the enemy unprepared (part 2)

[alamorn]

Lydia was ready for the day long before the day was ready for her. The dining hall didn’t open for another hour, but she was dressed and absolutely incapable of going back to sleep. So she headed out and perched on the edge of a bench and tried to do the breathing exercises her thorough research into panic attacks had assured her would help. And, well, they did. Somewhat. As she breathed in through her nose to a count of five and out through her mouth for a count of six, the sun rose, turning the sky a delicate orangey pink.

Allison ran in the morning, every morning. That hadn’t changed, as far as Lydia knew, so she pulled out her phone and stared at it for a moment, going over what she needed to say and how to say it.

Allison answered on the third ring, out of breath, and Lydia could just see her, sweat rolling down one temple, flushed and glowing in the way she always was when she’d had a good workout, and at the sound of that breathless voice, she lost the carefully planned words and let her own breath shudder out.

“Hey,” she said, and her voice hardly shook, and anyway it was Allison, and she’d stopped being self-conscious in front of Allison at some point. She didn’t know quite when it had happened, but it had solidified at “After everything that’s happened, I believe you.”

“Lydia?” Allison said, after Lydia paused for too long. “Are you okay?”

Lydia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and dragged a lip between her teeth to focus. “Yeah. Well. I needed to ask you for a favor. Have you talked to Stiles?”

“Not in the past couple days,” Allison said. “I’ve been busy. I think I missed a call from him yesterday. Is something wrong?”

Lydia breathed in five, out six. “Yeah. Peter’s here.”

The was a brief pause. In five, out six. “I think my dad has some contacts near you. I’ll text you their numbers. I can be there in … six hours.”

“No,” Lydia said automatically. “No, don’t come down. I can handle this. I will take the numbers, though.”

“Oh.” Allison sounded - hurt? Confused? It didn’t matter. “Well, do you want anyone to come down and help you out?”

Did she? Well, she hardly wanted to deal with it alone again, but… But no one understood, not really, what it was that twisted the air between her and Peter. A headache started to throb behind her left eye, and the scars on her knuckles from the mirror she’d broken pulled tight.

“Whoever’s closest,” she said eventually. “I just want someone to make sure he’s not on campus. After that, some wolfsbane should be good enough.”

Allison was quiet again. It hadn’t been this hard to talk to her since they’d all been lying about the werewolf thing. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll get you the numbers in the next hour or so. And - You know I’ll always come help, right?”

“I know. Just - I can handle it.”

“If you’re sure. Call Scott?”

“I will. Thanks, Allison.” She hung up before she could change her mind.

The worst thing was that they didn’t know. They didn’t know how easy it had been to betray everyone. It was such a relief. And she’d - she’d enjoyed it. When she’d seen everyone drinking and hallucinating, it had been such a rush of power. Being the one who knew, not having people sneaking behind her back and yanking her this way and that. For all that Peter had invaded her mind, made her think she was crazy, terrified and scarred her, he had never lied to her. Even his young face had only ever misdirected, never outright lied. And he’d told her, pushed her into power before she knew a thing about herself. You're a strong girl, Lydia.

And it was heady. Terrifying, and heady, and not addicting, not pleasant in the least, but he’d respected her and wanted her, not for her looks, but for her power. You're a strong girl, Lydia. He was the first one to expect greatness from her, prod her towards it. And she’d never give him that power over her again, but she had to close her eyes and breathe - in five, out six - as she remembered the pure exhilaration of being not just cruel, but bad, of seeing people fall to her plan like she’d always known they would.

Lydia had never wanted to conquer the world - too much effort for too little pay off - but the worm moon had shown her that she could, if she wanted to. And. Well, that was a difficult thing to forget, sometimes.

She shook her head, pulled up the pain of waking up with her knuckles cut open, the terror of watching his approach, the humiliation of everyone seeing, and she put it away. All the power in the world was worth nothing if someone else had power over her. You're a strong girl, Lydia.And he was right. She was strong. So she wouldn't let him rule her again.

She called Scott. He went through the paroxysms of righteous fury on her behalf and friendly concern and tedious reassurances that she knew he would. Scott was one of the most genuinely kind people Lydia knew, but she didn’t want kindness at the moment, she wanted - anger and power and the cold certainty of death.

“Could you send Erica?” she asked, because Erica was the next best thing.

