I’m so pissed off I could tear someone to pieces with my bare hands. Preferably the asshole who threw something at a line of fully suited-up riot cops.
Even though we’re both in the back seat of my car and Doc is safe, the adrenaline surging through me demands a target, a neck between my fingers, a jaw under my fist.
Do not fuck with this woman, my inner beast keeps growling at everyone involved in that clusterfuck.
Thank God I was there and saw Doc in the crowd. I’ve been keeping an eye on Corvus—all the Bastards have—so I went to see what they were up to with this panopticon business. They seem to have moved on from simply spying on people to predicting if they’re criminals before they even commit a crime.
The police chief droned on, the dignitaries applauded, and the press recorded it, and I didn’t learn anything useful. I’d have to take a peek inside the Corvus system to see anything good, it seems. Corvus security is locked up tighter than a nun’s knees at Chippendale’s, so I’m going to have to get inventive if I want in. And I do.
The protest across the street was definitely more interesting than the cops’ canned speeches. I noticed Doc among them as everyone was leaving, that flash of purple hair in the middle of a sea of boring browns and blacks like a beacon. So that was the appointment she was ditching me for after the meeting. I had to smile.
I’m not smiling right now, not with her bleeding and in shock next to me in the back seat. Stupid fucking idiot—who throws something at riot cops? And the cops—why charge like that? The missile or rock or whatever didn’t even come from the protesters.
When the cops charged them and the protesters broke in a panic, I didn’t even stop to think. In a flash, I ran for the barricades, hoisting myself up and over them. The cops didn’t even try to stop me.
I wasn’t paying much attention to them though. I was searching for Doc, desperate to find her before she could be trampled in that mass of humanity.
When I’d finally managed to catch up with her, she was already going down, falling beneath the feet of hundreds of stampeding people.
People talk about their heart stopping, but mine actually did, tripping over the sick fear flooding me. It was only by some miracle that I managed to catch her and pull her to safety.
Even now, the anger and fear is still running hot through me since she still looks so scared.
“What the hell were you doing there?” I growl. I don’t intend to, but goddammit, she could have died. Right there in front of me, and I would have had to watch, helpless.
I don’t do helpless, not since I was a kid. Not ever, really.
Doc decides to be her usual smart-mouthed self with me. “I was protesting. Do you know what that is, or should I call up my dictionary app for you?”
I’m too worked up to be sarcastic back. “You could have died. That entire situation was fucked.”
She blinks hard, her gaze going unfocused. “I know. Oh God, I still feel like I’m falling.”
I put my hand under her chin and tilt her face up so I can check out her eyes. Her pupils constrict as the light hits them, then widen as I pull her face closer to mine.
“Hey,” I say gently as I can. “Stay with me.” I angle my voice toward the driver. “Where’s the nearest ER? We’ve got to get there—”
“No.” Doc wraps her hand around my wrist, her fingers cold. “I don’t need the ER.”
“I don’t believe you.” Her skin is way too pale, the pulse in her throat hammering erratically against my knuckles. “If you’re worried about the bill, I’ll pay for all of it.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” She shakes her head, but not hard enough to pull my hand away. “I’m only a little woozy.”
I’m half tempted to take her in to get her checked out anyway, but I decide not to. Already her color’s looking better, and she’s breathing at a normal pace, if a little deeper than usual. Which is making her chest do interesting things, which I’m trying really hard not to fucking notice since she almost got trampled to death and all.
Which reminds me of how pissed I still am. “You know that protesting isn’t going to do a damn thing to stop this panopticon?”
She would have died for absolutely nothing if she’d fallen there, and just the thought makes me want to punch something.
The look she flashes at me spits some of her old fire. “So what else am I supposed to do? Just let them set up some Big Brother surveillance thing without a peep?”
“There are other ways to fight.”
“Like what? I’d love to hear how you’re doing anything at all.”
Okay, her color is definitely much better. Her cheeks are flushed rose and her eyes are bright, and the animation in her expression is… way too attractive.
I look away, because the stuff that I am doing is all behind the scenes, very hush-hush, things I’m not telling anyone about. Hacking is best done in the dark with your mouth tightly shut. Hackers that brag about their shit often find themselves in jail.
