2

AIDA

"How was the question about his criminal history relevant?"

"Did you forget protocol? Why did you give him your name?"

I ignore the question from Dr. Umansky, the head scientist at the research facility where I've worked for only a few weeks.

I was instructed not to give our volunteer any identifying information, but something about this isn't right.

It hasn't felt right since they wheeled that man into the lab, his big body strapped to the chair with more bindings than I would think necessary, even for someone his size.

At first glance, he was familiar, like a word I know that I can't get to leap from the tip of my tongue. His face was immediately known to me in a way I couldn't place.

Then he woke up, and the familiarity grew. I'd brushed it off to him being handsome and chalked the smile up to crazy.

Despite the dimples, he looked menacing with his broad chest and shoulders, a contrast to the nearly white hair of his beard and the closely shaved sides of his head.

I could see him in an orange jumpsuit, grinning like a madman at reporters as he's being led from a courtroom in chains, but I also can't see it. The image is instantly incongruous. The mania morphs into allure, the insanity into a gentle intelligence.

"Is the information about his background a mistake because he also didn't seem too sure the name on file was his."

Dr. Umansky's expression doesn't waver. His glower is fixed as he stares down his nose at me.

It's moments like this that I'm glad I'm not exactly short. If I were, his towering height might intimidate me, but standing at an even five feet ten inches means that even someone well over six feet can hardly make me feel minuscule.

"Is there a reason you saw fit you give him your name?" The question is repeated in a low, clipped tone as we stand outside the door. He glances nervously toward the lab as if he thinks the man inside will hear him if he speaks any louder.

Though, from what I can tell, all of the rooms in this building are soundproofed.

I shrug. "I didn't see the harm. This man has sacrificed himself for the advancement of critical life-saving science. The procedures he will be put through are grueling. Not everyone would be able to withstand, let alone volunteer to undergo them. I think I owed him enough respect to introduce myself."

I watch Umansky carefully, but he doesn't say anything for a long time. Then his expression eases, his lips fold in, and the corners lift into an overly bright smile.

"You're right, Doctor. You were establishing trust. That's good, but you have to remember that this man is a liar and a murderer. He will try to manipulate you. Just be careful about over-sharing. It's for your safety. You have Zoe to think about."

His flat lips stay stretched in their tight smile.

Unease makes me roll my shoulders to dislodge the sensation, and I think about the path that's led me here.

Three years ago, no one could have paid me enough money to be involved in something like this, no matter what the advancement in science would have meant.

But then, three years ago, I was a highly respected researcher and scientist who could have named my price at any facility in the country—hell, the world.

But that was before.

Now, as Umanksy serves me his greasy smile, I wonder if there isn't something else I could do to make it by, at least until a bit more time has passed and my reputation has been restored. Zora would understand.

I scoff at this lie.

No, she wouldn't.

Besides, I've signed an ironclad contract and NDA.

For the enormous amount of money I'm being paid for the duration of this experiment, I'm not allowed to ask too many questions or talk to anyone about the work being done. I'm supposed to come to work, perform my tests, hand over the results for analysis by another team I've never seen, let alone met, go home, and shut up about it.

Yet that doesn't stop the questions from forming in my mind. And now that I've met my volunteer, I have even more.

Desperation can't curb my natural curiosity. It's what led me to the field of research in the first place. I can't turn off the most natural part of who I am, which is why, instead of dropping it, I narrow my eyes.

"What institution did you say he came from?"

Umansky's not-smile lifts higher. "I think you should take a break. Get some lunch. Then, come back and start again in a couple of hours. I'll sedate our subject for you."

It's a dismissal and a subtle reprimand.

He doesn't wait for me to agree but brushes past me, returning to the room where Noel is still strapped to the chair. As the door whooshes open, my gaze automatically meets his. The blue locks onto mine like he knew I would be seeking them out.

Umansky doesn't say a word, even when Noel finally looks away and fixes his icy stare on my boss. The warm ocean blue that was trained on me is glacial as he looks at the other man.

His lips move as he says something too mumbled for me to make out, but that makes Umansky stop in his tracks for a fraction of a second before he picks up a tranquilizer needle and shoves it hard against Noel's thick neck.

The violence of the action makes me flinch and take a half step toward the door.

Noel stiffens, his teeth gritting as he fights for an impressive amount of time against the strong sedative before finally slumping over, those strange but familiar eyes disappearing behind his lids.

