The Surgeon's Debt: Bound To The Beast

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.

---