Erica arrived the next day in a beat up car that Lydia though might belong to Boyd. Her hair was pulled into a greasy ponytail, and her hands shook with exhaustion. She slept in Lydia’s bed for three hours, Michelle throwing confused glances in her direction the entire time. Lydia finished her homework for the next week while she waited. She made mistakes on simple problems, but couldn’t bring herself to care enough to fix them.

When Erica woke up, she yawned and stretched and winked at Michelle. Lydia cleared her throat, raised an eyebrow, and Erica sobered, licking her teeth.

“What do you need?” she asked, as they left the room.

“Let’s walk,” Lydia said. “Tell me if you smell him.”

Erica sniffed the air obediently, and grimaced. “Everything smells weird here. I can’t tell.”

“Well, let me know if you can.”

Erica found nothing, and Lydia lined her room with wolfsbane while her roommate was in class. The purple powder stuck in the lines of her hands, but Lydia didn’t wash it off. It made her feel safer, and she needed all the safety she could get.

Erica left a silver edged knife on Lydia’s desk on her way out. “Keep safe,” she said, and Lydia touched the handle with a shaking finger.

“I will,” she said. “I will.”

After Erica closed the door, Lydia called the hunters Allison had put her in contact with and arranged a meeting. She needed every damn thing she could get.

She started to see him around campus. He wasn’t there, not really. He probably wasn’t even making her see him. It was her own terror creating him, and his leather coat and that sharp smile. The specters of him never did anything, never approached her, never threatened her. One of them smiled at her, and she had to leave class early, to go back to her room and cry, huge gasping sobs that made her lightheaded. He liked that, she remembered. He liked scaring her into complacence. That was what he always did. Scare her until she couldn’t breathe, until the only way out was his way.

It wouldn’t work this time, she told herself, and remembered the bodies he’d strewn around her imagination when she asked, “What if I don’t?”

But he’d killed people when she’d brought him back to life. Killed and killed and killed, and wasn’t it worth a few lives to stop him? She remembered the way his lips felt on her neck, and even if it weren’t, even if it made her a monster in her own right, well. Lydia Martin was not well known for her sense of empathy.

A day after she made her resolution, he sent something after her. She knew it was his because it was huge, a waist high, chittering beast, eight clacking legs, eyes bright black eyes. She didn’t have enemies in Pasadena aside from him, and her daily meetings with Angie had her suppressing her aura, apparently. So why else would something that looked like it had waltzed right out of the Forbidden Forest be charging towards her on her way to the library?

She pulled out the canister of wolfsbane laced mace one of the hunters had given her - home made, the woman had said, and smiled a bright, vicious smile that was entirely too familiar. Allison had looked like that once. Lydia had shivered, but taken it. The second it got within range, she sprayed it in those eight eyes. It screeched and stopped and snapped its mandibles at her, but it fled.

After that, she killed every spider she saw with extreme prejudice.

Angie threw her backpack down on Lydia’s bed. “All right,” she said. “If he’s sending spiders after you, he’s probably working with a Tsuchigumo. Or just some sort of witch, who knows.”

“Tsuchigumo?” Lydia said, putting her own bag on her desk chair. She’d do her homework later. It wasn’t like any of it was hard.

“Japanese spider people. This isn’t really how they work, though, so I don’t want to make any baseless accusations. It’s probably just a witch’s familiar or something. But the point still stands: you need to be able to recognize and defend.”

Lydia joined Angie on the bed. Angie pulled her legs up into a butterfly seat, and Lydia envied her loose-limbed grace for a moment as she settled in. Angie opened her backpack and pulled out a slim tablet. “We’re going to start with the basics. You know werewolves, obviously, so we’ll skip those. How well do you know vampires?”

Lydia made fangs with her fingers. “Pointy teeth, speak with a lisp?”

“Ahaha, no,” Angie shoved her gently. She eyed Lydia. "So what have you run into, other than werewolves?"

Lydia tapped her fingers against the cool duvet cover as she thought. "Elves. A Darach. Some sort of shadow thing - don't know what it was, but a flare gun took care of it just fine. Water nymphs. A few other things. It was an eventful couple years."

