Page 18 of Fool Me Twice

He let his voice trail off while Cane deepened his breath.

“Pause when you can’t fit any more air into your lungs and hold it there,” Hart said, focusing on the pause in Cane’s inhale, a shiver rushing through him at how well Cane was following his instructions. No resistance, no snark. “Think of all the things your body is taking in. The good and the bad. It all goes in. And it’s up to you to filter. To pick and choose what stays. What you keep.”

He allowed the lack of breathing to continue for a few seconds longer, until he knew Cane’s brain would be going just slightly fuzzy around the edges. Just a tiny bit foggy.

“Keep those good things,” he said finally, when Cane’s skin took on a soft reddish hue and his chest began to tremble with exertion. “And then let your breath out slowly. Let it carry out all the bad things it took from around you.”

He followed Cane as he exhaled as slowly as he could.

“Let everything bad flow out of you,” Hart said as the rhythm of the music coming from the little speaker intensified, assisting in creating a heartbeat inside the room they were in. “Imagine it swirling around your head, like it’s trying to get away before you can spot it.”

He paused, letting the silence linger on the sound of drums and the scent of sandalwood. He let it fill the air, ring in their ears, block everything else happening around them. He let Cane sink into it.

“Now look into the mirror,” he said finally, and Cane’s eyes snapped open. He stared at himself intently, clutching the armrests of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

Those dark eyes looked focused and intent, exactly as they should, but there wasn’t the speck of surprise in them that Hart had grown to expect. Just concentration and an obvious question.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“If you have been cursed within my area of expertise, you should be seeing a cloud of energy around your head,” Hart said. “It can vary in color, but most often it’s dark and deep.”

“All I see is my head,” Cane said, and then the corner of his lips pulled up. “And you.”

His voice went deeper at the words, eyes boring into Hart’s through the mirror, and the primal drumming from the speaker made Hart’s skin crawl. He felt trapped. And seen.

Hart recoiled and walked away until the desk was between them again. He stopped the music and turned the diffuser off. He hoped the tremble in his hands wasn’t visible as he shoved his things into his bag.

“Are you leaving?” Cane asked, bracing his hands on the desk like he was ready to spring at him. “What does it mean?”

Hart zipped his bag up and lifted it onto his shoulder.

“It means if you are cursed, the curse isn’t one of mine,” Hart said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “I’ll call Fix in to run his own diagnostics. Have a nice day.”

“Wait…” Cane called but Hart was already at the door and standing next to Fix.

“Not mine,” he said when Fix looked up. “I’ll wait for you in the truck.”

“Hart…” Fix started, but Hart shook his head, power walking toward the hallway with only one thought on his mind—getting away.

“Tell him to open the door for me,” he said over his shoulder, rushing down the stairs and into the hallway they’d come in from, relief flooding him when he heard the metallic scrape of the entrance opening for him.

He rushed out, across the lot, and to Fix’s truck, placing his bag on the hood and leaning both hands against it. He dropped his head between his shoulders and breathed in, the scent of smoke lingering in the fabric of his clothes. He held the breath as long as he could, allowing the tension to crawl slowly away, letting his limbs unlock and unclench.

Relief was all he felt.

Safety in the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to spend any more time with Cane. He wouldn’t be rattling his world.

Fix could handle whatever was happening. He could help.

Hart was happy Cane would get the help he needed. He was just happier it didn’t have to come from him.

“It’s not mine either.”

Hart turned on his heel, finding Fix standing in front of him, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

“What?” he asked.

Fix shrugged. “Not mine.”

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