by V M Black
He smiled, and my heart stuttered. “You would have begged me.”
I jumped when he released me just as the server set the next course in front of us. “Mascarpone stuffed date, with olive oil and sea salt.”
“Thank you,” I murmured hoarsely. I did not lift my eyes from my plate until I had eaten it clean, embroiled in my sudden confusion and acute, excruciating awareness of the man across the table from me.
He was right. I knew he was right. I would have begged him—begged him for everything. But I didn’t know why. What was wrong with me? Had I lost my mind?
I had to say something, to fill up the space between us with words, because what hung there now was too much for me to handle.
“Do you spend this much time with every patient?” I asked, pretending to busy myself with turning my wineglass and examining the glint of the wine in the candlelight.
“It depends on how far they make it through the process,” he said evenly. “You must understand that nine out of ten are eliminated at screening. And of those who pass, a considerable number still decline the procedure.”
I frowned at that, looking at my short fingernails rather than meeting that disconcerting gaze. “Are they all terminal? Like me?”
“Yes,” he said. “Given the risks of the procedure, imminent death is a prerequisite.”
I couldn’t help myself then. I looked up to find him regarding me steadily. “Then why refuse it?”
“It is a choice of the last resort, Ms. Shaw,” he said. “It comes with a ninety-nine percent chance of failure and death, as you noted so aptly last time we met. For many people, a certain death tomorrow is better than a near-certain death today.”
“I don’t think I’m going to die,” I said. I didn’t know where my conviction came from, but I was very sure.
“No one who makes this choice wants to die, Ms. Shaw. Yet most still do. I want you to understand the gravity of your decision. Once the procedure is begun, there is no stopping it. No turning back.” His voice was gentle, the warm honey of his tone making it almost soothing, even though the words he was delivering were blunt.
I shook my head. “Any chance is better than none.” I stopped. “The procedure itself—is it so terrible? Is it an operation? Radiation? Chemotherapy?”
Another plate was delivered, the old ones whisked away. I barely noticed the server’s explanation of the spanakopita.
“It is over in a matter of minutes,” Mr. Thorne said. He twirled a fork in his fingers, and it glinted in the flame of the candle. “Blood is collected, and simultaneously, you are given an injection. The substance consists of a blend of long-chain molecules which function in some ways like a hemotoxin.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I said. Toxin? That was probably the understatement of the year.
He set the fork down. “The hemotoxic effect is necessary to prepare the cells for a fundamental and irrevocable reordering the metabolism of every cell in the body. If your metabolism can change quickly enough in the wake of the hemotoxin, they are converted to a new state, and you live. If not, you die.”
I set the spanakopita down untasted. “Haven’t you tried to separate the components? So that the reordering happens without the hemotoxin?”
“Tried and failed,” he said curtly. “For longer than you have been alive. The hemotoxic effect is a necessary precursor to the metabolic changes, and nothing we have tried has been able to speed up the metabolic reordering. This current variation of our screening is the most successful breakthrough thus far.”
“But one in a hundred,” I objected.
His expression was severe. “One in one hundred who would otherwise die.”
“So these metabolic changes....” I trailed off.
He raised an eyebrow. “They will revert your cancerous cells, all of them, swiftly and permanently. The extraneous cells should undergo an accelerated senescence and healthy function should return to the remaining ones immediately.”
I thought about that for a moment, turning it over in my mind. “It is a cure, then,” I said slowly. “A real cure. Not a remission. Like you said before, the cancer can’t come back.”
As I was trying to absorb that, another server appeared, bearing two platters, one with steaming meat, the other with various artful embellishments. “The entrée,” she said, setting it between us. “Spit-roasted young goat. Use your fingers to pull off pieces to eat on the oil-drizzled pita, and scoop on the additions of your choice.”
Mr. Thorne gave her a wave of thanks as she discreetly retired. I ignored the entrée.
