Isela yanked her arm back, ripping the needle out. It clattered against the linoleum, rolling to a stop near Huston's heavy combat boots. She stared at the puncture wound, a tiny bead of blood welling up.

She stood straight, her chin lifted, defying them to speak. She waited.

One second. Two seconds. Three.

"See?" she panted, adrenaline making her voice shrill. "It's clean. It's just Cefazolin. I'm not-"

Then, the hammer dropped.

It didn't start with pain. It started with sound. A rushing noise in her ears, like a jet engine starting up inside her skull. The room tilted violently to the left.

Then came the heat.

It wasn't a fever. It was an incinerator. It started in her chest and exploded outward, racing down her arteries like liquid fire.

Isela gasped, clutching at her throat. Her heart gave a massive, lurching thud against her ribs, then another, faster, harder. It was beating so fast it felt like a vibration rather than a rhythm.

"Well," Huston's voice sounded distorted, like he was speaking underwater. He grinned, a slow, predatory stretching of lips. "Looks like Doctor Church just executed herself."

It wasn't an antibiotic. It wasn't even a simple poison.

It was a stimulant. A massive, lethal dose of something designed to mimic a cardiac event.

Isela stumbled back, her hip hitting the metal windowsill. The pain was distant, irrelevant compared to the lava in her veins.

"Get the restraints," she heard Huston say. "She's going to be fun for the next hour before her heart explodes."

Fear, chemical and absolute, flooded her system. The drug was amplifying everything. Every nerve ending was screaming.

She saw the surgical tray on the floor. A scalpel had slid out of its sterile packaging.

Isela dropped to her knees. Not to beg, but to grab the blade.

A guard reached for her.

She slashed upward.

She didn't aim to kill. She aimed for space. The blade sliced through the fabric of the guard's uniform, drawing a thin line of red across his forearm. He yelled and jumped back.

The gap was there.

Isela launched herself through it.

She hit the door with her shoulder, bursting into the hallway.

The world was warping. The straight lines of the corridor were bending, breathing. The lights overhead were too bright, leaving trailing streaks of neon in her vision like comets.

Run. Her brain screamed the command. Run or die.

She sprinted.

Her legs felt light, too light, disconnected from the ground. She was moving faster than she ever had in her life, the stimulant overriding her fatigue, overriding her muscles' limits.

"Stop her!" Huston roared from behind.

Isela didn't look back. She turned a corner, her shoulder slamming into the wall, bouncing off. She needed to get up. Up was where the passengers were. Up was where there were witnesses. Cameras.

She reached the elevator bank. She jammed the button, but her finger slipped. She couldn't focus. The numbers on the display were dancing.

The stairs.

She threw her weight against the heavy fire door of the stairwell. It swung open, and she stumbled into the concrete echo chamber.

She started to climb.

One flight. Two flights.

Her heart was going to burst. She could feel it battering against her sternum, a trapped bird desperate to escape. Her breath came in ragged, scorching gasps. The air in the stairwell felt thick, like syrup.

Behind her, the heavy door slammed open again. Heavy boots clanged on the metal steps.

"Coming for you, Doctor!" Huston's voice echoed, bouncing off the walls, sounding like it was coming from everywhere at once.

Isela scrambled up the steps on her hands and knees. Her vision was tunneling. Red spots danced in the periphery, growing larger, consuming the light.

Level 8. Level 9.

The Penthouse Deck. The Collier Deck.

She reached the top landing. Her hand fumbled with the handle. It was locked? No, just heavy. She put her entire body weight into it and fell through.

Silence.

The noise of the ship-the engines, the ventilation, the ocean-vanished.

She was on a carpet so thick her knees sank into it. The air here was cool, conditioned to a perfect crispness. It smelled of cedar and rain.

Isela tried to stand, but her legs were jelly. The drug had burned through her reserves. The heat in her body was unbearable. She clawed at the collar of her scrub top, ripping a button.

She needed help. She needed ice.

She crawled forward. The hallway stretched out like an infinite tunnel, lined with dark mahogany doors that looked like coffins standing on end.

"Help," she croaked. The sound was a pathetic wheeze.

Footsteps behind her. The door she had just come through hissed open.

"There you are," Huston panted. "Nowhere left to run, bitch. This is a restricted deck. No cameras here."

Isela dragged herself another foot.

Ahead of her, at the very end of the hall, double doors opened.

Light spilled out. Golden, warm light.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still.

The figure didn't move to help. He just stood there, holding a glass of amber liquid, watching the scene unfolding in his hallway with the detachment of a god watching insects fight.

Isela reached out a trembling hand toward the shadow.

"Please," she whispered.

The darkness overtook her vision. The red spots merged into black. The last thing she felt was the plush carpet against her cheek, and the last thing she smelled, cutting through the haze of the drug and her own fear, was a sharp, chilling scent.

Orchids. Frozen orchids.