Umansky tosses the needle onto the tray with a rough flick of his wrist, scattering the other instruments. At first, I think it's in anger, but I can see his hand shake from where I stand in the open doorway. When he turns enough that I can catch his profile, his eyes are shifty, and his pale skin is flushed.

I spent months noticing the same unease in my own gaze, so I know what it means.

He's scared.

More than that—he's terrified.

But of this man, who's done terrible things, yes, but isn't in any position to harm anyone here?

The facility has its own guard force of nearly three dozen men armed to the teeth with more guns than I think is necessary for a bunch of nerds in lab coats and one volunteer.

What is there to be scared of?

"Fucking dog."

If I could taste the poison in Umansky's words, it wouldn't be bitter; it would taste like honey, to be sure whoever it was meant for drank it down.

The words are purposeful and hold meaning. They carry all the intent of the slur.

The man I've come to have as a boss is odd and falsely pleasant, but he has never outright expressed animosity toward me or anyone else. He's been the picture of phony polite professionalism, which I'm used to since I'm a leading Black female in my field. In this place, people are either worried I'm going to be full of myself and "uppity," or they aren't convinced I've earned my spot.

And by people, I mean old, white men like the one I'm watching snarl at the unconscious man in my lab.

Like he can feel my eyes on him, Umansky spins around, seemingly surprised that I'm still here. He fails to mask the contempt on his face in time, but that plastic smile is back in a flash.

"Go on to lunch, Doctor. I'll finish up here. In fact, take the rest of the day off." He waves me away, and I reluctantly back up from the door, flashing my badge across the sensor so it closes.

Umansky's expression stays in my mind as I go to my car and head home.

I don't bother going for lunch despite skipping breakfast and feeling the rapid onset of dizziness wavering at the corners of my vision. Instead, I opt to go straight home so I can see the one person who always brings light to my day, even if she's been determined to give me the cold shoulder for the past year.

The drive is a long forty-five-minute stretch of road through mountains and valleys that lead into the city.

I finally cruise through my neighborhood, taking in the familiarity of people working in their yards or on their cars or just chilling on the block with their friends.

I like living around my people. I like hearing the thump of someone's car bass as they cut through my street. I like knowing the people who live near me share my culture and care about the lives they've built. I like seeing faces that are like mine and proud of it.

I park my car and remind myself that I really need my job.

I struggled to regain my footing in my field after everything that happened at my last appointment. Even I was shocked when a lab corp as prestigious as Genesis contacted me about being a senior researcher for this project. I was sure I'd been blocklisted. I had been blocklisted, but they'd reached out, and I wasn't in a position to reject.

Before my life came crashing down, I was regarded as one of the best in science. And while it had been generally agreed upon that I was at no fault for what happened, folks weren't knocking down my door to hire me when it was done and dusted.

An offer from Genesis—a very generous offer that would help rebuild my depleted nest egg and put something generous away in case there was another lull—had been a welcome but unexpected surprise.

Lawyer fees, security, and settlements drained my previously abundant savings, and earnings from my previous salary, speaking fees, publications, and other sources of income have since dried up.

It's still mid-afternoon, so the sun beats brightly down my neck.

I shrug out of my lab coat as I take the steps to my door. Turning the key in the lock, I push it open to the lyrical sounds of the Acoustic Africa streaming station Zora has become so fond of since we took a trip to Zimbabwe last year.

That was one of my last little hoorahs for her before I tightened the purse strings.

I pulled from our savings to take her.

It was supposed to be an apology and an olive branch, but she talked more to the tour guides than to me the whole two weeks we were there, and when we got home, she took to hiding behind her new favorite station as a way to shut me out.

And maybe also to remind me of the opportunities and experiences I won't be able to give her anymore.

I need my job.

"I'm home!" I toss my coat on the hook by the door and head back to the kitchen, where I can hear pots and pans clanging and the savory scent of something with sesame oil being cooked.

"It's almost ready," my daughter, Zora, calls back, her voice carrying the indifference it always has of late. "And it's vegan, don't complain."

Her back is still to me as she stirs something on the eye so she can't see me roll my eyes. "You do know I made you your first vegetarian meal, right?"

Zora shrugs. "Well, you had bacon for breakfast, so you're not exactly committed."

"Tone," I say before coming around the counter and planting a kiss on her cheek.