“Not a remission,” he agreed. “It is a cure for your present condition and as good as an immunization against any future cancer.”
“How is that possible?” I asked.
His smile was rueful. I could hardly tear my gaze from his lips. “We don’t know that, either. The mechanism is, of yet, very poorly understood.”
One in one hundred. Well, I seemed to be good with long odds—my chance of developing the type of leukemia I had was one in tens of thousands, my chance for the alemtuzumab proving ineffective one in ten of that. Put that way, as illogical as it was, one in one hundred seemed like almost a sure thing.
“I want it,” I said, almost before I knew I had made the decision. “I want to live. If it’s my only chance—”
“I will not take your answer now.” Mr. Thorne cut me off. “You must think about it. Call in two weeks.”
“Why?” I demanded. “I don’t want to wait. I’ve made my decision. I’m ready to roll the dice now.”
His hooded eyes burned with intensity. His eyes and cheeks were even more hollow now, I noticed, but they simply put a hard edge on his handsomeness. “Because I want you to say yes too badly. And sitting across from me, you will refuse me nothing that I want.”
His words went through me even as I denied them. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Do you not believe me?”
The force of his attention had me pinned in my seat. My breath caught. I opened my mouth to disagree, but nothing came out. Still, I managed to shake my head.
“Put your hand in the candle, Ms. Shaw.”
Chapter Seven
What? My lips formed the word, but he had stolen the breath from my lungs. His gaze grew sharper, and I felt him, somehow, felt him through the shiver of my body, hot and cold. My hand rose. I tried to stop it, to tell it no, but I wanted this. I wanted it so badly that my bones ached.
My breath came more quickly, and a fluttering came from deep inside that had nothing at all to do with nervousness. I could almost feel his hands on me again, could feel my body tuning to his. My body prickled with heady anticipation, not the fear of harm but the expectation of pleasure.
I reached for the candle that sat between us. A soft sound escaped my lips, and even I didn’t know what it meant. I extended one finger, thrusting it into the flame. The fire danced around my fingertip, sending the most exquisite pain up through my arm until I gasped with it, welcoming it, meeting with a wrenching sensation deep in my core that was a very different kind of heat.
In an instant, it was gone. I blinked, panting. The flame was extinguished—his hand, cool and strong, was over my hand, my finger immersed in his water glass. Through the dripping sides of the water goblet, I could see the border of angry red flesh with a white blister in the center.
I watched, stunned, as he lifted my hand from the glass to his mouth. Keeping my gaze with his icy blue eyes, he bent his head until his lips met my blistered finger, sucking the drops of water from it.
My voice was not mine—it moaned, softly. A shudder went through my body, pure pleasure as my heated senses screamed at the touch. I pushed back against my chair without meaning to, my feet bracing against the ground.
He dropped my hand, and I was left reeling, gasping, my finger throbbing to the hammering of my heart.
“What are you doing to me?” The words were half-question, half-plea.
“Nothing but what is in my nature.” His e
xpression was full of infinite pity and infinite regret.
“I can’t—” I stopped. “You can’t—”
I stared at my finger. The blister was every bit as real as the flame had been.
“It’s not possible. I wouldn’t do that,” I said, even as I remember the ecstasy of pain. “I never would.”
“But you did,” he said.
I did. I did. I remember it, I felt it, I had wanted it.... The pain and the pleasure all tangling into a mass of sensation so intense that it was like drinking pure life. If he told me to do it again, I would.
Maybe I was going mad. Maybe he was driving me mad.
“What are you?” I demanded.
“Something more dangerous than you can imagine,” he said, and I believed him. Oh, how I believed him.
“What you are promising me—the cure. Is it real?” Or do I also believe that because you want me to?
His voice was fervent, his brows lowering. “Oh, it is very, very real, Cora Shaw. I have no need to lie to you to take what you would freely give.”
