19. Deargán
DEARGáN
She sat in the chair with her pupils blown wide, her focus drifting in and out like a tide.
I noted the small tells I had learned to read in her, the way her fingers worried the fabric over her knee, the way her breathing shifted.
She was disoriented, but present enough to absorb.
The tea had done its work. Not enough to flatten her into something useless and dull. Just enough to loosen the hinges on her mind.
It appeared she had accepted the static photographs I’d fed her last time. They had settled into her without resistance through this new method. That alone marked progress.
Now it was time to escalate. To add motion and emotional encoding. To escalate the sounds.
The projector waited on the shelf, its metal case cold beneath my fingertips as I adjusted the reel. The click of it turning on filled the room, then the beam cut clean across the air and struck the wall in front of her.
I pressed play and glanced once at the screen to ensure the film was running correctly.
It was.
Rapid, curated images bled across the plaster in a dizzying loop, interspersed with short video clips, and recorded audio like a voice-over, echoing into the room.
I let my attention return to her, her eyes glazed but fixed on the film now permanently staining her subconscious.
As per protocol, I snapped on gloves, reached for my vintage stimulator, and turned it on. The low buzzing swelled in the quiet room.
Her throat worked around a shallow sound. Not quite a moan. Not quite a gasp. Her chest arched and fell as a tremor went through her.
Interesting. It appeared the sound of the device had become a signal now, a pattern her body recognized as a prelude to pleasure. Like Pavlov’s dogs.
I positioned myself on the chair in front of her, my movements unhurried and composed.
Her pupils swallowed the gray of her irises as her eyes widened, revealing her whites. Her breathing caught, then tried to steady. Her knee bounced once, stopped, then bounced again, as if her body couldn’t decide whether to flee or yield.
“It’ll hurt less if you don’t fight it, Rua,” I said evenly as I folded up her hem and lowered the vibrating tip to her clit once again.
Her body responded instantly. Her head pressed against the headrest, her mouth parted on a groan.
But this time, she didn’t fight it.
She didn’t fight at all.
She didn’t clamp her hands down against the armrests. She didn’t grit her teeth with that stubborn tension that had frustrated me for weeks.
Her spine softened by degrees, like a lock giving way. She let out a long moan like a sigh of relief and rocked her hips forward as if asking for more.
My hand faltered for half a second.
I studied her face, searching for the flicker of Liath beneath the trance. For that fire and stubborn will.
I didn’t find it.
The absence felt… off. My throat tightened.
I imagined her looking at me tomorrow and not recognizing her own name. I imagined her responding to Rua without hesitation.
The satisfaction hit first, hot and electric, then something heavier settled beneath it, pressing against my ribs like a bruise I couldn’t ignore.
I reminded myself that was the point.
That was the point.
The device sputtered, the buzzing stuttering into a brief crackle and then died, as if the room had swallowed the sound whole.
“Christ,” I muttered, pressing the power button again.
I tapped the device with two fingers, then harder with the flat of my palm, as if force might shame the machine into obedience.
Nothing.
The rhythm in her body faltered. Her breath caught, and sharper awareness snapped back into her eyes, her eyebrows pressing together.
Goddammit. I looked at the film projector. We were only a third of the way through.
Not yet.
The device had failed at the worst possible moment, right at the brink where her resistance had loosened and the memories had begun to take hold.
I glared at the device one more beat, as if it might revive out of fear.
It didn’t.
Protocol dictated withdrawal. End the session. Ground her. Try again another day.
I ignored protocol.
I tossed the broken device aside and lowered myself in front of her chair with deliberate control.
Continuity, I told myself. Necessity. Stabilize the pathway.
“Stay with me,” I said quietly.
Then I reached under her skirt with my hand.
I held my palm against her lower belly while I pressed my thumb down on her clit and resumed the work that the device should have completed.
I only let myself glance at her face long enough to check the signs that she remained pliable. Her features relaxing. The softness to her shoulders. The unfocused drift of her eyes.
I kept my thumb movements methodical, small circles, even as her breathing grew faster again, her hips stuttering under my touch.
Heat from her body seeped through my glove and rose up into my hand. She trembled against my hand, every subtle contraction like a pulse under my fingers. Her skin flushed and dampened, her hips rocking against me.
I had made a catastrophic miscalculation.
Holding the device had been cold, obedient, impersonal. I could maintain distance.
This was her, unmistakably her, alive and responding beneath my hand.
I looked up at her before I could prevent the error. For a moment the room narrowed to the curve of her throat as she swallowed, the small tremor that ran through her and the way her white teeth bit into her plump bottom lip as a long groan loosened from her lungs.
Her fingers slid over her neck, her breasts, then her thighs, restless and searching. She touched herself like she was trying to touch all of her at once.
This was a stronger reaction than I had calculated for. A stronger reaction than to the device.
She was responding to me.
My breath stalled for a fraction too long while I fought to recalibrate.
Her hand covered mine, pressing my thumb against her clit harder. She ground her pussy against my hand, forcing me to feel it, really feel the heat and swollen plumpness of her lips through my glove and the soaked material of her panties.
I was so shocked I did not move. Did not pull away.
She leaned toward me, her glassy eyes fixed on me. Not on the screen anymore. She’d disconnected from the screen.
“Bron,” she whispered, her voice rough with need.
My name. Not Deargán. Not Doctor.
The sound cut straight under my ribs.
Her palm pressed flat against my chest, her fingers curling over the edge of my collar as if she meant to pull me closer. As if she meant to pull me against her. Into her.
For one faltering moment, my lips parted, sucking in a breath. Something in my lower belly clenched.
Then Pie’s disapproving voice echoed in my mind.
You promised me.
Revulsion at my own weakness scorched my throat. I was supposed to be dismantling her, not kneeling between her thighs like a starving dog.
I tore myself backward as if her touch had burned me, knocking over my side table in the process. Her teacup and saucer smashed across the floor in a loud destructive mess.
She lurched forward, her hand grasping for me. She caught only air, her eyes widening in confusion.
I scrambled to my feet, brushing my coat down, trying to compose myself. Trying to recalibrate.
I couldn’t end the session now.
She was still suspended. Still drugged. Still mentally open. The protocol was incomplete.
Who knew what would happen if I sent her away in this state?
But the air was too thick, the tension of what I had almost let happen still bitter in the back of my throat.
No. I shouldn’t—couldn’t—continue. It was her that was too fractured. Her that couldn’t handle anymore.
I caught a whiff of her musky scent still clinging to my glove and something dangerous coiled inside of me.
My hands shook as I peeled the gloves off with a snap, the sharp sound making her flinch.
She looked up at me, cheeks flushed, brows pinned together in confusion.
I threw the gloves into the bin harder than necessary.
“Control yourself,” I snapped, and the command tasted like a lie because it wasn’t meant for her.
I crossed to the projector and shut it off with one hard motion. The room dimmed at once, the moving light dying on the wall.
Her breath shuddered. Her fingers clenched around the chair arms as if she could hold herself together by force. Her gaze followed me anyway, raw and pleading.
I turned my back on her.
“We’re done,” I said.
I didn’t look back.
Because if I did, I might not let her leave.