Nalini Singh: Blaze of Memory

“Not until I know what you’re going to do with her.”

That was when Dev realized Glen didn’t trust him to not hurt the woman who, by her simple existence, her survival , reached parts of him he preferred to leave in darkness. It was a blow . . . and it showed just how much he’d changed from the man Glen had first called friend. “I’m not that far gone yet,” he said softly.

“No . . . not yet,” the doctor echoed as Dev crossed the doorway into Katya’s room.

He found her sitting on the bed dressed in a new pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, having thrown on a heavy gray sweatshirt over the top. Her shoulder-length hair had been plaited into a tight French braid, and there were out-of-the-box-white sneakers on her feet. Her lips lifted in a tentative smile when she saw him. “Hi.”

And that quickly, the metal threatened to retreat, to leave him wide open to the raging protectiveness that slammed into his skin with brutal force. “Where’re your boots, your coat?” he asked, and the words were hard.

“In here.” Smile fading, she patted a khaki-colored duffel with a quietly possessive hand. “Thank you for the clothes. And the other things.”

“Maggie bought them.” He jerked his head toward the door as he reached for her bag. “Come on, you’re leaving this place.”

She tugged the bag away from him. “Where are you going to take me?” The finest thread of steel.

Not that surprised, he dropped his hand. “For now, to my place in Vermont.”

“What about your work?”

He looked into that still-pale face, wondering if the question was simple curiosity or something far more sinister. However, the answer wasn’t exactly a state secret. “I can handle things remotely.” His team was solid, used to working with him regardless of location. “If necessary, I can commute.” Shine had access to several jet-choppers, but Dev preferred to drive most of the time—the trip took less than three hours in a high-speed vehicle, and it gave him time to think free of distractions.

“Why?” Katya’s eyes were crystal clear as they met his, each shard—brown, green, yellow—perfectly defined. “Why not just dump me on someone else?”

“Because I don’t know how big a threat you are,” he answered, and it was a truth. She had no need to know about the complex, unwanted emotions she aroused, the buried memories she unearthed. “You’ll be staying with me until I can figure out what to do with you.”

“You could let me go.” Her fingers curled on top of the duffel.

“Not possible.”

“So I’m a prisoner again.”

The point hit hard, stabbing into the core of honor he’d somehow managed to retain. He wondered if it would still be there after this was all over. “No, you’re the enemy.” This time, he took the duffel without waiting for her agreement.

Katya watched the broad wall of Dev’s retreating back and forced herself to get off the bed. For the first time since she’d woken in this place, she felt not fear, not terror, not worry. Instead, something else burned in her, a hot and sharp and violent thing.

“Move it.” It was a command from the doorway.

That raw new emotion flared so high, she had to fight to find her voice. “Are we going on the train?”

“No. I’ll drive.”

She walked to him, then with him down the corridor, aware he was keeping his stride short to accommodate hers, his big body moving with a grace that told her she’d never be able to move fast enough to escape him. Still, a pulse of excitement bubbled through her, lighting up her mind—the car, she thought, it had to do with the car. If she had the car, she could find—

Another black screen, her memory cutting out like a badly tuned comm panel.

Her nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms so hard she felt skin break. Relaxing her fingers with effort, she lifted her hand to look at one palm. It was hers, she knew that. Those life lines, they were hers. But there were other lines, thin white lines that crisscrossed skin unbroken except for the bloodred crescents she’d just created. How had she gotten those lines? Head beginning to pound in a dull, heavy beat, she stared, determined to divine the truth, no matter how ugly.

Warm male fingers gripped her hand. Startled, she jerked up her head—to meet Dev’s scowl. “Don’t force it,” he ordered, squeezing her fingers. “Glen said the memories will return when it’s time.”

She didn’t pull her hand from his, in spite of the violent chaos of her emotions. When he touched her, she felt real, a living being instead of a ghost. “I can’t help it. I hate not knowing who I am.”

“Hate—strong word.” He led her through a pair of automatic glass doors. “Emotions come easily to you?”

“Yes.” She swallowed as he paused in front of the elevator. “There’s only so much the mind can take. After that, it splinters.” Taking the lines of conditioning with it.

The elevator doors opened and Dev tugged her inside. She took one step across the threshold before freezing, her breath stuck in her throat, her spine so rigid she literally couldn’t move.

Dev’s hand flexed around hers and for an instant she was terrified he’d pull her inside. He was so much bigger, so much stronger, she’d never be able to stop him. Fear was a fist in her throat, blocking her airway.

Then he dropped her hand to wrap an arm around her waist, carrying her out and back into the corridor. “You don’t have to go in there.” One palm cupped the back of her head as he spoke in a voice as harsh as sandpaper. And yet his hold. . .

Her entire body began to shake, terror transmuting into a painful kind of relief. Not stopping to think, she buried her face in his chest, her arms locking around him. A rough word. The thud of the duffel hitting the floor. Then his own arms came around her with bruising strength. She wanted more, wanted to strip him to the skin and touch his heartbeat, convince herself that he existed, that she existed. Deep inside, she was so scared that this was all just another madness-induced fantasy, her mind trying to come up with something to fill the endless void.

“Shh.” Spoken gently against her ear, the hot brush of his breath another tactile anchor.

Daring to move her hand, she placed her fingers against the side of his neck, feeling his pulse strong and steady against her fingertips. Real. So real. “I can’t be in a box again.” The last was a whisper as she caught a wisp of memory. “There was no light, no sound, no touch, no Net.” How could there be so much pain in nothingness? But there was, excruciating, agonizing, relentless pain—pain that had turned her from a sentient being to something lower than an animal. “It was like I didn’t exist.”

Dev stood unmoving under Katya’s hesitant touch. What she was describing was one of the cruelest forms of torture known to man, one that left no marks but destroyed the victim from within—sensory deprivation. Leave a thinking, living being without feedback long enough and the mind began to break, to turn inward, going so deep that many never came back out. And for a Psy to be cut off from the Net—

He blocked the wave of pity before it could rise. Because sensory deprivation wasn’t only about hurting the victim until that person shattered. It could be used for a far more ominous purpose—to break down an individual and then build him or her back up again according to the torturer’s requirements.

Katya might be precisely what she feared—Ming’s creation.

The bruises, the scratches, the starvation, it had in all probability been nothing but the most calculated kind of window dressing, meant to make her appear weak, to arouse pity. . . and protectiveness.