The Devil You Know

by Kit Rocha

  Richter turned back to the screen. No, the frozen image wasn’t a miracle. It was the simple result of his incredible foresight. He’d embedded his spies everywhere. He’d earned this. “I’m not interested in Nina,” he said truthfully. “And, of course, I would never do anything to compromise your cover. Your position with Montgomery is extremely valuable to me.”

  “Fine.” The second data stick landed on Richter’s desk with a soft clatter. “Don’t cross me on this. I mean it.”

  “Of course not,” Richter lied. He would allow the man his bluster today. There was plenty of time later to give the leash another firm yank. The threat of his niece being swept up into a dangerous experimental program would be sufficient, even after Richter broke his promise.

  Which he would.

  The private elevator door whispered shut, carrying Taylor to the sublevel tunnel system, where he’d vanish back into the mass of foot traffic on the Hill. Richter couldn’t care less. He stepped closer to the monitor and swiped his hands across the screen, blowing up the image.

  Marjorie Chevalier stared back at him. Birgitte Skovgaard’s intractable, rebellious data courier. The fact that someone had smuggled her out of the TechCorps under his nose was proof that Birgitte’s rebellion still seethed through the halls of his empire like a poison. The names of every remaining traitor were locked behind those clever brown eyes.

  And she was smiling up at Gray like he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

  A touch just beneath his ear activated his comms. “Cara?”

  His data courier’s voice came immediately. “Sir?”

  “You can finish cataloging security footage later. I need you up here.”

  “On my way.”

  He disengaged his comms and went back to staring at the gift in front of him.

  Life was presenting Richter with a second chance. This time, he wouldn’t move recklessly. He’d be deliberate. Once he had Marjorie Chevalier in his grasp again, he wouldn’t stop until he’d peeled every last secret from her precocious brain.

  Then the Board could cross him at their peril.

  November 13th, 2078

  Marjorie is a ghost.

  Four months of dissociation training has changed her. She no longer laughs. She rarely smiles. She’s stopped studying, stopped learning, stopped feeling. Her gaze barely focuses. She listens, remembers, and repeats. The perfect data courier.

  I hate what they’ve done to her. I hate myself for allowing it.

  Never again.

  The Recovered Journal of Birgitte Skovgaard

  TWENTY

  Gray hovered outside Maya’s bedroom door, turning the worn hardcover book over and over in his hands. He wasn’t exactly invited—hell, Maya might not even be home—but he hadn’t seen her since breakfast, and he’d made her a promise.

  He’d spent the day being poked and prodded and scanned by Mace, who’d taken his vow to study Gray’s condition as seriously as he took everything. It left Gray with a feeling that wasn’t quite hope but was far more comfortable than the fear that had ridden him the past couple of days. Peace, maybe. An understanding of his fate, if not an acceptance of it.

  For now, that was good enough.

  Finally, he rapped on the door.

  It opened after only a few seconds. Maya stood on the other side, in tiny cotton shorts and a tank top with one strap drooping down her shoulder. She blinked, clearly surprised to see him, but before he could speak, her gaze dropped to the book. A sudden, brilliant smile lit her face. “Did you come to read to me?”

  “I figured a promise is a promise. The Call of the Wild.” He held up the battered book. “I found it in your library.”

  She stepped aside, pulling the door wider in silent invitation.

  He’d been in her room before, but he’d never really looked at it. It had just seemed to fit her, possessing a sense of rightness that hadn’t merited further consideration.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, meticulously hung, arrow-straight and evenly spaced. But that was where the regimented order ended. Those shelves overflowed with items—books and little boxes, mementos and folded paper figurines. The rest of the wall space was covered with posters and other hangings, as brightly colored as the lamps with their stained-glass shades.

  A large desk sat against the far wall, covered with tablets and components and other bits of tech. And beside it …

  The bed, made but a little rumpled, as if she’d been lying on top of the covers. Gray gestured to it, stifling the urge to clear his throat. “Can I sit?”

  “Sure.” Maya slid onto the head, her legs crossed and her back resting against the wall. She dragged one of the colorful pillows into her lap and smiled shyly. “Sorry, it’s kind of a mess.”

  “It’s nice. I have a bunk, with all my stuff in a trunk at the foot of it.”

  “Really?” She hugged the pillow to her chest and studied him. “Because y’all are still working on stuff over there? Or is that how you like it?”

  “Yes, and kind of?” He shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Kids in the home would take anything that wasn’t nailed down. You learned fast not to get too attached to stuff. And then there’s the Protectorate—they’re not exactly known for their luxurious accommodations.” He shrugged again. “It’s a habit, I guess.”

  Maya reached out to touch his hand, her fingers soft. “You’ve never really had a space of your own, have you?”

  “Bouncing from an orphanage to basic training doesn’t leave a lot of room for it.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  Her pity hurt—not because he couldn’t take it, but because he hadn’t come here to drag her down.

  So he lifted the book. “Shall we?”

  They stretched out on her bed, Gray with his back propped against the headboard and Maya curled up by his side.

  “Is this okay?” she asked softly.

