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."

---

The H-Nation agent didn't tackle her. He swept her legs out from under her with a swift kick. Isela hit the metal grating hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a wheeze.

Before she could inhale, a knee was pressed into her lower back.

"Secure," the agent said into his headset.

Cold steel ratcheted around her wrists. Handcuffs. Tight.

"Hey! I saw her first!" the cleaning man yelled, waving his radio. "The reward is mine!"

The agent stood up, hauling Isela up by the handcuffs. Her shoulders screamed in protest. He looked at the cleaner and shoved him aside with one hand.

"This is state business. Get lost."

He didn't wait for a reply. He pulled a black hood from his belt and shoved it over Isela's head.

The world vanished into suffocating darkness.

"Walk," the agent commanded.

Isela stumbled. She couldn't see her feet. She scraped her toes on the bulkheads, banged her shoulder against doorframes. Every stumble was met with a rough jerk on the chains.

They walked for what felt like miles. Up stairs. Through noisy engine rooms. Then, the air changed.

The humidity dropped. The smell of diesel was replaced by the salty, fresh scent of the open ocean.

They were outside.

The hood was ripped off.

Isela blinked, tears streaming from her eyes as the harsh sunlight assaulted her.

She was on the forward helipad deck.

A helicopter was already spinning its rotors, the noise deafening.

But they didn't take her to the chopper immediately.

A table had been set up under a large white umbrella near the edge of the deck. A man sat there, dining.

He was cutting into a steak that was so rare, blood pooled on the white china.

Jairo Brady.

Isela recognized him instantly. The arms dealer. The man who owned half the politicians in the hemisphere. The man Clinton Collier did business with.

Jairo chewed slowly, then swallowed. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked at Isela.

"So," Jairo said, his voice carrying over the rotor wash. "This is the little hand that stopped my clock."

The agent shoved Isela forward. She fell to her knees on the non-slip deck surface.

"Target secured, Mr. Brady. Ready for transport to the black site."

Jairo stood up. He walked over to Isela. He was wearing a white linen suit that looked pristine against the grey backdrop of the ocean.

He used the toe of his Italian loafer to lift her chin.

"You cost me a lot of money, Doctor," Jairo said. "Agent Best had a code in his head. A code I needed. Now he's dead, and the code died with him."

"I didn't kill him," Isela shouted over the wind. "It was a setup! Mrs. Best-"

Jairo kicked her.

It was a casual, dismissive kick to the ribs, but it knocked the air out of her. Isela curled up on the deck, gasping.

"I don't care about your soap opera," Jairo spat. "You're going to come with us. And my surgeons are going to take you apart until we find out exactly what he told you before he died."

"He told me nothing!"

"We'll see." Jairo waved his hand. "Load her up."

Two agents grabbed her arms. They dragged her toward the helicopter. The downdraft whipped her hair into her face. Isela dug her heels in, but it was useless.

She looked around desperately. The deck was full of Jairo's men.

Then, the glass doors to the pool deck slid open.

The motion was smooth, silent.

Clinton Collier stepped out.

He was wearing a white casual suit, no tie, holding a rolled-up magazine. He looked like he was stepping out for a morning coffee, not walking into a kidnapping.

He paused, looking at the helicopter, then at Jairo.

The agents holding Isela hesitated. The presence of Clinton Collier had a gravity to it.

Clinton walked past Isela without looking at her. He went to Jairo's table, picked up the wine bottle, and inspected the label.

"Jairo," Clinton said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise. "You're landing military aircraft on my ship without filing a flight plan. That's rude."

Jairo stiffened. "This is a rendition, Clinton. It doesn't concern you. She killed a protected asset."

Clinton put the bottle down. He turned slowly.

His eyes landed on Isela.

He looked at her bruised face, the oversized men's shirt she was wearing-his shirt-and the handcuffs.

Isela stared back. She saw no pity in his eyes. Only a cold, calculating assessment.

"She's my employee," Clinton said.

"She's a murderer," Jairo countered, his hand hovering near the gun inside his jacket.

"She," Clinton said, taking a step toward Isela, "is on my manifest. And nobody leaves The Leviathan unless I say they leave."

---