Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(9)

The drawn curtains throw shadows across my spacious room when I finally emerge. It’s evening. I’ve spent the day watching death—and almost experiencing it. I didn’t see Titus again when the door to Daniel’s cell opened and they let me leave.

No one told me where Titus went and I didn’t ask. I still can’t believe he let me live. I wonder why, but I know better than to ask that either. My hands shake at the memory of how badly I’d wanted to hurt him, to kill him. It’s not a natural thought for an Imitation.

Protect. Obey. Sacrifice.

These are the words, the mantra, of my existence. I’m not sure if it’s Titus inspiring the desire to go against what I am or my own DNA deviating, but all I can think is how disappointed I am in my own ability to execute my utmost desire. It trumps even my wish for freedom. In this moment, I want nothing more than to watch the life bleed from Titus’s body. And I want it at my own hands.

I stare at my palms. Strength aside, I wonder if I’m capable of taking a life. A human life, one with a soul. And I wonder if that isn’t easier than taking the life of an Imitation. At least humans have souls that live on. What do I have after this? Where will I go? Back into a syringe? Will Titus recycle me? Or will I be lost forever down a lab drain?

Titus. The Creator.

An image comes to me, unbidden. An image I didn’t even register at the time, but now it makes me smile inwardly as it surfaces from my subconscious. My nails scraping down his cheek, leaving behind a trail of pink that turns quickly to a line of red, pooling before it runs toward his chin. Titus didn’t walk away from my attack unscathed. It is a small consolation, but for reasons I can’t explain, it makes me happier than walking away with my own life. I hurt the Creator.

If I did it once, I can do it again.

Power surges through me. Adrenaline fills my veins and pushes bravery into my heart. I set my jaw and march out of my room and into the hall. If Titus wanted me to stay in my room, he should’ve locked the door. Or killed me.

The house is quiet. Far down the hall I can hear dishes clanging as the cook washes up from a meal I didn’t bother to attend. I am not hungry when my stomach is so full of determination. I take the east hall, away from the mysterious office Titus likes to sit in and smoke his cigars. I don’t know if he’s home or not but I don’t care. I head for the security office on the other side of the apartment.

I turn a corner and slow my step when I see Linc walking toward me. My lips start to spread into a smile but falter when I see his expression, burning and dark as he stares at my neck. I stop short, unsure what to say. My physical injuries are the least of my own concern but they are the singular focus of his.

Before I can utter a word, he takes my wrist and pulls me through the library doorway. He keeps the light off and closes the door with a soft click, pushing me gently into the corner until my back brushes the wall. His hands are on my neck, gently stroking and weaving into my hair. His lips brush my cheek, my jaw, my ear.

“Are you all right?” His voice is quieter than a whisper.

I hesitate before answering, afraid this room is bugged. They almost always are. Time alone, time like this, is scarce. “Relax, we’ve got five minutes,” he says, assuaging my anxiety.

I snuggle closer. “I’m fine,” I assure him.

“He hurt you.” His lips stop their grazing along my skin only long enough for him to form the words at my ear.

I cling to Linc’s shirt and inhale his scent—wind and musk mixed with a hint of gasoline. To me, it smells like freedom. I know it’s foolish to feel so safe inside the circle of his arms, but I do. Even here, in a room bugged with voice recorders and video cameras, in a house full of men more than willing to kill us for a paycheck and a pat on the back. Being held by Linc is like coming home.

“I hurt him too,” I say, and I can feel his surprise and then his shoulders stiffen with worry.

He pulls away and, despite his assurances, does a quick sweep of the room. I watch him remove two devices, flip a switch too tiny to see, and put them back where he found them.

“Tell me,” he says, folding me into his arms once again.

In a low voice, I tell him what happened with Melanie and how I attacked Titus. I tell him how I drew blood and how he threw me into Daniel’s cell rather than kill me. His shoulders tense even more when I recount my visit with Daniel.

“Did he touch you?” Linc asks, and I know if I say yes, there will be absolutely no stopping him from going downstairs and committing murder. I don’t tell him about the kiss. Not yet. For the second time today, something in me is willing to spare Daniel. Instead I tell him about Daniel’s response to Melanie.

Linc nods, his cheek brushing against my hair. “I heard about it from some of the men. It was … I’m glad it’s over for her. She should never have given herself up.”

“We let her,” I say, swallowing the rest of my words along with the sob that wants to escape. I can’t do that here. Not now.

“It was her choice. She would’ve done it with or without us.”

“We were supposed to get her out,” I say in a desperate whisper.

Regret flashes across Linc’s features, creating lines around his mouth where there were none before. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way before … before it was too late.”