Unfortunately, her own memeories can be so easily triggered. Sensory memories, the slice of knives into skin unable to fight back, the deadly, warm lick of leather along back and legs...carving,, being carved like an expensive gem into pleasing shapes...

With a silent sob, she slammed her mental barriers down, like having a door slammed almost upon ones foot...those barriers. Doyle doesn't need to feel that, nor does Nathan...though in truth she had been shielding the child so much harder.

It takes time, minutes measured in heartbeats before a single, apologetic tendril brushes against Doyle's mind once more ::I'm sorry...I can't do much to help you unless I met her...:: she offered softly, the mental words leaving the taste of blood on the tongue.