He was right. I knew he was. I closed my eyes, but I could still see him in my mind, looking at me, looking through me. He could hurt me. The throbbing of my finger had reached my wrist now, a very real pain. He had hurt me. But still, I wanted to give him everything.
“That is why you must decide for yourself,” he said gently. “Far away from here. Far away from my influence, and far away from me.”
Though only anticipated, I already felt the separation like a jolt. “No,” I breathed, my eyelids flying open.
The sorrow on his face wrung my heart even though I didn’t understand it. “You may be the one, after all, Ms. Shaw. But I will have your permission, of your own free will. Not now.”
“In two weeks,” I said then, defeated.
“In two weeks,” he agreed. “Not a day before. You have the number.”
I nodded dumbly.
“Then call. And if you still wish to gamble the last months of your life on an outside chance, I will be happy to assist you.” He treated me to a lopsided smile that made my lungs hurt. “For now, you have a dinner to enjoy in the finest restaurant that a glittering capital can boast. Enjoy.”
The rest of the evening was a long blur, my unrelenting awareness of him pushing all my senses to a fever pitch. Even the food became a kind of torture, the delight of my taste buds only throwing my frustration into contrast. After the entrée, which was a balance of perfected simplicity and intricate garnishes, came a series of tiny desserts, each more decadent than the last, spaced to titillate and to indulge. Every taste was tangled in the overwhelming force of Mr. Thorne’s presence, every bite taken with keen knowledge of his closeness and of his gaze upon me.
At the end of the meal, I fled to the ladies’ room with equal parts relief and longing. As I washed my hands, I stared at my own reflection, trying to find the Cora I knew within it. Strands of my hair were escaping to curl around the sides of my face, and my cheeks had the first real flush that I’d seen in months. The shining dark eyes I barely recognized. They couldn’t be my own, because I saw depths in them that I didn’t understand.
I squared my shoulders, scooped up my purse, and pushed into the dining room. Mr. Thorne stood as I approached. Despite my attempts at control, I could hear my heart in my ears as he stepped forward to meet me.
“I’ve settled the bill,” he said. “Are you ready?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He motioned for me to walk in front of him, and obligingly, I led the way to the front of the restaurant. Our coats were brought promptly, and I stepped outside with mine folded over my arm. From the doorway, I could see the Bentley waiting to whisk me back to the university.
I didn’t want to go.
Mr. Thorne’s hand rested lightly on the small of my back as he guided me down the iron stairs. Even through the thickness of the satin blouse, his cool fingers burned against my flesh. As I reached the sidewalk, I couldn’t stop myself. I turned into his arm, so that I was facing him, my body a handsbreadth from his.
From there, I could smell his personal scent, under the sandalwood and musk. I was excruciatingly aware of him, aware of the weight deep in my belly and the wetness between my legs. I ached for him. I couldn’t move.
“Please,” I said, the word escaping. I was trapped in his spell, and only he could release me.
“You do not know what you are asking for,” he said, his voice rough. The hand that still rested on my back became rigid.
“I wouldn’t care if I did, and you know it,” I whispered, looking up into that beautiful, impossible face.
His head came forward then, his lips parting, and for one interminable moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. But abruptly, he shifted his hold on me and held me at arm’s length as he turned his face away.
“And that,” he said, “is exactly why I won’t.”
With that, he bundled me into the car, shutting the door with devastating finality. He stood on the sidewalk, his brow furrowed and his hands thrust into his pockets, as the Bentley rolled away. I watched him until the car turned a corner and he disappeared from my sight.
Chapter Eight
“Cora!” Lisette’s exclamation stopped me in the doorway. “Thank God. I was about to call the police!”
I looked around our living room. Sarah, Hannah, Emily, and Hollee sat there, with various expressions of relief and outrage on their faces. Even Christina and Chelsea were there, lounging in the corner in skin tight shirts and their clubbing makeup.
Sarah was talking on the phone. “Yeah, you can come back up. She’s here. She’s okay.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“What is wrong with you?” Lisette demanded. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? You left four hours ago. We thought something horrible had happened to you.”