Angie whistled lowly. "All in one place, and over such a short period of time? Beacon Hills lives up to its name. Well, a basic rundown; werewolves and vampires are the most common sort of us, because they can create more of their own. Witches are next. Men can also be witches. There's no such thing as a warlock or a wizard, those are stupid, made up words that stupid, stuck up men use when they just can't stand being associated with women. Witches are often Watchers, or Pack affiliates of some sort. It's a lot more security and a lot more allies without too much cost to the witch."

"Yeah, yeah," Lydia said. "We went over this the first day. Tell me how to kill everything."

Angie rolled her eyes and shoved Lydia's shoulder. "Rude," she said. "You know how to kill werewolves. Fire, too much damage at once, etcetera etcetera. Vampires are the hardest to put down and keep down. There's pretty much no way to make sure a vampire stays dead, but you can definitely put them down for your lifespan. A stake through the heart won't do much, contrary to public opinion. Dismemberment and fire are your best bet. And they are sensitive to sunlight. Pop culture got that right at least." Angie snorted. "No sparkles, though, and it starts with a plain old sunburn. They just can't spend time in the light or they burn and burn and burn."

"So, nothing I couldn't have figured out myself," Lydia said, crossing her arms and leaning back against her pillows, one eyebrow raised. Angie snorted.

"You are an ungrateful brat," she said, crawling forward so she loomed over Lydia. For a second, Lydia thought Angie was going to kiss her, but then the other girl smirked and head butted her gently. "All right, so everything else, you basically just do what you would do to a human, but more. You and me, though, we're fragile types. We die just as easy as any human, and you better not forget it." Angie flopped down, half her weight on Lydia's legs, so that they twinged painfully. "But you're not actually curious about the specifics of different species, or even the generalities. You have yourself a goal."

Lydia shifted, and made to shove Angie off, but she batted away Lydia's hands.

"I'm not stupid," she said. "You know who killed that boy. And you think whoever it was is after you." She got off Lydia's legs, and her eyes were huge and sincere behind those violently blue glasses. "I can help you, if you let me."

A breath shuddered out of her, almost without Lydia realizing. "It's... hard to explain. His name -"

Michelle burst through the door, shouting at a friend over her shoulder. She quieted when she saw Lydia, and grinned. "Sorry," she said. "I'll be out of your hair in just a sec." True enough, she dropped her bag and grabbed some books, and was out the door in a breeze of fruity perfume before Lydia could respond.

Angie raised her eyebrows.

"She's sweet," Lydia said. "Thinks I'm weird, but then, why wouldn't she?"

"Ah, of course," Angie said, which was no answer at all, but Lydia hadn't really been asking a question, so she couldn't get too defensive. "Well, carry on."

"His name is Peter," Lydia said, and her chest throbbed with panic and claustrophobia and the images of dead friends painted themselves on the backs of her eyelids. "He's a werewolf. He was an alpha. He's - he's a sociopath, killed his own niece for power, for revenge, would have killed his nephew too, if Derek hadn't managed to kill him first. I brought him back." She always said the last part with a mixture of revulsion and pride. He was back, he was unleashed on the world, because of her. But she'd raised the dead, created her very own Lazarus. It was thrilling, having the power of God. "He bit me, before he died. Worked his way into my head. Made me think I was going crazy. Threatened me, scared me, made my life hell. Never hurt me, though, not after the attack." She stopped. She still dreamed of being thrown down on the field, dragged back with his sharp nails to his sharper teeth. That was enough pain for any life. "And I brought him back."

Angie touched her knee hesitantly. "And this was before you even knew what you are?"

"Yeah." Lydia felt hollowed out.

"Shit." Angie scrubbed her hands against her eyes, pushing her glasses up to sit cattywompus on the top of her head. "Shit, you're stronger than I thought. No one's supposed to be able to do that, not without years of training and a hell of a lot of back up."

"Panic does funny things to a person," Lydia said. She didn't know what else she could say.

“Not that funny,” Angie said. “I’m going to go call my grandma. She’ll know what to do.”

Deaton looked sick in the poor lighting of the clinic and the blue screen light reflecting off his face. “Lydia?” he said, sounding confused, even though he’d agreed to the Skype and picked out the time himself.

“Yeah,” she said, deciding to ignore it. Ignoring other people’s problems had gotten her pretty far in high school, and you just don’t fix what ain’t broke, as her hick uncle Eugene would say, before spitting chaw. She hadn’t seen him in years, since the Martins tended to pretend they were old money and looked down on the members who didn’t play along. “You set your clinic up so no one can get you don’t want to. I lined the room with wolfsbane, but what else can I do?”

