For a brief second, he had the same fight-or-flight response he’d had before, but a shining moment of clarity reminded him just how useless it had been last time, and he stopped, made a conscious effort to relax, and told himself to breathe. Slowly. In two, hold two, out two. He kept his eyes closed, because it was easier not to lose his shit if he couldn’t see—even though he could feel, with far too many nerve endings, how tied down he still was, and the fact that his arm had a needle in it. Sometime between the cage and the table his shirt had gone missing so they could affix heart monitor electrodes to his chest. But it would be worse, far worse, he knew, if he lost control again. That chain across his throat hadn’t been a joke. So. Slowly. In and out. The heart monitor gave him away, though. “Back with us, huh?” McFoucher’s voice. “Sorry about before.” Sure she was, and he was glad in a way that the cynical part of his brain still seemed functional. Her apology was belied by the fact that her tone was utterly clinical and her fingers not particularly gentle when she pulled down on his lower eyelid and shone a light on his face.
