"Been awhile since I bashed them up quite this much." He flexed his fingers. "Just scraped up though. Nothing's jammed."
"It would've been smarter to put gloves on."
"But not as cathartic, I'd think."
"Nope, there's nothing quite like beating something into pulp with your bare hands for relaxation." She shifted, straddled him. "We come from violent people. We've got that in us. The difference is we don't let it loose whenever we feel like it on whoever's handy. There's something in us that stops that, that makes us decent."
"Some of us are more decent than others."
"Answer me this. Have you ever hit a child?"
"Of course I haven't. Christ."
"Ever beat or raped a woman?"
He sat up so she was forced to wrap her legs around his waist. "I've thought about giving you a quick shot now and again." He balled his fist, tapped her chin gently with his bruised knuckles. "I know what you're saying, and you're right. We're not what they were. Whatever they did to us, they couldn't make us what they were."
"We made ourselves. Now, I guess, we make each other."
He smiled at her. "That was well said."
"They didn't give me a name." She let out a slow breath. "When I remembered that, back there, it hurt. It made me feel small and useless. But now I'm glad they didn't. They didn't put their label on me. And, Roarke, right now anyway I'm glad I came here. I'm glad I did this. But what I want to do is get the information to the locals and get out. I don't want to stay here longer than I have to. I want to go home tonight."
He leaned into her. "Then we'll go home."
* * *
They got back to New York early enough for her to be able to say she needed to go into Central and make it sound plausible. She didn't think Roarke bought it, but he let it slide.
Maybe he understood she needed the space, she needed the work. She needed the atmosphere that reminded her who and what she was at the core.
She bypassed Peabody's cube, slipped quietly into her office, and shut the door. Locked it, as she rarely did.
She sat at her desk and was absurdly comforted at the way the worn seat fit to the shape of her butt. A testament, she thought, to all the hours she'd sat there, doing the job—the thinking, paperwork, 'link-transmissions, data-formulating part of the job.
This was her place.
She got up and walked to the window. She knew just what she would see, which streets, which buildings, even the most usual pattern of traffic that formed at that time of the day.
The part of her that was still quaking, the part she'd used every ounce of will to hide from Roarke, calmed just a little more.
She was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do.
Whatever had come before, all the horrors, the fears, all funnelled into the now, didn't they? Who could say if she would be here without them. Maybe, somehow, she was more willing to live for the victim because she'd been one.
However it worked, she had a job to do. She turned, walked back to her desk, and got to work.
She asked for and was granted a quick meeting with Mira. Slipping out as quietly as she'd slipped in, she left her office for Mira's.
"I thought you might be gone for the day."
Mira gestured to one of her cozy scoop-backed chairs. "Shortly. Tea?"
"R
eally, this isn't going to take long." But Mira was already programming her AutoChef. Eve resigned herself to sipping the liquid flowers Mira was so fond of.
"You'd rather coffee," Mira said with her back turned. "But you'll indulge me, which I appreciate. You can always pump in the caffeine later."