The world upended, and Tom’s back slammed the ground hard enough to drive the air out of him. He doubled over, desperate to breathe, but Blackburn pinned him, crushing him into the ground. Tom struggled for several frantic seconds, but there was an unbearable weight on his throat, heavy legs pinning his, and the hand he thrust up to jab at Blackburn’s eyes got captured and twisted around painfully.

“Stop this, Raines. Right now.”

Tom yanked their arms closer and sank his teeth into Blackburn’s hand. He took malicious pleasure in the pained cry, and punched the soft cartilage of Blackburn’s throat. Tom jerked to flip them both over, then tried to bolt to nullify the strength and weight advantage Blackburn had over him. He didn’t get far. Arms snared his midsection, and he was bowled over to the ground. Blackburn dug his knuckles into a pressure point on the back of Tom’s neck, and he yelled out in shock, the pain driving him down.

“That one’s not in your processor,” Blackburn remarked. “I know it isn’t, because I never installed it.” Then he delivered a short, ringing blow to the back of Tom’s neck.

Tom found himself on the ground, his head reeling. It came to him dully that he’d attacked a superior. And worse, he lost. His heart raged at Blackburn and he wished he’d hurt him more. In the corner of his vision, he saw Blackburn, seated on the ground, too, examining his hand and tiredly brushing off his uniform.

“I know what this is about,” he said at length.

“No, you don’t.” Tom tried to surge back up, but Blackburn reached out and knocked him back to the ground, almost casually.

“Of course I do. I’ve been waiting for this since the census device.”

“It’s not . . .” The census device. But even as the heated words ripped from his throat, Tom choked off. His hands clenched into fists, and he screwed his eyes shut, a terrible, lingering sense of humiliation twisting through him when he thought of all those things Blackburn had torn right out of his mind—all those things he knew about him and the way he’d started fraying over those two days, puking over himself—and he wanted to tear him apart, shred his skin, stamp his guts. . . .

He shook with fury, wishing to kill him, hurt him, make him pay, and even the satisfaction of holding his threat over Blackburn’s head, knowing the guy feared what Tom could do if he went to Vengerov, wasn’t enough to cool the hot rage inside him.

Tom tangled his fingers in his hair, because he was so angry he didn’t feel in control of himself. And he was painfully aware of Blackburn watching him fight to contain himself.