, it fanned the flames. His silence made me want to strike again, harder this time.
The jacket pressed against me, suddenly suffocating. The scarf wound around my neck felt tight, scratchy. Only now did I notice the discomfort, the way the fabric seemed to constrict with every shallow breath. I fumbled at it, unwrapping the scarf, but it didn't help. Frustrated, I yanked down the zipper, ripping open the jacket to my chest.
"Hey… are you okay?" Denis asked cautiously.
I could only nod, trying to force myself to focus on breathing. The world seemed off-kilter; I felt myself sinking toward the cold, saving snow beneath my feet, yet something was wrong.
"Doesn't look like it," Denis said, stepping closer, placing his hands heavily on my shoulders. The weight anchored me in place, yet only made the pressure inside grow worse.
"Whoa, what's with the hands?" I gasped. "And you said the doctor's treatment was helping."
"You're about to lose it," he murmured, calm but firm.
"What?" I barely breathed the word.
From behind the wall came a chorus of howls, many voices blending into a single, piercing wail. The sound slammed into my chest like waves, rolling over me, and my legs quivered beneath me. I pressed myself against the wall, but gravity—or something darker—kept dragging me down.
"Konstantin!" Denis called out, but no answer came.
My eyes widened, fixed on him, desperate not to blink and lose him to the unknown. Anger surged hotter than fear. I wanted to tear into him with words, to punish him for knowing more than I did and yet refusing to speak.
"Konstantin!" he tried again, but the howl swallowed his voice. The beasts seemed to sense my unraveling, their cries clawing at the edges of my mind.
"Will it hurt?" I whispered, barely daring to ask. Denis looked at me then, his gaze softer, compassionate, yet he did nothing.
If I were in his place, I would have spoken. I would have filled the silence with words, any words, just to offer comfort. But he simply stood there, and in my trembling, he seemed like a toy shaken on a bumping road, helpless, immovable.
I wanted to scream, to unleash all my anger. Then Denis did something unexpected: he gripped my shoulders and pulled me close. My fury spiked.
"Let go," I tried, but my body wouldn't obey. The paralysis came not from his hands, but from something inside me I couldn't name.
"Quiet, Asya," he whispered, running a palm slowly through my hair, chasing the tremors. "Quiet."
His touch enraged me. The rough grip caught each strand, and I felt ready to tear myself into a thousand pieces just to escape it—but he continued, steady, patient.
I wanted to speak sharp, cutting words. To make him leave. A foolish boy, masquerading as a keeper of secrets one moment, a hero the next.
"I know you're angry. Very angry," he murmured, "but you need to calm down."
"You don't know shit," I spat. Yet his hand didn't stop. The roughness softened, deliberate, almost tender.
"That's not you talking," Denis pressed his head to mine, offering calm, and I caught the scent of him: bergamot with sweet, tea-like mint.
Memories flooded me—warm afternoons in childhood, alone with Denis in the quiet kitchen while other kids slept. Uncle Dima nearby, brewing tea, the mint leaves from his wife's backyard. We played chess, laughed quietly, and the world seemed safe.
I looked out at the dark forest beyond, yet all I saw were fragments of that peace. Memories, fragile and fleeting, unreliable storytellers. Yet I held onto them; they were my anchor.
Denis had always won at chess. I tried to distract him with chatter about the other kids, stories of my parents, sometimes invented. Childhood chatter, once so natural, had been beaten out of me in school, left only with caution and silence. But here, in Xerton, people cared. I felt warmth again.
The trembling inside me eased. Denis's embrace stopped being oppressive; it became protective, familiar. A friend returned from the past, patient despite my resistance.
"Why couldn't you just tell me everything?" I finally whispered, lifting a weight I hadn't realized I carried.
"Do I have the right? Asya… I'm not part of your family," he said softly. "I'm just… an outsider, watching from the sidelines. Your father has to explain why you're here."
"It would be easier… to talk to a peer than to him," I admitted.
The dogs' howls quieted.
Denis's hand slid over my head again, down to my shoulder. He hugged me, swaying gently. Slowly, the tremors ebbed. I closed my eyes and let the calm settle over me, fragile and precious.
"Answer me at least something," I whispered. "It's important. Really."