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.

---

Isela groaned and tried to roll over, but her body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Every muscle ached. Her throat felt raw, like she had swallowed sandpaper.

She forced her eyes open.

She wasn't in the brig. She wasn't in the morgue.

She was in a bed the size of a small island. The sheets were black silk, cool and slippery against her skin.

Memory returned in jagged shards. The needle. The fire in her veins. The cold water. The man.

The man.

Isela sat up sharply. The room spun.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a men's dress shirt. Black silk, matching the sheets. It was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the dark bruise on her arm where the needle had jammed during the struggle.

She touched her neck. It was tender.

She scrambled out of bed. Her legs wobbled, but they held.

"Hello?" she called out.

Silence.

She was in a suite that screamed power. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the ocean, but the heavy velvet curtains were drawn, letting in only slivers of brutal daylight.

She needed to leave. Now.

She ran to the closet. It was a walk-in, larger than her cabin. Rows of bespoke suits. No women's clothes.

She found a pair of drawstring sweatpants on a shelf and pulled them on under the shirt. They were too long, bunching at her ankles.

She didn't care. She ran barefoot to the heavy double doors.

She grabbed the handle, expecting it to be locked. To her shock, it turned. The heavy door swung open.

She hesitated. Why wasn't she locked in? She looked up at the ceiling. A small, dark dome of a camera blinked red in the corner. He wasn't keeping her in with locks; he was keeping her in with surveillance. He was watching. He was letting her run.

"Fine," she whispered. "Watch me leave."

Isela sprinted for the elevator. She pressed the button for the Crew Deck. She needed to get to the comms room. She needed to call the embassy.

The elevator descended smoothly.

There was a TV screen embedded in the mirror wall of the elevator car. It was playing the ship's internal news channel.

Isela froze.

Her face was on the screen.

It was her ID photo from the hospital credentials. Beneath it, in bold red letters: WANTED FOR MURDER: DR. ISELA CHURCH.

The news anchor's voice was smooth, professional, and damning.

"...suspected of administering a lethal dose of a controlled substance to a foreign dignitary. Dr. Church is considered armed and dangerous. The ship's management has authorized a total debt forgiveness bounty. Anyone providing information leading to her capture will have their entire gambling debt erased, plus a cash reward of five million dollars."

Isela slumped against the elevator wall.

Five million dollars. And debt forgiveness. On a ship full of desperate gamblers, ruined souls, and debt-ridden staff, that wasn't a bounty. It was a declaration of war. Every single person on this ship would hunt her down for a clean slate.

The elevator chimed. Deck C. The Bilge.

The doors opened.

Two cleaning staff were standing there with a cart. They looked up.

Isela tried to turn, to hide her face, but it was too late.

The taller one, a man with a scar on his lip, widened his eyes. He looked at the screen in the elevator, then back at her.

Greed, instant and ugly, transformed his face.

He reached for the radio on his belt.

"Don't," Isela whispered.

"Security!" the man shouted into the radio. "Deck C elevator! I got her! I got the doctor!"

Isela shoved past them. She knocked the cleaning cart over to create an obstacle and ran.

"Hey!" the man yelled, chasing after her.

The alarm started to blare. A low, whooping siren that vibrated in her teeth.

Isela ran through the labyrinth of the service corridors. The air here was hot, smelling of diesel and grease.

She turned a corner and skidded to a halt.

Two men in black tactical gear stood at the end of the hall. They weren't ship security. They held submachine guns.

She spun around.

The cleaning staff and three more security guards blocked the other end.

She was trapped.

Isela backed up until her spine hit a steam pipe. She looked left, right. No doors. No vents.

The men in black gear advanced slowly. They didn't look like they wanted the reward. They looked like they wanted to erase a problem.

"Dr. Church," one of them said. His accent was thick. H-Nation intelligence. "Please. Do not make us damage the merchandise."

---