bed and picked up his T-shirt. Then, unable to simply leave, he moved back to the bed to press a kiss on the exposed curve of her neck. "Have good dreams."
Half an hour later, as Katya finished dressing, she held Dev's final comment close to her heart. There'd been such care in those words, such tenderness. It had made her hesitate, but this was her only option now that she'd given up on getting him to enter her mind. He would be furious, but he'd also be safe - she couldn't hurt him from so far away.
Doubt hit again.
What if her actions weren't her own? What if she was meant to run, to go wherever it was her heart and soul insisted she go? What if the compulsion was only another clever trap?
"No." She knew these thoughts were her own. She knew. But how? Frowning in concentration as she laced up her sneakers, she felt a headache coming on. But this time she didn't retreat. . . and the answer appeared from the mists.
"You're a blunt instrument, nothing more." A single fingertip touching her forehead. "There's no room for subtlety."
"Why?" she asked, too numb to be afraid anymore.
She didn't expect an answer, was surprised when he spoke again. "Subtlety requires mind control. You're not worth that much of my time."
"What am I supposed to do until the triggers activate?"
"You'll exist. Though, of course, not much of you is left anymore." A spreading blackness in her mind, tentacles digging deep, clawing and vicious.
Swallowing a cry of agony, Katya bent over, fist pressed to her stomach. Oh, God, it had hurt when he'd done that. It had hurt so very badly. She'd been little more than the most primitive of creatures by then, but she remembered the final torture, the final obliteration of her psyche.
"But I didn't die, you bastard," she whispered, rising to a standing position though nausea continued to churn in her stomach, a trickle of blood snaking out of her nose. Wiping it with a tissue, she stared at the door. "And when you locked me in this prison, you also freed me." Because no one could strike at her through the PsyNet. No one could spy on her. No one could stop her.
All she had to do was get out of this house.
Which might've proved very difficult had there only been the three other adults in the house. All three were dangerous. And Dev . . . well, she wasn't even going to think about taking him on in a physical fight.
But there was a fifth person here. A telepath.
He'd contacted her yesterday, while Sascha was visiting - Katya didn't know how he'd circumvented Tag. When that curious mind had brushed hers, she'd been so startled, she hadn't pulled back. And he'd talked to her.
I'm sorry they scared you away last time.
Surprised at the clarity of that voice, she'd answered without projecting, hoping he'd pick it up. They were trying to protect someone. This telepath, she'd realized at once, knowing that there was no way to wipe the information now that she had it. So she'd have to make sure no one would ever again rip open her mind. You shouldn't be talking to me. Go back before you get in trouble.
A quiet pause. You're like me. You're scared, too.
I'm trying not to be, she'd answered honestly. How about you?
I like Dev - he makes me feel safe.
Me, too.
Another pause. How come you want to leave?
She'd sucked in a breath at the ease with which he'd picked out that thought, even if it had been at the forefront of her mind. That's not good manners, to read someone's thoughts.
He'd been silent so long, she had thought he'd gone. Sorry. Quiet. So quiet. I don't know all the rules.
It's okay. We all had to start somewhere. Wanting to help, she'd taken a chance and carried on the conversation. Just remember - if it's not something you'd want someone else doing to you, you shouldn't do it to them.
I understand. I won't take your thoughts again.
Thank you.
But since I already did - how come you want to leave?
I have something I need to do. Something that pulled at her until it felt as if her tendons would tear from her bones, a pounding, secretive need. But how could she have any secrets? Ming had taken everything.
A tendril of mischief had brushed her mind and it had had a sense of newness to it, as if the boy had never played.