Page 29 of Reclaimed

"That's why we have practical assessments after the theory portion," he continues, closing the distance between us before reaching out to cup my pussy. "You learn so much more with your hands."

I want to jerk away, to scream at him to back the fuck up, to do anything besides just standing here like the docile bimbo they want me to be.

"Watch closely, boys."

They do as they're told, their attention shifting from my face to Kelton's hand. My skin prickles beneath his touch, like the finger he drags along my seam is dipped in acid. I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek, biting harder and harder into the shredded skin until blood coats my tongue, focusing on the metallic taste instead of his finger pressing inside me.

After several unnecessary and invasive strokes, he withdraws his hand and pats my mound. "Much better, Asset."

Kelton whirls around to face his colleagues. "So, what'd we learn?"

"That their words may be reactionary, but their bodies tell the truth?" Platt asks.

"Very close," he replies, nodding in approval. "Obedience is a learned behavior. In heightened emotional states, Assets may resort to defiance as a means of provoking the touch they really want."

Not all men, but somehow always a man...

Kelton raises the finger that was just inside me to his nose, inhaling deeply before exhaling with a smile. "She's ripe and receptive. Why don't you each give it a try?"

Fucking sicko.

My jaw locks, chest heaving as Crawford adjusts himself and steps forward. His palm is clammy as it slides hesitantly between my legs, Platt bumping into the desk in his hurry to get around it for his own turn.

I stare up at the faceted tiles lining the ceiling and trace each sharp triangle, recessed lights blurring between them as my gaze flicks from one point to the next. Their voices grow distant, the sensation of their touches fading as I retreat into the pattern until my mind peels away from my body.

I wonder if Retrograde is still making music?

10

TALON

Slade sits behind a multitude of screens as I hand him a bottle of Angler's Ale and drop into one of the lounge chairs in his office. Taking a long, satisfying pull of my own beer, I watch his fingers fly across the keyboard.

After dropping Jersey's unconscious ass off at the Vanguard, the residual high I had from hunting her wouldn't let me sleep. I made some progress on my game campaign I'd abandoned earlier, but something about the whole assignment kept scraping at the back of my skull.

There were no public details about Commander Martin's default or death– just a vague announcement that a new Treasurer has yet to be appointed. Something about the whole thing feels off. The Registry loves making a public spectacle of consequences, but there are clearly pieces of this story they don't want told. The whole thing stinks of corruption. Eventually, I switched off my game, pulled out my laptop, and put my irritation to work trying to get into Jersey’s Registry file.

I managed to get past the first few weak-as-shit firewalls before giving up and crashing. Apparently, giving into the intrusive thoughts after being up for twenty-eight hours straight was the tipping point to finally knock me out. The script I wrote hit a phase of multi-layer encryption that I couldn't crack. Clearly, they outsourced that job to someone with actual brain cells, so I texted Slade. He was out on assignment, but his cocky ass was eager to fuck around with it, calling me as soon as he pulled into the garage.

"Lazy fucking coding," Slade mutters, shaking his head before taking a swig of his beer. "Using the same encryption key twice is just pathetic."

I huff out a laugh and sink back against the leather, propping one boot up to rest on my other knee. The same hungry focus I get during a good hunt is spread across Slade’s face as he mocks every flaw he continues to uncover, but I'm only half listening, my attention shifting to the blood crusted around one of the silver eyelets on my boot.

Being so close to breaking into The Registry's files but not actually managing it annoyed the piss out of me. I don't give a shit about having to ask Slade– I'm arrogant, not ignorant– but when I latch onto something, I get this itch. At first, it crawls beneath my skin. Then it festers, and unless I find something else to focus that energy on, I get reckless. So, I took an assignment. If I'm going to be reckless, might as well make it worthwhile.

It was a standard hit– the client was angling for a political spot, and some rich cuck was threatening to blackmail him. It's painfully ironic watching how these entitled pricks strut around with a false sense of power inflating their egos. In the end, their eyes look the same as anyone else's when I snuff out the lights and they’re nothing more than scraps of tissue on my boots.

I don't know why it matters if the rest of the world finds out how corrupt or fucked up any of them really are when their government does deplorable shit daily. Call it unprocessed trauma, deep-seated resentment, or just pure fucking joy, but watching his paranoia add zeros to his offer, then blowing some jackass’ skull apart and using every piece of his technology as target practice was cathartic as fuck.

"Fuck yeah!" Slade shouts as his palms slap against his desk in triumph. Unplugging my phone, he whips around and holds it out to me with a smug grin carved into his face. "Got you fully integrated with permanent ghost access that will feed you live updates."

The Registry's app is still open on my screen when I swipe my phone from his grip, and I immediately navigate to her file.

"Thanks Slade, I owe you more than just covering one night’s tab," he supplies for me, draining the rest of his beer and pushing to stand.

"Thanks," I deadpan as I glance up and cut him a glare. "I'll pay for whatever feral whore you can convince to be worn like a wrist watch, too."

"And that, ladies and gentleman, is a real fucking friend," he chuckles, slapping a hand against my shoulder before pointing to the empty bottle beside me. "Want another?"