Page 11 of Savage Beauty

“You’re in pain?” a feminine voice with an unfamiliar accent asks.

“Yes.”

She talks me through what she’s doing, and a coldness creeps up my arm as the medicine infiltrates my body.

Within minutes of her leaving the room, the throbbing in my head eases, as does the nausea.

I twist my head into the pillow, angling it so I can better observe the odd, burly, Nordic man who has posted himself as a lookout. His shoulders are broader than Knox’s, and he has lighter hair. He’s the opposite of Anton Solonov, the hairy man I mistakenly fancied to be a mafia cover model.

“Do you have any tattoos?”

He snorts. Or maybe it’s a half laugh. It’s not a full laugh. “Yes, I do.”

Hmm. Not the exact opposite of Anton Solonov.

“Anything I can do for you?” he asks.

“Can you stop breathing?”

“Ah…”

“You can leave now. I’ll be fine.” I hope. I close my eyelids, letting him think I’m falling asleep.

When Sage was in the hospital, once she fell asleep, my parents said we could leave. I’m pretty sure there were evenings when Sage feigned sleep so we would leave.

“No can do. But I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.”

“That’s an ignorant saying. Mice are unaware of the building they occupy. They would make the same level of noise whether in a church or a bowling alley.” The chair squeaks. Because of course it does. The man probably weighs close to three hundred pounds. “How much do you weigh?”

“Two-fifty. Why?”

“I was close.”

“You were wondering how much I weigh?”

“You said Knox and Sage won’t rest easy unless you’re here. Why?”

“Well, based on what I heard of your conversation with Interpol, you are aware of what happened. You were abducted. And you had to be rescued. We’d prefer to not have to rescue you a second time.”

“You think Anton will come to find me again?” I won’t go with him. I won’t go anywhere near that man.

“Why do you think he took you? It’s just me and you here. I don’t care if you broke the law. But if we know the truth, we can better protect you. We can provide a better assessment of what level of danger, if any, you might be in.”

For whatever reason, I visualize Anton in his dingy white tank top on the boat, and my stomach churns. I force my eyes open to erase that unappetizing image. “The man from Interpol seemed to think it was something I was working on.”

“The organoid stuff?”

“You wouldn’t get it. It’s complicated.”

Cool air flows through my nostrils. Tension has replaced the unbearable pounding in my cranium. I listen, and maybe the pain medication dulled my hearing, but I don’t think I hear him breathing.

“Try me. I’ll disregard anything that’s outside my IQ range.”

I narrow my eyes. Is that sarcasm? If so, it’s uncalled for. I was simply being direct. I don’t want to close my eyes because my stomach can’t handle any more nauseating images, so I focus in Max’s general direction.

“I oversee two studies. In one, we use stem cells to create artificially grown miniature organs.”

“Whoa. Impressive.”

---