---

His head was splitting open.

It wasn't just a headache. It was the Collier Curse. Neuro-degenerative mania. It felt like someone had driven a railroad spike into his left temple and was slowly twisting it. The pain made the light from the hallway look jagged. It made the sound of his own breathing agonizing.

He had come to the door because of the noise. Scuffling. Shouting. On his private deck.

He looked down at the mess on his floor.

A woman in a white doctor's coat lay face down on his Persian runner. Her hair was a tangled mess of sweat and grime. One shoe was missing.

Behind her stood Huston Lyons, the pig from the Bilge, holding a stun baton.

"Mr. Collier," Huston stammered, his face pale. He lowered the baton, trying to hide it behind his leg. "I... apologies. We had a containment breach. This woman is dangerous."

Clinton didn't answer. The sound of Huston's voice was like sandpaper on raw nerves. He wanted to kill him just to stop the noise.

He looked down at the woman again. He raised his foot to step over her, to retreat into his suite and call security to have the trash taken out.

His pant leg brushed against her neck.

It happened in a microsecond.

A scent rose from her skin. Not perfume. Not sweat. Something biological. Something distinct.

A cool, ghostly scent of wild orchids.

Clinton froze.

He inhaled sharply. The scent hit his olfactory nerve and went straight to the limbic system.

The railroad spike in his head didn't vanish, but it was suddenly encased in ice. The screaming agony was muffled, pushed down beneath a heavy, suffocating blanket of cold silence. It wasn't a cure; it was a ceasefire. The red haze of mania receded just enough for him to think, to breathe without flinching.

He dropped to a crouch.

He ignored Huston. He reached out and grabbed the woman's hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. He leaned in, his nose inches from her skin, inhaling deeply.

There it was. The anchor. The silencer.

The woman moaned in her unconscious state. Her skin was burning hot against his hand. She shifted, her cheek pressing against his palm as if seeking the coldness of his skin.

The contact sent a jolt through Clinton that was better than heroin. Better than power.

"Mr. Collier?" Huston took a step forward. "She killed a Fed. She's high on something. I need to take her down to-"

Clinton stood up.

The movement was fluid, graceful, and terrifying.

He stepped between the woman and Huston. He looked at the foreman, really looked at him, with eyes that were now clear and sharp as diamonds.

"This is my deck," Clinton said. His voice was low, a velvet rumble that carried more threat than a scream. "Who authorized you to bring weapons up here?"

Huston blinked, sweat beading on his forehead. "Sir, it was an emergency pursuit. She's a murderer."

"Is she?" Clinton glanced down at the woman. Then he looked back at Huston. "She looks like a doctor who stumbled into the wrong place."

"She killed Agent Best!" Huston insisted, his courage bolstered by desperation. "Jairo Brady is going to want answers."

Clinton's eyes narrowed.

He moved.

He snatched the stun baton from Huston's hand before the man could even twitch. With a flick of his wrist, he reversed it and drove the handle into Huston's solar plexus.

Huston doubled over, wheezing, dropping to his knees.

Clinton tossed the baton down the hallway. It clattered loudly.

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his hand, as if touching Huston's weapon had soiled him.

"Get out," Clinton said softly.

"But Jairo-" Huston gasped.

"Tell Jairo to come talk to me himself," Clinton cut him off. "If he wants her, he asks me. If you step foot on this deck again without an invitation, I will have you thrown into the propellers."

Huston looked up, saw the death in Clinton's eyes, and scrambled backward. He grabbed his side, stumbled to his feet, and ran for the stairwell.

The heavy fire door slammed shut.

Clinton was alone.

He turned back to the woman.

He knelt again, sliding his arms under her. She was limp, dead weight, but burning up with fever. Her head lolled against his chest.

The orchid scent enveloped him. His mind felt sharper than it had in years. The mania, the rage, the noise-all gone.

He lifted her easily.

He carried her into the suite, kicking the heavy double doors shut behind him with his heel. The lock engaged with a decisive thud.

He walked past the living room, past the bar, straight to the master bedroom. He dropped her onto the black leather sofa at the foot of his bed.

She writhed, her hands clawing at her throat.

"Hot," she mumbled, her eyes squeezing shut. "Burning."

Clinton stood over her, watching. He saw the dilated pupils when her eyelids fluttered. He saw the tremors.

She had been dosed. Heavily.

He reached for the phone on the side table to call Dr. Guthrie. His hand hovered over the receiver.

If Guthrie came, he would treat her. He would neutralize the drugs.

But Clinton paused.

Was the scent... was the cure dependent on her current state? Was it the adrenaline? The drug interaction? If he cured her, would the scent fade? Would the pain return?

He couldn't risk it. Not yet.

He pulled his hand back from the phone.

He looked at the woman, suffering on his sofa, and felt nothing but a possessive curiosity.

"No," he whispered to the empty room. "I need to test the efficacy."

