This chapter is dedicated to na whose comment got my butt in gear with this story. I forgot how much I enjoyed it!

Spinelli turned to shut the door, and though it was done quietly, the noise echoed in the oppressive silence like a firearm going off in a church. With the nervous energy he had previously thanked all and any God's who would listen for, he pushed back a dark hank of hair from his face and looked at Maxie standing there, small and broken like some sort of sickly violet that had bloomed in the shade.

"Let me… let me get some ice for your eye," Maxie said softly, surprising him by being the first to talk.

Without waiting for a word from him she turned and made her way into the kitchen. Spinelli willed his feet to move but couldn't seem to follow her, his brain racing past warp-speed to some new, undefined dimension. He heard the freezer being opened, then the cupboard, then the song of ice being removed from its cheap plastic confines.

Still, he had no idea what to say to the Broken Blond One. Did he tell her that she was safe now? That he could protect her fragility and beauty? Did he tell her not to be so anxious, that he knew it was all too late, but it would never, never, never happen again – not as long as he lived to breathe?

Maxie came shuffling out and it was painful for him to watch, not only because of his grotesquely swelling eye, but the way he could almost hear her bones screaming. She stopped cautiously a few feet in front of him, the ice held in a kitchen cloth, and she took a moment to study him – as if unsure whether or not she could trust him and the thought made Spinelli's heart ache worse than his eye.

She gaped the bridge between them both suddenly and after forever, three tiny steps towards him and lifted her tiny hand to press the ice gently against his eye. Spinelli hissed through his teeth and unthinkingly reached his hand up to take the ice from her – their skin brushed – Maxie immediately dropped the cloth, the ice crashing against the floor and retreated more steps than it had taken her to get to him.

"Maximista – Maxie," Spinelli finally spoke. "The Jackal only meant to take the cloth from you so your lovely digits would not take a chill."

But Maximista, his Maxie, wasn't listening to him, wasn't here. Instead he was faced with the shell of what Logan had so carelessly made her.

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It was all over with just one accidental touch. The brave front, the face she had been putting on so well for everyone as they stared at her with questioning eyes. Just like that, it all broke away as she sunk to the floor, her back against the side of the couch.

One minute she was pressing ice to Spinelli's injured eye and the next her mind insisted it was Logan again, his beefy hands holding hers down into the mattress. She could smell the bourbon and aftershave and sweat – she could smell it on her skin, in her hair. He was grunting softly – a sick, twisted sound of pleasure in her ear and all she wanted to do was die.

It went on for what seemed like years. The painful thrusting, his touch along her skin, leaving pathways of perceptible dirt. And she tried to ignore it, she tried to go somewhere else, somewhere far away inside of her. She couldn't. Every detail was right there, in front of her, being memorized as the clock ticked somewhere in the background.

"Maxie," Logan moaned above her.

"Maxie," Logan whispered in her ear, breath hot and rank.

"Maxie," Logan…?

"Maximista," a voice broke through – soft, concerned, comforting – safe.

"Maximista, it's I, the Jackal," the voice told her. Spinelli. It was Spinelli. What was Spinelli doing here at Logan's? He couldn't see her like this, she thought wildly. But as soon as her eyelids fluttered open she realized she was not at Logan's at all, but the penthouse.

"I'm sorry, Spinelli," Maxie said in a soft voice.

"Maximista, are you okay?" Spinelli asked her, crouched down in front of her. She could see his hands fisting by his sides, and she tried to convince herself it was not out of anger – and failed.

"I'm sorry, Spin. Please don't," she whimpered. Some part of herself loathed the sound of it, some old part of herself she could barely hear anymore, that seemed to be fading away with every second.

"Don't? Don't what? I'm afraid the Jackal doesn't quite comprehend?"

"Please don't hurt me. I didn't mean to, I swear," she promised as the tears started to rain down her face.

"M-maximista. Maxie… Maxie, I could never… I would never hurt you. Never…" Spinelli said, his voice full of tears he wouldn't allow himself to cry and awe – awe that she would ever think that of him. And she knew he was right, but she was still afraid as she watched his fists tighten even more – the knuckles turning white.

Hurriedly she stood and bolted towards the door, not even caring that she was leaving her purse there, and without so much as a goodbye she was gone, leaving the door open behind her. All she could think of was getting away, far, far away – somewhere she could lie by herself behind a locked door.

But even then she still did not feel safe.

Spinelli ran to the door, stuck his head out, but saw she had vanished – he then figured it would probably not be wise to follow her when she was so clearly afraid of him. Shutting the door he turned to head to his room, the tears now dancing down his cheeks, turned suddenly and threw his fist into the hard wood. The crunch of bone, the now obviously broken knuckle or two, did absolutely nothing to still the anger, pain, and sorrow in him.