The morning sun hit the marble floors of the Reed mansion with a clinical brightness that matched my mood. I hadn't slept—not because I was pining, but because my brain was busy categorizing the night's events. The kiss. The touch. The abrupt exit. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the phantom pressure of his hand on my skin and the scent of cold rain and tobacco. It was an itch I couldn't scratch, a puzzle I refused to let haunt me.
In my medical experience, an abrupt exit after an intense surge of adrenaline usually indicated a lack of control. Asher Reed, the man who prided himself on owning everything, had been rattled. He had fled his own study because the "Doctor" had managed to draw out the man beneath the monster. And that realization gave me more power than a gun ever could.
I spent an extra ten minutes on my appearance, choosing a sharp, tailored suit beneath my lab coat. I wasn't dressing for him; I was dressing for the war he didn't know I was winning.
