Shadows crowded into the far corners of the office, thick and intentional, spilling toward the center of the room like ink on a pristine page. The transition from the lobby's marble to this inner sanctum was marked by the shift underfoot; the cold gave way to elegant, hand scraped parquet that gleamed with deep honeyed luster. Scattered across the wood were rugs so intricate and lush they were likely worth every penny of my student loans and my projected grad school tuition combined. Oil paintings of visceral hunting scenes, hounds mid leap and stags cornered in the brush hung in heavy gold frames against the dark paneled walls. Above me, the ceiling rose at least a dozen feet, intricately coffered and lost in the dim light.
No, this didn't seem like a biotech company at all. There was no hum of machinery, no scent of latex. This was the lair of an apex predator.
"Ah, Ms. McCann." The voice drifted from the shadows at the far end of the room. It was rich, low, and laced with a dark, private humor.
I stepped forward, the heat rising in my cheeks despite the chill in my bones. "Amanda," I corrected softly, offering my hand into the gloom. It was a reflex of my old life, a gesture of professional courtesy that he completely ignored. My hand hung in the air for a mortifying second before I pulled it back, tucking it into the sleeve of my oversized sweater.
"Yes, I know. Please, take a seat."
I could make out the silhouette of the man behind an enormous, gleaming desk of dark wood, but the lighting in the room seemed expertly designed to conceal his face while exposing mine. Two massive armless chairs crouched on lion's paw feet in the center of another thick rug. Cautiously, I took the one on the right, sitting on the very edge of the brocaded seat as if I were ready to bolt at any moment. A recessed light positioned directly above me shone into my eyes, pinning me like a specimen under a microscope. I squinted, trying to see beyond the glare, but I could only catch the impression of wide shoulders and dark hair.
"Mr. Dante... I'm sorry. I think there must have been some kind of mistake," I began, my voice trembling. "I was looking for a specialist. A medical facility."
"There has been no mistake." That voice again; warm and amber, like aged bourbon. It was effortlessly intimate while remaining entirely, chillingly polite.
I shivered slightly, a cold spike of adrenaline piercing through my fatigue. I found myself wishing the heavy doors to the reception room were still open, providing a sliver of the "normal" world.
"I have your medical record here, Ms. McCann," the man continued. Hands emerged from the shadows into the light of the desk : strong, masculine hands with long, blunt fingers. He flipped open the sleek laptop in front of him with a carelessly graceful gesture. In the sudden, upward glow of the screen, his features finally sharpened into focus.
I swallowed hard, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt wrong. His black hair was swept immaculately to the side, and his long, chiseled jaw and broad forehead were balanced by an elegant, slightly aquiline nose. His face seemed a little too symmetrical, almost artificially so, as if he had been painted into existence rather than born. He looked like he belonged to the oils on the walls, timeless, predatory, and beautiful.
I wished suddenly for the lush rug under my feet to swallow me whole. He didn't look like a doctor. He looked like the reason people stayed indoors after dark.
"T-cell prolymphocytic leukemia," he read, his voice devoid of the clinical pity I'd grown used to. "Terminal. Double digit weight. Projected expiration: five months. Is that correct?"
The cold summary hit me like a physical blow to the chest, knocking the remaining air from my lungs. I opened my mouth, but for a long moment, nothing came out. The sheer bluntness of his words stripped away the last of my denial. He raised his gaze to meet mine, and I felt the air leave the room. His eyes were an icy, piercing blue, and they seemed to look right through my skin, through my failing blood, and into the very core of me.
"Yes," I breathed, the word barely a ghost of a sound. "That's right. Dr. Robertson said... she said you could help me. That you were a chance."
"You must understand, Amanda, that help is a relative term," he said, his brow lowering into a stern, contemplative line. "And before we discuss the cure, you are first required to pass the initial tests. We do not offer hope to just anyone who walks off the street with a death sentence."