“When are you coming home?” he asks.
I wouldn’t be human if that question didn’t give me a little thrill. “I am home.” I do have some pride.
“All right. Soon, then.” He cups my jaw, his hold firm. “Do you believe me when I tell you something?”
“Yes.” The word slips out before I can contemplate the answer. So far, he’s always given me the truth, even while issuing rules and administering punishments.
“Good.” His gaze rakes my nude body as I sit on the bed. “Your orgasms are mine, Alana. Get me?”
I force a smile. “Sure thing.”
His smile is both mocking and a warning. “Rule number four: If you make yourself come without permission, I’m going to bend you over and fuck your ass, after you beg for it. And baby, you will beg for it. You’re not ready for that.”
I lean back, shock rushing through me.
He pauses. “I’d never hurt you, and I promise I’ll make sure you want it someday. But you won’t like it this early—especially afterward when you have time to think. Don’t make me prove it to you.” He holds my attention until I instinctively nod.
With a hard kiss to my lips, he turns and slips out of the bedroom. All of the tension dissipates.
Well, crap.
THIRTY
Thorn
My mind still on Alana and the wisp of honey remaining on my tongue, I sit in the back offices of Harvard Lewis & Sons, Inc. There’s no Harvard Lewis and there are no sons, but it’s a good enough front, and with a sign like that on the street, nobody ever comes in. There’s no hint as to the type of business this might be in the lower end of Silicon Valley, and if someone looks inside the wide windows, all they see is a quiet reception area with an often-vacant reception desk. The real action is behind the wide wall, and it’s a sparkling and mercilessly clean series of trauma rooms, as well as an examination room or two.
I lounge on a black leather chair, my head back as I try and fail to warm my feet. Doc has them in stupid boot warmers, and if I had my gun, I’d shoot him.
“Stop thinking about shooting me,” he mutters, reading a tablet across the room.
I glare at him. He’s not fazed. I guess when you hit around eighty years old and have operated on everything from wounded soldiers to the neighbor’s cow, not much upsets you.
He flicks through the tablet. “I have your X-rays here, and they don’t tell me everything I need.” He turns it around so I can almost see. “As you can tell, the organs that have begun freezing appear slightly brighter because their density has increased. The edges of your kidneys look like shit.”
I scrub both hands down my face. His words taste like over-salted popcorn and I guess that makes sense because Doc is as salty as they get.
“In addition,” he says, “the margins of your liver, kidneys, and even your heart are more distinct on these X-rays.”
I just look at him because I have no idea what he’s talking about.
He sighs. “Normal soft tissues like organs have slightly blurred or feathered margins on X-rays, but if you’re freezing from the inside out, everything gets sharper.”
I guess that makes sense. “Anything else?”
“It looks like your rib cage is widening. That would make sense if your organs are starting to freeze.”
“I’m glad it makes sense to you,” I say.
He just stares at me. Despite his age, he still has a thick head of wiry whitish-gray hair and the bushiest eyebrows I’ve ever seen. His eyes are a faded blue and his body is in surprisingly good shape. “I’d like to perform a thermography on you, but I have to go borrow a machine or two.”
“Tell the boys what you need and I’ll make sure you get it,” I say.
“Good. I also want an ultrasound and an MRI machine.”
I look around. “We don’t have room for an MRI machine.”
“You’re right,” he says brightly. “If I arrange it, will you go to the hospital and get an MRI?”
No equipment the current medical establishment has is going to help me. “No,” I say shortly.
“Why not? I want to see the pictures,” he complains. He’s wearing his usual white overcoat over gray slacks, a green shirt, and a perfectly knotted silk tie. Since he’s our main doctor, he doesn’t have regular hours, but somehow always shows up looking like the perfect country physician.
“What does an MRI matter?” I ask. “It doesn’t change anything. We know what’s happening.”
One of those caterpillar-like eyebrows rises. “We have no idea what’s happening. Yeah, we know you’re freezing, but this is unprecedented, Thorn.”
“I’m aware of that, but seeing my organs crystalize in real time just because you’re interested isn’t worth my going to the hospital. The last thing I need is for anybody to find out about this. Besides, are you still licensed to practice medicine?”
He’s been our back office trauma surgeon for as long as I can remember. If anybody in my organization gets shot and doesn’t need immediate hospitalization, we bring him to Doc. He’s the best.
“Of course, I’m still licensed. Otherwise, how would I sign prescriptions for everybody?”
“Good point,” I say.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out, seeing a 911 from Justice. I dial. “What’s going on?”
“We’re under attack,” he says tersely, the sound of alarms beeping over the line.