So I change the subject. “You’re spending the night at my place.”
“What? No, I can go to my own house—”
I point to her hands, cutting her off. “Did you even notice that you’re bleeding? The fact that you didn’t means you need medical attention. Or just someone to take care of you.”
She holds up her hands like she’s seeing them for the first time ever. Her fingers are scraped, her palms are bloody, and there’s a massive splinter in her thumb.
My rage surges up again. The Oakland chief of police is going to get a fucking earful from me about this. And I’m rich enough that she has to listen.
“You’re going to my place,” I say with firm finality. “Don’t bother to argue. I’ll bandage up your hands, and when I’m done, you can go home. If you feel well enough, okay?”
She’s still staring at her hands. “I guess I can’t bandage these myself,” she says resignedly.
“Did you get hurt anywhere else?”
She gives me a sideways look as if I’m up to something, which I’m not. But then she twists her hands, catching sight of her palms, and she suddenly goes green. Her eyes flutter closed, and I only just catch her before she slumps onto the floor.
“Goddammit,” I mutter to myself. “Steve,” I call to the driver, “have a doctor meet us at my place.”
She might not want to head to an ER, but I’ll make damn sure she gets some kind of medical attention.
Doc shifts in my arms. “No,” she says faintly. “Don’t do that. I just… I get a little woozy when it comes to blood. Especially my own blood.”
“I’m used to it. My own blood,” I explain at her puzzled look.
She studies my face, no doubt homing in on the scar under my right eye or the one slashing across my left cheek or the big one cutting right through my right eyebrow. I like driving off-road vehicles way too fast, and my body has the injuries to prove it.
“I bet you are,” she murmurs, looking back at her hands. She’s got gravel dug into one of her palms, which is going to be a bitch to clean. I’m going to have to hurt her when I dig that out, which makes my stomach twist.
“Fine, no doctor. But I’m going to nail that police chief’s head to my office wall,” I say, low and savage.
Her head flicks up in surprise. “You can do that?” Her expression drops. “Of course you can. You probably buy and sell city officials like it’s nothing.”
God, I only wish. “Not quite. But I’ve got an open line to the chief—shouldn’t I use it?”
Her mouth tightens like she’s struggling with something. “What were you even doing there?”
“I wanted to see what Corvus was up to.” Keeping tabs on Corvus is something of mutual interest to us.
She sits up straight. “Minerva Dyne was there. Did you see her?”
“Oh yeah.” Minerva is Arne Fuchs’s assistant, although enforcer would probably be a better description. I definitely took notice of her.
“It means it’s a high priority for him,” Doc says excitedly. “He wouldn’t send her if it wasn’t. And if Fuchs is interested in this panopticon, it must be bad.”
“I kind of figured that just from the description,” I say dryly.
A smile flits across her face. “Yeah, even you should’ve picked up on that.” She moves her fingers and grimaces, going pale again.
I take both her hands in mine, careful to only touch her wrists where she’s not injured. I rub slow circles there, being gentle with the delicate bones and tendons. Her skin is warm, and I can smell her shampoo, something flowery but not sweet.
Time slows until I can measure my heartbeats by the movements of my hands. And her breathing.
“What are you doing?” she says, barely above a whisper. There’s no accusation in it, only wonder.
“Distracting you. I don’t want you fainting on me.” Although I’m also doing it for my own selfish reasons. Touching a woman has never felt this damn good. Warmth and pleasure and comfort flow from her skin to mine, soothing the last flickers of anger in me.
She’s safe. The evidence is right there under my fingers.
“I don’t feel faint.” Her eyes are half-closed, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard from her.
“Good. But let’s keep it up to be sure.”
Her lips part, and I can sense her preparing one of her usual smart remarks. But it’s a fight—she likes me touching her like this. And she doesn’t want to stop me.
Interesting. If I weren’t so entranced myself, I’d be thinking of ways to turn this to my advantage. Our mutual advantage, actually.
Instead, all I can do is keep massaging her wrists, letting this quiet, soft moment, so unlike any other between us, go on.