He walked over to the sofa and stared down at her. She was burning alive, her body fighting a chemical war. He needed to cool her down, but he also needed to keep her close.

"Let's see what you really are," he murmured, reaching down to grab her by the collar of her lab coat.

---

Clinton didn't call for a doctor. He didn't call security. He dragged her across the threshold of the bathroom. She was dead weight, her heels scraping tracks into the plush carpet, her body radiating a heat that he could feel through the fabric of her coat.

Clinton turned the tap.

Cold water thundered out. Not lukewarm. Ice cold. The ship's desalination plant kept the water at near-freezing temperatures for the therapeutic plunge pools.

He watched the water level rise for a moment, glancing back at Isela who was writhing on the marble floor, tearing at her clothes. The buttons of her lab coat had popped off, scattering across the floor like pearls. Underneath, she wore a silk blouse that was soaked through with sweat.

He hauled her to the edge of the tub.

"In," he ordered.

He didn't wait for her to comply. He shoved her.

Isela fell into the water with a splash that sent a wave over the marble rim.

The shock was instantaneous.

She screamed-a sharp, inhaled gasp as the freezing water hit her overheated skin. Her body arched violently, muscles seizing.

"Let me out!" she shrieked, thrashing. She tried to scramble up the slippery side of the tub.

Clinton rolled up his sleeves. He placed a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back down.

"Stay," he said. His voice was flat, clinical.

"It hurts!" Her teeth were chattering immediately, clashing together so hard he thought they might crack.

"The drug is cooking your internal organs," Clinton said, watching her struggle. "This stops you from having a stroke. Sit still."

She didn't listen. Panic and instinct drove her. She lunged at him, her wet hands grabbing at his shirt.

Clinton caught her wrists.

The water had soaked her blouse, making it translucent. It clung to her skin, revealing the frantic rise and fall of her chest.

But it was the smell.

The cold water seemed to act as a diffuser. The orchid scent exploded in the damp air, potent and heavy.

Clinton's pupils dilated. The relief in his brain deepened into euphoria. It was a physical high, a rush of dopamine that made his knees weak.

He leaned down. He couldn't help himself. The logic center of his brain was screaming to maintain distance, but his biology had taken the wheel.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling greedily, like a starving man finding bread.

Isela froze. The sensation of his hot breath against her freezing wet skin was confusing. Her brain, addled by the drugs and the shock, couldn't process threat versus comfort.

She stopped fighting. She slumped against the porcelain, shivering violently.

Clinton didn't pull back. He moved his lips against the pulse point of her throat. He could feel her heart hammering-too fast, dangerous, but alive.

He bit her.

It wasn't romance. It was a primal, predatory claim driven by the overwhelming chemical signal she was emitting. He tasted the salt on her skin, felt the pulse beneath his teeth, and for a second, he was nothing more than an addict taking a hit.

Isela let out a broken sob. "Please..."

The sound vibrated against his lips.

Clinton recoiled. He pulled back sharply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at her, then at his own reflection in the mirror. Disgust washed over him. He was Clinton Collier. He did not lose control. He did not feed like an animal.

But the headache was gone. Completely gone.

"You smell," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, his voice regaining its icy composure, "like silence."

He shifted his grip, pinning both her wrists against the cold tile wall behind her head with one hand.

With the other, he reached into the water.

He ripped the front of her blouse open. Buttons flew into the water.

Skin to skin.

He placed his palm flat against her sternum, right over her heart.

The heat transfer was electric. Her fever burned his palm; the ice water numbed his wrist. The contrast was exquisite.

Isela arched into his touch. Her body, betraying her mind, sought the warmth of his hand. She pressed herself against him.

Clinton groaned. The headache was a distant memory. The mania was replaced by a singular, laser-focused obsession.

He leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn't romantic. It was a consumption. He kissed her hard, bruising her lips, stealing her breath because he needed to breathe her in.

Isela responded. The drugs had stripped away her inhibitions, leaving only raw sensation. She kissed him back, her tongue meeting his, tasting the whiskey and the cold.

For a moment, in that freezing tub, there was only the sound of water and the desperate friction of bodies.

Then, Isela's head fell back. Her eyes rolled up.

The cold was doing its job. Her core temperature was dropping. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind exhaustion.

She went limp in his grasp.

Clinton broke the kiss. He held her up, keeping her head above the water.

He looked at her face, pale now, the unnatural flush gone.

He turned off the tap.

He pulled the drain plug.

He didn't take her out immediately. He sat on the edge of the tub, watching the water swirl away, taking the heat with it. He traced the red mark on her neck where his teeth had grazed.

He grabbed a thick white towel from the rack and threw it over her shivering form.

He stood up, looking at his reflection in the mirror. His shirt was soaked. His hair was messy. But his eyes... his eyes were calm.

"Good medicine," he whispered to his reflection.

---