Page 118 of The Succubi's Choice

Of her own workplace torturing her.

Of her own workplace denying her this physical contact, of treating her as if she is the problem, as if her needs are harmful and shameful and that she’s unable to control it without them looming over her, pressing her down with restriction after restriction after restriction.

She closes her eyes against the sudden well of anger, not wanting it to spoil this moment or come anywhere near this tender touch.

But, as if her thinking about it summoned it, her arm throbs, the spark of pain echoing down the branches of her veins. “I think...I don’t...I think I have to,” she says, and the rawness of the lump in her throat surprises herself. “I don’t, I can’t go back, knowing that they want me gone.”

“Katya doesn’t want you gone,” he says, as if the one person would be in charge of the whole system, as if the one person could change the course of it. “Give me time, we’ll convince her to do it.”

She’s hit with a sudden, fierce fear, and he circles his arms around her in response to whatever non-verbal thing she gives off.

“You’ll be able to see her again, I promise,” he whispers, as if reaching into her psyche and pulling out the one thing she needs to hear. “You’ll be able to see her, and be with her, and work with her. It just might take time.”

“It just might take time,” she repeats, hollow, letting herself be held like this. “And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then I will get you someplace safe, and keep trying.” The computer beeps again. He sits up, still cradling her, and it’s selfish but she wants nothing else to happen.

It’s a natural instinct, for her, to not want things to change. Succubi rarely want things to change.

But they changed it for her, and her grasping at straws won’t bring it back to the way it was before.

She sits up and away, and feels the loss of the skin contact like a knife. “And you really think changing some programming will change how the Organization runs?”

“I think it’ll force them to change.” Idly, he stands, shedding the rumpled tuxedo shirt and disappearing into the other room, coming back shrugging into a t-shirt. “Send them running, giving anyone like you a chance to organize, to be better involved.” He pauses, as his eyes slide over to her, as if struck by her still being there. There’s a pause, before he starts breathing again, like she took him by surprise and took his breath away.

“So how’s the best way to do this?” She asks, lifting her chin, creating one long line of her body looking up at him.

His expression flickers down her body, before returning to her face, and he looks just the teeniest bit embarrassed. “You should probably get some clothes on for it, that would be too much of a distraction.”

* * *

After a brief internal struggle,she shrugs on her standard work uniform, finding comfort in the khakis and polo shirt.

He raises an eyebrow at her, and she shrugs. “If I’m going to make my way in there, this will help a little bit,” she says.

Idly, he grabs the stack of post-it notes and the sharpie, twirling it between his fingers. “I want to give you as much safety as possible,” he says, like he’s piecing it together. “But I don’t want you to set off all the alarms in the building when you get there.”

On the computer screen, she can see her name in the system, see the familiar program, and she stares at it. Hard.

“What’s the worst thing they have on me?” She asks.

“Someone keeps on re-entering information that you’re trying to foster a revolt,” he says, and his voice is almost light.

“Well, they’re not wrong anymore, are they?” She says right back, and they share a brief smile. “But really. In my whole...history.”

He looks back at the computer screen, but she can tell he’s not reading. “There’s an entire record on whether or not Gabriel is a threat,” he says. “They considered removing him from his graduate program.”

That’s...not the answer she expected, so she sits up. “What do you mean, removing him?”

“Getting him kicked out, or sent across country. Your...friendship with him was contested, in 2007 and again in 2015.”

Her blood runs cold, and he’s still looking at the computer screen and not at her.

“Why?” She whispers, tucking her hands underneath herself in something resembling jitters.

“Because they did that with every human who’s friends with people like us,” he says, and she can hear the weariness in his voice. “They interfere, they isolate, and they make us dependent on them for everything.”

“Delete it,” she blurts out, and he raises an eyebrow at her. “You can delete all mentions of him? And Jacqui?”

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