He blinked a couple times, and seemed to finally focus on her face. The screen pixelated for a moment, then came back in high quality. “Cold iron,” he said. “As nails in the door frame. That keeps the fey out. If vampires are coming, scatter sand or rice. Most of the old traditions have some truth to them.

“And silver?” Lydia asked. “Does silver work?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Get a necklace. Get a knife. Not pure silver for the knife, that’s expensive and it doesn’t make a good blade anyway. Edge it.”

“Okay,” she said, touching the knife Erica had given her. It was cold and heavy. “Okay. Is there anything I can use to get away fast? Like a tazer, but for werewolves?”

“Wolfsbane bombs,” he said automatically. “You probably can’t manage to just make a circle yet. I’ll teach you when you get home. But if you make a packet that bursts when thrown, you can slow them down for a while, and confuse their sense of smell. I’ll send you some instructions.”

She saw him on the way back from her favorite class, and the joy of equations melted into immediate icy pain tightening her chest. She breathed (in five, out six) and walked like she hadn't seen him. He laughed, or maybe it was the boy with blue eyes coming towards her, and he'd had blue eyes when she kissed him, and oh God, this is what a panic attack felt like, and goddamn it she was breathing, in and out and in and out, and sharp nails curved around the back of her neck and forced her eyes up and it was him, oh god it was him, it wasn't a hallucination. He smiled, but when she tried to yank away her necklace shifted and hit his hand. He hissed through his teeth and let go.

"You always were a clever girl, Lydia," he said, and she wanted to scream, told herself she was going to, bring up all her anger and fear and the pain of the bodies he'd left behind him, but she couldn't, she couldn't, her voice was locked in her chest and she was whining, low in her throat and he was smiling, god that fucking smile, always so goddamn smug and she couldn't get away, she couldn't, and why hadn't anyone noticed, why wasn't anyone looking, this was not a dark back road, this was the middle of campus in the middle of the goddamn day, and his hand had left an imprint of heat on the back of her neck, she was going to burn alive and he'd watch and laugh and--

He offered her his arm, with one of those smiles she dreamed of breaking, and she took it. Lydia felt her body move without any input from her brain and damned if it wasn't easier to let him be in control, but she breathed as they walked, and it had always been easier to let someone else be in control, and she'd never ever allowed that, because she didn't need easy, she needed power, and this was not the way to get it, not at all.

Allison, she thought. What would Allison do? Well, stab him, but if she couldn't, well, Allison was clever and creative, and better at playing other people's games than Lydia was. So she looked up at him through her lashes, and he was so much taller, but that was fine, she'd get him on his knees eventually.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, and her voice didn't shake at all.

He looked down at her, and he really didn't look like a wolf at all. Wolves were sweet, intelligent creatures, and all she could see in his eyes was lust - not for her, well, not in that way - and anger, and an infinite superiority. "We're going to coffee, Lydia. Isn't that a typical first date?"

She snorted. "I turned you down when you were young and pretty. What about psychological torture and rampant murder is going to make me change my mind?"

He laughed, and that was thing, wasn't it, he thought she was funny, he liked her as much as he liked anything, and he would never, ever leave her alone. "I remember an enthusiastic kiss, actually, but you shouldn't be so quick to dismiss me, Lydia. I can be a stunning conversationalist. Let me win you over."

Lydia licked her lips. "Win me over to what?"

"Now don't play dumb," he chided. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Let me make you a queen."

"Fear me, love me, and I will do what you say," she said dryly.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Not quite, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"A quote," she said, and thought about finishing it, but it had worked best as a surprise for Sarah. There was no reason it wouldn't for her, too.

"Well, I'm glad you can find levity in the situation," he said, and frowned. "Not quite the right word. I apologize. Let me treat you. You like frappuccinos, right?"

She did, but Lydia had a feeling that she wouldn't for much longer. "Sure," she said, with a shrug.

He guided her to a seat in the corner of the coffee shop, and when had they gotten there? God, she couldn't be losing time again, it wasn't fair - but fair didn't really have much to do with it, now did it?

