“My name isn't baby or honey or doll,” she tells me firmly, “it's Lilith.” “Ignore him,” Pax says, his accent slurred with alcohol, “he never uses people's names. It's always sweetie or gorgeous or something of the like.” I don't know why I do that, but he's right. I never use people's names. “Shut the fuck up, asshole,” I say quietly, hoping he can hear the hidden menace in my words. The last time Pax and I got in a fight, I gave him ten stitches in his beautiful face and he broke my wrist. That was years ago, but still.