  “Yeah.” But words weren’t enough, not for this, so he pulled her closer, until she was nestled against him, her body flush against his side. “Better?”

  Her eyes gleamed with an affection that tightened his chest and the rest of him, all at the same time. “Better.”

  He cleared his throat, opened the book to the first page, and began to read. “‘Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal…’”

  Maya made a soft noise of contentment and practically melted into him. He smiled through the next few paragraphs and shook his head a little. He knew she liked his voice, but he hadn’t realized how affected she was by it.

  He’d have to read to her more often.

  By the time he finished the first chapter and prepared to move on to the next, Maya had practically molded herself to him, her heat warming him even through their clothes. His voice grew huskier, then flat-out hoarse, and he had to keep clearing his throat.

  All the while, Maya’s face tilted more toward his, up and up until her parted lips presented an unmistakable invitation.

  “Maya,” he groaned.

  She lifted her hands to frame his face. “Gray.”

  He covered her hands with his, intending to pull them away from his face, but somehow, they just sat there like that. “Maya, we need to talk.”

  Her gaze didn’t waver. “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  She wet her lips. “I know people, Gray. People who owe me favors. I can reach out…”

  His stomach twisted. “No. If that’s what you’re telling yourself, we can’t do this. I need to know that you get it, Maya. That you understand my situation.”

  Her brown eyes seemed huge, her expression on the knife-edge between hope and hurt. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Mace. Does he … What does he think?”

  He wished he had better words to give her, but this was
the truth. His truth. Theirs. “I’m dying. He can give me more time, but that’s it. I’m sorry, but … he can’t fix me.”

  She was silent for a long time, her hands still beneath his. Her gaze roamed his face, before her eyes locked with his again. “What do you want for the time you have left?”

  He wanted her—and if he said as much, she would fall recklessly into his arms. And it didn’t seem right to want anything, anyone, not when he’d be gone so soon. He felt like a thief, snatching at things that weren’t destined for his grasp.

  And the fact that it was Maya only made it worse. She wouldn’t take the pain along with the sweetness, knowing that, one day, the pain would fade and leave behind some beautiful memories. She’d remember all of it, every whispered word. He’d be gone, but he’d be haunting her just the same.

  He pulled her hand to his mouth, kissed her palm. “I need you to say it. Say that you understand.”

  “You’re dying.” Her voice wavered. “It doesn’t matter. If you told me tonight was all we could ever have, I’d still want it. You don’t have to promise me forever to be worth it. You’re worth it because you’re you.”

  Because you’re you. The words made a giddy warmth bloom in his chest. Maybe he didn’t have to promise her the future, a life he didn’t have in his power to give. But this—one stolen moment followed by another, perfect snapshots of peace where they hadn’t expected to find any. This could be enough.

  He could be enough.

  It was the most natural thing in the world, pulling her closer. Stroking her cheek. Pressing his lips to hers.

  Falling into her.

  * * *

  Maya thought she was prepared for Gray’s kiss.

  It wasn’t as if it was the first time. She’d kissed him before, up on the roof. She should have been prepared for the rush of sensation, the giddy overwhelming intensity of it.

  But it wasn’t less intense with repetition. It was more.

  Her mind latched on to every individual detail, savoring it. Exploring it. Wallowing in it. The way he threaded his fingers through her braids to cup the back of her skull, the firm heat of his mouth, how hard her heart pounded when he tilted his head and teased her lower lip with his tongue. And oh, the sound he made—all low and deep, a hum of satisfaction as she tangled her fingers in his hair and parted her lips for him.

  “It feels like we’ve been waiting for this forever,” he whispered.

  Oh, that voice. Liquid gold with a smoky rasp she could feel to her toes. She let her head fall back and shivered as his lips grazed her jaw. “Your voice.”

  “You like it?” He spoke the words against her throat, chasing tingles through her whole body.

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever heard that I’m glad I’ll remember forever.”

  His hands settled on her hips, and he lifted his head. “Then I’ll use it as much as I can.”

  He kissed her again, his tongue sliding between her lips as his hands moved up and beneath the hem of her tank top. The soft brush of his fingertips up her spine drove a moan from her, a helpless sound lost to his mouth.

  Maya tightened her grip on his hair, unsure if she wanted to drag him away or pull him closer. If the barest touch felt this intense, she wasn’t sure she’d survive actual fucking. She’d never tried before like this—all of her hard-won TechCorps training abandoned, her rigid grip on her other senses eased.

  What a damn waste that had been.

  When she dragged his head back, it was only so she could kiss his jaw. His cheek. His throat. She parted her lips and savored the salty taste of his skin. Inhaled and wrapped herself in his scent—aftershave this time, she thought, and that hint of pine from when he’d helped with the dishes after dinner.

  His hand splayed wide between her shoulder blades, and she arched back into his touch, shuddering. “More.”

  He growled softly.

  The sound of it rumbled through her. Need pulsed, bright and hot. Arousal made her ache, already so sharp she wanted to crawl into his lap and rock her way to bliss. She dragged his mouth to her throat, gasping as he pressed his teeth against her skin.