She looked around as he ordered. It was a cute little place, with big comfortable chairs and mugs the size of her head. There were only two other people sitting inside, and they were both absorbed with whatever they were working on. Probably term papers. It was getting to that point in the semester, and her English major acquaintances had begun to seclude themselves and only emerge with large bags under their eyes in order to get more caffeine. She was in front of a large window, and it was beautiful out, sunny and warm, and she wished, quite abruptly, for the snow they'd gotten sometimes in Beacon Hills. She wanted the world cold and miserable.

Peter slid her frappuccino in front of her as he sat down. "Try to look a little happier, Lydia. You're on a date, after all. Wouldn't want to hurt my feelings."

Her drink was still too hot, but she sipped it anyway, savored the pain as it burned the roof of her mouth, the tip of her tongue. "Of course not," she said. "This would be a pity date, after all, for an old man too pathetic to find a wife. One of those college professors that hands out As for a quick roll in the sheets?"

His leg shot forward under the table, landed squarely between her own. Lydia tried to figure out what the exact threat was - it was certainly implicit - but couldn't. "Lydia," he said, and his voice was fond. Fond. After all he'd done, he dared to be fond. "Lydia, you're a smart girl, a strong girl. Don't throw that away on petty grudges."

When she laughed, the sound seemed to have been scraped from her. It was hollow and ugly and angry, and she hadn't known she could make sounds like that. It wasn't exactly a pleasant discovery.

"I know," he said, and smiled, "that we parted on... not the best of terms."

The laugh tore out of her again. "You could say that," she said, on the edge of tears. Her voice was thick and ugly, and how could he do this to her, no matter how much she prepared, he could rip through her defenses in no time flat. When she blinked, she tried to pull forth faces in the darkness. Something that would make her strong. Scott, Stiles. Allison. Lydia breathed. Allison. Allison could be here in six hours. Allison could save her, if she needed saving.

"Well," Peter said, and he looked off balance for a second, just a second, but it was still off balance, it was still her victory. "I wanted to make reparations. For any trauma I might have caused you."

"A minimum of post traumatic stress, remember. And a few years of nightmares. What are you offering?"

"The world." His eyes were as sincere as they could ever manage to be. "You are great. You could be greater. Come with me."

"And how will you give me the world?"

Peter smiled. "You are familiar, of course, with the myth of Proserpina?"

"And what bearing does Greek mythology have on this?" she asked, but the sick lurching in her stomach didn't need an answer.

"Oh, don't worry," he said. "I'm not about to offer you a pomegranate. But it gets lonely, even in power."

Lydia forced a smile. "And it would be a slap in the face to Derek, if I joined you."

"Well, of course. You know how the game works, Lydia. Never have only one purpose."

She stood, pulling her bag up with her. "Gotta say no. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not."

He smiled that gentle smile she hated so much, but the coffee shop didn't fill with blood and bodies. "A pity. Perhaps you will change your mind. You will be able to find me?"

"Won't need to," she said, but as she turned to walk away he grabbed her wrist, and god, his hand was huge and it pinched, he was hurting her, no no no, and he smiled and lowered his head and pulled her index finger into his mouth, and his teeth sunk in. She didn't scream, just tensed as he sucked the blood, and when he released her, Lydia turned and walked away as fast as she could. She didn't check the damage until she got back to her room.

A small puncture wound, but the blood had welled up and slid into the cracks of her palm from clenching her fists. Lydia pulled out her first aid kit and cleaned it, slowly and carefully, and her hands didn't shake until she was done.

The phone was out before she realized it, Allison's number already pulled up and ready for calling. Lydia stared at her hands where they lay flat on the desk, then put the phone away. Pretend you're okay until you are had been her maxim throughout high school, and she couldn't be calling Allison every time she was scared. Might as well have stayed in Beacon Hills, if she couldn't deal with her own problems.

The knife fit easily into her purse, and even more easily into her back pack, so she made sure she could get at it easily, and practiced drawing it from both until Michelle got back. Then she smiled. "A prop for Angie's play," she said when Michelle looked at it with her eyebrows in her hairline. "Isn't it pretty?"

"Yeah, I guess." Michelle sat on her own bed. "What play is it again?"

Lydia laughed. "God, I don't know. I just saw this and thought it looked cool."

"Fair enough, I guess." Michelle hesitated. "Are you okay? You look really pale."

