Shards of Hope (Page 42)
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Lurching from the bed on that thought, she used all her strength to shove away the insane part of her psyche and slammed the door shut on it. The psychic lock wouldn’t last. The stunted, enraged creature would emerge again, sly and slippery and vicious. It always did, always would—because it was an indelible part of Zaira, its black tendrils entwined around the core of her soul, a malignant tumor no operation could remove.
Her eye fell on the clock by the bed. Six thirty a.m.
Morning, and the rain continued to lash the window, the tree leaves in her line of sight twisted back in the wind that pummeled the aerie.
More time alone with Aden.
It was a secretive thought born in the possessiveness that might one day end him.
Her heart pulsing with the same wild beat as the storm, she stripped and showered under an ice-cold spray to remind her body and her mind of the discipline necessary to ensure she stayed sane. Any fracture could turn her once again into that girl who’d smashed her parents’ brains to pulp with her telepathic abilities, then beat their weakened bodies to death with a piece of pipe she’d found on one of her excursions outside; the creature had hidden it inside her hole in a rare moment when no one was watching.
It was the latter that had led PsyMed to label her a deadly risk.
A child striking out in a moment of physical danger is understandable. However, a child who shows this level of premeditation at such a young age is a candidate for rehabilitation.
Zaira didn’t often think about the time she’d spent strapped down in the PsyMed center as they dug around in her brain. When she did, she wanted to ask the psychiatrists and medics what exactly they thought a seven-year-old girl should’ve done against much larger and older opponents.
She’d known her parents were going to beat her. That was a given. She’d known they were going to try to break her so they could enslave her abilities. That, too, was a given. She’d also known that if she struck out in an attempt to protect herself, they’d just hurt her more. They’d trapped her in their shields so her screams didn’t hit the outside world, and her small hands and body couldn’t do any real damage.
She knew because she’d tried. So many times.
The only rational, reasonable thing to do had been to plan it. She had to make her parents incapable of keeping her in their shields, incapable of ever again hurting her. That was why she’d discarded all possible weapons she’d come across—planks of wood, a brick, even a small sheet of metal—until she’d found a piece of pipe she could swing, but that had enough heft to it to stun at least. That was why she’d put her chair by the door; so she’d have the height to swing from behind as soon as a parent entered.
It was also why she’d cunningly built shields beneath her public mind. Her parents thought they saw everything she thought and felt, but they had no idea about the angry and twisted part of her that had lots of secrets. Including the capacity to plan and carry out a murder.
The only problem, of course, had been the fact that she had two targets, both with powerful shields even a Gradient 9.8 telepathic child couldn’t simultaneously destroy. So she’d had to wait for a day when she was certain they’d arrive one after the other, giving her just enough time to debilitate one and get the other before the second person realized what was happening.
In the interim, she’d taken beating after beating, her body bruised black-and-blue. And each morning, she’d pressed her ear to the door and listened, until the day she heard her mother become delayed by a conversation with an older child, while her father continued on to Zaira’s cage.
That murderous patience had saved her life and turned her into a menace in the eyes of PsyMed. If not for the squad stepping in to claim her for their own, she’d be a drooling vegetable by now, suitable only for menial tasks.
The child shows tendencies toward criminal psychopathy.
Switching off the shower as the words from the PsyMed report continued to scroll in her mind, that report having become available to her once she was no longer a minor, she shook her head. “I am not a psychopath.” Insane in a way that meant she could never lower her guard, but not an individual devoid of conscience or empathy. “I am not a psychopath.”
She didn’t realize how loudly she’d spoken until Aden’s voice came through the door. “No, you’re not.”
Another breach in her discipline, those words spilling from her lips. “I need fresh clothes.” That, too, was a mistake. She’d been so off center that she’d forgotten to prepare. “I can wear the pants again.” A few wrinkles were nothing when the fabric was strong and warm.
“I’m leaving a change by the door. Finn came by a few minutes ago with a T-shirt that should be a closer fit—he borrowed it from a pack member who’s willing to share more if the size suits.”
Picking them up, she got into clean panties and the same bandeau as the night before, then pulled on the cargo pants. Over that, she tugged on the white T-shirt Aden had left. It fit much, much better than the T-shirt in which she’d slept, but only once it was on did she realize it had a sparkly pink pony on the front. She stepped out of the bathroom. “Are they trying to subtly insult me?”
Aden followed her pointing fingers to the pony that pranced over her breasts, a flicker in his eyes she couldn’t quite read. “It appears the only person in RainFire with a build close to yours likes color and sparkle,” he said. “The secondary option is for you to wear the larger clothes, but I thought you’d prefer a pony over having your movements hampered.”
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