Luckily, Inara and West save me from this conversation by setting plates of food on the small dining room table.
“Breakfast,” Inara calls before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Wren limps awkwardly until I offer her my arm. When we’re alone again, I’m taking better stock of her injuries. All I cared about last night was getting her into bed with me. I didn’t even think she might have needed food.
You’re shit at caring for people. Why would she ever want you?
But she seems to sense my thoughts—damn woman can tell what I’m thinking even when I can’t. As I help her into a chair, she squeezes my hand and offers me another weak smile.
“Hey! Are you assholes going to let me starve?” Semyon calls from the basement.
“Yes,” Inara and I answer in unison.
West shakes his head. “We need him. For now.” Raising his voice, he calls, “You eat when we say you eat. Now shut up and let the grown-ups talk.”
Another string of Russian cursing ensues, and Inara stalks over and slams the basement door. As she returns to the table, she meets Wren’s horrified gaze. “His hands and ankles are bound, but not uncomfortably. He’s sitting on a soft mattress, and there’s a little heater a few feet away. He’sfine. Lucky, even. Kolya probably would have killed him by now.”
Wren’s breath catches in her throat, but she nods and picks up a piece of bacon. In the light, the ligature marks around her wrist stand out dramatically against her pale skin. “How did you find him?”
I tell her the basics—Inara going to surveil the area, breaking into her laptop to access the cameras, seeing Semyon running from Kolya’s fortress a little after one in the morning.
“And my password?” Wren asks, a forkful of eggs halfway to her lips.
Downing a large gulp of coffee to give myself time to formulate my next words, I look to Inara for help. She’s the only one who knows my secret, and even she doesn’t understand everything I can do. But she just arches a brow.
“Ry has a memory like no one I’ve ever seen,” West says.
“My password is ten digits long.” Wren turns slightly in her seat, pinning me with her stare. Her eyes are mostly clear today, though bruises mar her delicate features, and every time I notice another scratch, another subtle swelling, I want to cause Kolya ten times the pain he caused her.
“One of the last books I read before I was captured…it taught me how to associate patterns and words and letters with memories. You ever heard of Sherlock Holmes and his mind palace?”
Wren nods.
“Kind of similar. If I have a couple of minutes to think about something I want to remember and pick a pattern…I can remember it for years. It’s how I escaped Hell.”
“I don’t understand.” Wren slips her small hand in mine. “How did a good memory help you get out of that place?”
“You never told me that story either, Ry.” Cupping his mug of coffee, West sits back in his chair. “We can’t do anything until sundown. Now’s as good a time as any.”
“Not here. After Wren eats.” Glancing at the door hiding Semyon, I jerk my head towards the living room. In truth, I don’t give a shit if he hears me. But Wren looks like she’s about to topple over, and I need a hell of a lot more of her touching me than just her fingers if I’m going to recount one of the worst experiences of my life.
But staring into the faces of my team, knowing there are only four people in the world I trust and three of them are in this room, I have to tell them. Because I think Wren’s right.
This is my family. And families don’t keep secrets.
* * *
With Wren tuckedagainst my side, I stare at the ceiling. Easier than trying to make eye contact. Despite how much I told her about Hell last night, there are some memories too awful to willingly dredge up. Except…I have to.
“Down there…we didn’t have any sense of direction. They’d designed Hell to be a maze. When I got out, I realized they’d painted dots and lines on the walls for identification. But every time they moved us, we were blindfolded. They’d take me from one cell, bring me to an interrogation room, beat the crap out of me, and then throw me in another cell. Or one of the holes.” The stench of fear and sweat and onions fills my nose, and I bury my face in Wren’s hair for a moment, try to remind myself I’m not back there.
“No pattern?” West asks.
“Whatever cell was the dirtiest at the time. The bloodiest. Or the emptiest.” Screams. Fear. Darkness. Wren rubs my leg, and I meet her gaze in silent thanks. “Even without any sort of routine, there are tricks you can use to help you remember long lists of things. I’m very good at them.”
“Like a mnemonic for memorizing the names of the planets?” Wren asks.
I stifle a chuckle. “Not exactly. Think about your neighborhood. Everything you see on your way to work. There’s a way to train your mind so that you associate a different number or fact with each lamp post. Each car parked on your street. It’s hard to explain, but I can teach you…if you want.”