  But only for a moment. Then pressure eased, only to be replaced by a sharp nip and a not-quite-apologetic hum as he soothed the ravaged spot with his tongue.

  Oh God, she was going to fly apart. She’d explode into stardust, but nothing in the world could make her stop feeling every moment of this. She wanted the memory imprinted on her atoms.

  She pulled at his hair again, gasping out her command. “More.”

  He tugged at her shirt, pausing long enough to rasp, “Can I?”

  “Yes.” Except she had to release him long enough to hold up her arms, but it was worth it when he tossed the fabric aside and touched her again.

  His fingertips glided up her ribs, stopping just shy of her breasts. “What do you want, sweetheart? Something slow and endless? Or quick and hot?”

  “Endless,” she gasped, anticipation a buzz beneath her skin. “Endless and hot. I want to feel you everywhere.”

  “So hard to please,” he teased as he released her again. He caught her gaze and held it as he dropped his hands to the buttons on his shirt and pulled them free, one by one.

  She held her breath as he shrugged out of the shirt. She’d seen him in T-shirts that hugged him like a lover, and even shirtless once or twice, but nothing compared to the slow, deliberate baring of skin as he smiled at her in smug confidence.

  He was perfect. Of course he was, he’d never had any other option. Nothing marred his skin, no lingering sign of the hundreds of battles he’d fought. The TechCorps would have put him back together again after any injury—not out of any particular concern for him, but because they always took good care of useful tools.

  She finally found a single scar on his arm, pale with age, probably from before he’d joined up. She touched it, shocked at the heat of his skin, and let her fingers drift up his arm. “I’m not trying to control this,” she told him, tracing a fingertip along his collarbone. “I trust you. Even if it gets intense, even if it gets overwhelming. I trust you.”

  “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, then gathered her to his chest, skin to skin, and kissed her again.

  Her knees slid to either side of his thighs as her head spun. The rough fabric of his jeans rasped over her skin. Her pajama shorts were flimsy, and they might as well have not been there when she rocked her hips against his. She moaned into his mouth as pleasure unspooled low in her belly.

  He took over the movement, one arm around her to hold her close and the other at her hip. Unbidden, the music from Convergence whispered through her head, the low bass throbbing through her. She matched the beat, moaning as the movement pressed her bare breasts to his chest. Her nipples were tight and aching; the abrasion from the hair on his chest soothed her and wound her tighter at the same time.

  So fast. Too fast. She dragged her lips from his and panted against his cheek, her whole body shaking. “Is it supposed to feel this good?”

  “Yes.”

  She shivered again. His fingers tightened on her hip, guiding her to grind down against his denim-encased erection. Another of those noises escaped him—low, rumbling, almost a growl—and this time she felt the vibrations against her chest.

  Her nails pricked his shoulders. She clung to him, her head falling back, her body on fire. He licked a fiery path up her bared throat, then closed his teeth on her jaw and whispered her name.

  Maya choked on a desperate noise. The need inside her twisted tight, and the rhythm of her hips faltered as her focus shattered. The moan of loss had barely escaped her when Gray’s fingers splayed wide on the small of her back, guiding her against him so right, so perfect—

  “Take it,” he murmured.

  She did. All of it. She chased pleasure until it broke over her, and she wallowed in it. Sweaty and messy and glorious, tingling all the way to her toes. It had never been like this before because she’d never been like this before—
open to the world, hungry to feel, ready to imprint every second of this on her soul.

  Release burned through her like wildfire as Gray rasped encouragement against her ear and stroked her skin. When it was over she slumped against him, lips parted against his shoulder, panting for breath. Her head swam and the world spun around her in lazy Technicolor, but nothing hurt. Nothing could.

  The crash might be coming, but oh. She wanted to see how high she could go first.

  Lifting her head, drunk on sensation, she met his oh-so-smug gaze. “More.”

  “Careful what you ask for.” He laid her back on the bed and stripped away her cotton shorts and her underwear at the same time, leaving her completely naked before him. “You might get it. And then what?”

  Distantly, she thought she should be self-conscious. It wasn’t like she’d gotten naked in front of very many people. But she loved the way he looked at her, hungry and barely restrained, as if that formidable self-control was the only thing keeping him in check. He was breathing hard too, his gaze drifting down her curves before sliding back up to lock on hers.

  “I’m done being careful.” She reached out to him, an entreaty. A demand. “Now.”

  Gray stretched out beside her, catching both of her hands in his. He guided them to the bed above her head and held them there as his gaze met hers once again. “Okay?”

  She curled her fingers around his hand, grounding herself in the steady touch. Maybe he could keep her from floating away on the fresh wave of anticipation sparked by the heat of his body all along hers. “I trust you.”

  “I know.” He trailed his free hand from her jaw down between her breasts, his fingertips barely grazing her skin. “So open.”

  The approving whisper tickled her ear and sounded utterly filthy. She arched her body into his touch, eager for it, but his fingers stayed tauntingly gentle. Twisting didn’t help, either; he just chuckled against her ear as his knuckles grazed the side of her breast, her collarbone, the soft, sensitive skin over her ribs—anywhere but where she needed him.