"Oh, I'm fine. Long day, I guess." Her arms felt heavy all of a sudden. "I'm kind of tired, actually. Are you going to be working in here?"

"I was planning to, yeah, but I can head to the library if you need to sleep."

Lydia wanted to be done with the conversation, and Michelle looked like she did too. "No, I'll just go to Angie's. Study away," she said, and put the knife in her purse.

Angie lived just down the hall, and when Lydia knocked she opened the door looking like she had been hibernating. The room was dark, her glasses were missing, and she squinted through the bruises around her eyes. "Everything okay?" she asked with a jaw cracking yawn.

"People keep asking me that," Lydia said. "Can I crash on your floor for an hour or so? I, uh. I had a run in with Peter today."

Angie stood aside and gestured her in. "I ask again: everything okay?" she said as Lydia entered the room. Angie padded behind her, concern twisting her features.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. He made an offer, I refused. He bit me, but not hard. I think he wanted to make a point. He could hurt me if he wanted sort of thing."

Angie threw a pillow onto the floor, and Lydia sat on the thick carpet. "That's pretty concerning. Pretty definitely not what I would call okay. Can I see it?"

Lydia held out her hand, and Angie peered at it. "Well. If it keeps bleeding let me know. I'm not exactly an expert on stuff like this."

Lydia curled her fingers back into a fist. "I can deal with it."

"Yeah, but you don't have to. I think you forget that a lot. You have friends who are willing and able to help."

Lydia sat very still. Her legs were curled tightly under her, and her hand hurt and her head ached, and Angie looked just so damn sincere, standing there in an oversized tee-shirt and shorts. Angie didn't understand, of course. But no one understood. Even Allison didn't understand. It wasn't a matter of their ability to help, or their willingness. It wasn't, really. It might have been, at first. Paranoia about being lied to and left out. Abandonment issues. All those lovely little trust issues left over from sophomore year. But it wasn't about that. Not anymore. Not when he looked at her with those bright blue eyes.

It wasn't even a matter of love or hate, and really, she would never bother to try and figure out her feelings about Peter. It would take too long, and it didn't matter in the end. She wanted him dead, with his blood on her hands. Peter had crawled into her head and made himself at home, and there was no forgiving that. It was, and she tried not to smile at the stupidity of it, personal.

Eventually, she looked up at Angie. "I know. The best thing you can do to help me is to make sure I'm prepared when I go up against him." The words started spilling out without seeming to pass through her brain first. "I'm going to go after him. He'll think I'm coming to join him, take him up on his offer, but I'm going to kill him. And I need back up and knowledge and I need to kill him myself. I need help, but not the way you think. Arm me. But let me fight him myself."

Angie looked at her for a long moment, then sank down to sit in front of her. "Okay," she said. "Don't make me regret this, but okay."

Lydia got back to her room late that night. Michelle jumped almost guiltily when Lydia came in, but settled quickly. She ignored the other girl and got ready for bed mechanically.

She put the knife under her pillow before she went to sleep, ignoring the wide eyes of her roommate. It didn’t help. The second she slipped into sleep, he was there, leering at her.

“You have no power over me,” she said, but this was no story and he was no goblin king.

“Of course I do,” he said, and slid his arm over her shoulders, pulling her tight to his chest. “You let me.”

Lydia woke up crying, Michelle’s hand on her shoulder, Michelle’s eyes huge and worried. She scrubbed the tears from her face. “I’m fine,” she said.

Michelle pulled back, shifted from foot to foot uneasily. She was wearing boy’s boxers and a huge shirt, and she looked like a child in the dim light from the window. “Are you sure?” she asked, hands twisting the hem of that huge shirt. “Because you didn’t sound fine, and, I mean, I don’t know what happened, but you were crying really hard and, uh, my mom’s a psychiatrist, do you want to talk to her?”

Lydia sat up, pulled her knees to her chest. “No, I - I’m sorry about waking you up. I’m dealing with it.”

“Oh, you didn’t wake me!” Michelle said, big eyes getting bigger. “Don’t worry about that. I just had to pee, and I heard you, and I mean, we don’t talk much, but no one should have to go through hard things by themselves.”

Lydia forced a smile. “I’ve got friends helping me out. It won’t be a problem, soon, I don’t think.” He’s not going to hurt me again, she didn’t say. I’m going to hurt him.