“Have you heard any news? About the hunger strike thing?” he asked gently.

She shook her head, her expression flattening.

“I know you don’t like talking about this, but you should know that whatever happens to him as a result of this isn’t your fault.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “Well, my brain knows. My heart doesn’t. And also . . . this is terrible. I hate that I even think things like this.” She turned her face into the pillow.

“Like what?” He still didn’t reach for her.

“I’m worried for him, but I don’t want to be.” Her voice was muffled by the pillow. “Even behind bars, he’s still able to make me feel like a bad daughter.”

“You’re not a bad daughter,” he said gently, and she turned her head toward him, sorrow in her eyes.

“Maybe I am. I’m also angry because I want to be the one to hurt him.” This came out in a pained whisper. “I wanted to hurt him, to shock him, to make him realize that he has no power over me. And now he’s taken even that away by hurting himself. It’s terrible, but I hate that he’s taken this one weapon I had and turned it against me.”

God, she was right. Johan saw now how her father had strung her like the marionettes at the market. Even when she thought she was free, there was yet another string she’d have to saw through.

“I don’t know if you can ever really hurt a man like that,” he said carefully. “He will take anything you do and make it about him instead of wondering why you’re doing it.”

Johan thought of how he’d behaved with Lukas and felt a stab of shame. How was what he’d done any better?

“This is how I know you’re different,” she said, her voice a little wobbly. “I see how you are with your brother. I see how he hurts you. You care about him, not just whether he does what you say.”

Johan tried to force a laugh, as if she hadn’t just assuaged his fear. “Tell him that.”

“You tell him. And then it will get better,” she said. “Most people have a rebellious stage. I mean, look at me! I’m so much older than him, and I’m still trying to shock my family. I should ask him for some of that pink hair wax.”

Johan laughed, and he didn’t have to force it this time. Talking with Nya like this made everything seem easier somehow. She’d called him a friend, and even though they pretended to be more—even though in his fantasies they truly were more—he imagined this was what true friendship was: chatting in the middle of the night about those problems you thought you couldn’t share with anyone.

“But people do rebel for a reason,” she added quietly. “You should let Lukas know that, whatever that reason is, you’ll be there for him.”

“Do you want to be big spoon or little spoon this time?” he asked as he watched her blink rapidly, trying to fight sleep.

“Little spoon. Please.”

He slid under the duvet and they met in the middle of his bed. He gathered her in his arms, ylang-ylang scented and luscious as she curled against him. Her shoulder blades slotted into place against his pectorals, and her thighs and calves nestled against his, like a warm breathing puzzle piece.

She sighed and the tension seemed to drain out of her as she relaxed fully against him. It did something to him, more than making her shudder in his arms had—though he’d enjoyed that and wanted to make her cry out again and again. There was a deep trust in letting go of your worries in someone’s arms, in going soft and pliant not from arousal, but because you felt safe.

He leaned back to hit the light switch, and then wrapped his arm around her again.

“Phoko.”

“Hmm?” He was already slipping into sleep. She wasn’t the only one who felt safer this way.

“Just so you know . . . you are not the weapon.”

“Sie parles de waat?” He couldn’t quite hold on to his English as he sank into dark slumber, but he knew that what she said pleased him.

“I keep saying I want to hurt my father, and to shock the world. That’s one part of it, but I like just being here with you, too.”

Johan was already half-asleep but he hugged her close as peace descended on him.

“JOHAN.”

He squeezed the warmth in his arms, nestled against it. Rubbed against it.

Mine.

Wait.

“Phoko!”

He blinked awake to his room awash in morning light. He was holding Nya very tightly and, given his state, he’d also likely been dreaming about her.

“Scheisse, I’m sorry,” he said, groggily rolling away from her and adjusting himself so that the elastic of his sweatpants controlled the outward projectory of his erection.

“It’s all right. I only woke you because you were, um, poking my peach emoji. Like, poke, poke, poke!”

She poked his back with her index finger, and embarrassed heat rushed to his face. He was a grown man, but this had to be a high school nightmare.

“Is that normal? Can you make it move like that at will?” she asked through her laughter. “It was a funny way to wake up.”

“Funny? Excuse me, I’m going to go jump off the esplanade now.” He threw his cover off dramatically and tried to hop out of the bed, and she grabbed hold of his arm.