“Oh, crap,” I said, seized by guilt. I fumbled in my clutch and pulled out my phone. I’d missed eight calls, mostly Lisette’s. “Twenty-four texts, guys? Really?”
“No one knew where you were,” Sarah said, hanging up. “Geoff saw you get into some rich dude’s car. Lisette thought you’d be back in a couple of hours. When nine o’clock rolled around and you still weren’t answering your phone....”
“Lisette said your new doctor is really sketch,” Hannah said. “You didn’t tell her where you were going. He could have been some kind of serial killer rapist or something.”
“Seriously, though, he could have been really dangerous,” Lisette said.
I sank onto a corner of the couch, edging Hollee to the side. I felt emptied, hollowed out, and my finger was throbbing.
They were right. So very right. Mr. Thorne was dangerous, the most dangerous man I’d ever met.
“I’m so sorry, guys. The meeting ran long, and I had my ringer off, and I was so tired afterward that I forgot to check my calls.”
Lisette’s face softened instantly. She always forgave easily. “It’s just that it’s not like you to disappear for so long. If it had been Chelsea or Christina—”
“You know we’re sitting right here,” Chelsea said, lobbing a pillow at Lisette’s head.
The girls all laughed, and I joined in, terror and regret and relief somehow all spilling out at once. The tension dissipated.
Slumping back against the couch cushions, I thought about it for a minute. I said, “Wait. You all thought some guy had me locked up in his torture dungeon or something, and you thought the smart thing to do then was to huddle in our apartment? And, what, send Mike to walk around campus looking for me?”
“Shut up, Cora,” Emily said. “You’d be a lot more embarrassed if you’d come back to find that we’d called the campus cops.”
“I’m glad you’ve got my back,” I said, completely deadpan. “Otherwise, I could be in some serious trouble.”
This time, the pillow was thrown at me.
After another round of hugs and threats, Emily, Hannah, Sarah, and Hollee h
eaded back to their rooms, and Christina and Chelsea grabbed their purses and headed out to for the frat party that they’d heard about—all the hardcore partiers started Thursday night, since that homework wasn’t due until the next Tuesday.
Lisette and I were alone in the apartment. We’d become friends our freshman year when we realized that we were in all the same economics lectures. She’d dragged me into a study group she’d created, but eventually, Geoff Nowak and the others had dropped out except for midterms and finals, and it became just the two of us. We’d been rooming together since our sophomore year.
“What did the doctor say?” Lisette asked.
“I actually spoke to the CEO,” I said. “He said I was a good candidate. He went through the procedure and outlined the risks.”
“And?” Lisette prompted.
“And I’m going to tell him yes.” I shrugged. “Even a slim chance is better than none at all. And I’m not ready to call hospice.”
Her expression was fierce. “You shouldn’t be. Well, good for you. When will the drug trial start?”
“It’s more of a single-dose thing,” I said. “In two weeks, I can call and make an appointment. If it works, the results should be pretty immediate.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Lisette asked.
I shrugged. “I’m dying, anyway. There’s not much worse than that.”
Lisette made a face. She hated when I talked about death. “That won’t happen,” she said confidently.
And however foolishly, I felt sure that she was right.
“So,” I said, changing the subject, “you worried about me being gone for four hours, but you let C-and-C walk out of here dressed like that, knowing just what kind of trouble they’re headed into, without a word of protest?”
“Eh,” Lisette said with a dismissive shake of her head. “They went nuts the day they turned twenty-one. Worrying about them is kind of pointless now. Besides, they’ve got each other. More or less.” She raised her eyebrows. “And if I lost you, I’d have to find another study partner.”
I sank deeper into the sofa and kicked off my shoes with a groan. “Fine, I’ll take the hint, but I’m not moving from this couch. If you want to go over the homework, you’ll have to bring my work to me.”