She leans in for it even though she sighs dramatically. "You know, Mom, it's a new day from when you were a kid. Children are allowed to have an opinion." She steps away as I lean over to check the stir-fry she's whipped up.

"Mm hm, that's fine, but you can have an opinion and not be rude to the person who pays for you to make vegetarian stir-fry and spent two days in labor with you. You can blame me for everything, but I don't deserve rudeness."

Zora goes around the island, putting it between us.

She's fifteen, the age when I expect a little approaching adulthood aloofness. Still, the physical and emotional distance she's wedged into our relationship over the last year hurts, a pain I know she's too young and immature to see—or care about if she does.

"It looks good." I offer a smile, but she doesn't say anything.

This is our routine. I talk, and she avoids.

I don't force it like I used to. Now, I just take over, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet.

"Get some forks?"

She goes to the drawer and takes out the utensils, putting one on a napkin in front of the stools and holding the other.

When I pass her serving, she heads out of the kitchen.

"You don't want to eat here with me?" I don't know why I ask. It's been months since she ate with me.

I don't push it even though I want to. Like, I really, really want to.

All the new-wave parenting bullshit got me, and I raised my daughter gently, watching her flourish in the space of safety and openness I created. We respect boundaries and preferences in our home, but we do it with love. Or we used to.

"I have a lot of homework."

"Yeah? Need any help? I'm pretty smart." I smirk, hoping to soften the mood, but her face remains stony.

Her cheeks pull up into a tight smile, and I know what she's thinking as she looks at me.

Would an intelligent woman have ruined our lives the way I did?

Would I have let that monster in to nearly destroy us?

"I think I got it, but thanks." She disappears into the hall, leaving me alone to dig into my meal.

As I chew a crunchy broccoli floret, which is charred a little, just like I taught her, warmth replaces my loneliness as I realize she used my recipe instead of the one her father used to insist was better.

This tiny realization makes my sad single-mom meal taste a little richer.

I finish my plate and rinse the dishes, putting the leftovers into a container to save for tomorrow's work lunch.

My feet drag as I make my way to the stairs leading to the bedrooms on the second floor. A yawn stretches the corners of my mouth.

It's still afternoon, but I'm tired.

On the landing, I pass Zora's room.

The muted sounds of music float from behind the door, and when I push it open, she's sitting at the table with her head bent over a book. Her empty bowl is stacked on top of another one, more evidence of how often she hides away from me.

Still, a fraction of my hurt at her rejection dissipates. At least she wasn't lying about homework to get away. Maybe we're turning a corner. Perhaps soon she'll realize that I know I messed up, I paid for it dearly, I'm still paying for it, and I did the best that I could at the time.

"Make sure you take your dishes down."

Zora lifts a hand in acknowledgment but doesn't respond verbally.

I shrug and turn away. At least I got an answer this time.

I take the win and go to my room, stripping out of my slacks and blouse before shuffling to the bathroom to pee. By the time I slide between the cool sheets of my bed, my eyes are barely open, and I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.

I immediately fall into the dark abyss of a dream that feels all too real.

***

I've never seen a wolf in real life, but this wolf's eyes are an icy, intelligent blue.

The beast is giant, three times the size of a normal wolf, and its back and shoulders have an interesting structure—not hunched but high and more elongated than expected.

Genetic abnormality?

Which, of course, my science brain would notice even in a dream.

It stands a few feet away, his head lowered, his sharp gaze fixed on me. A deep rumble echoes through the abyss, and I recognize the sound is coming from the beast's chest.

One massive paw lifts to stalk forward, then it stops. In a flash, it breaks into a sprint that has me stumbling back, only to freeze when the wolf suddenly leaps into a man.

A man I know.

A man who already feels familiar to me in ways I can't explain.

Clearly, my mind has conjured up an aggrandized version of my subject because, even though he looked impressive in the white shirt and pants he was wearing earlier in the day, it is not humanly possible for any man to look this impressive in real life.

Noel isn't moving. He just stands in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his naked body, and since it's a dream and no one can stop me, I take the opportunity to look him over.

He's got muscles on muscles.

His shoulders are round and rippled, as are his chest and abs. I admire the half dozen humps that line his stomach, then let my gaze slip lower to look at the rest of him and—damn.

That is absolutely a figment of my imagination because his dick is insane. It's the stuff of dreams which confirms that this is all just a crazy ride through my subconscious, no matter how real it feels. Because when I reach a hand out to brush my fingers over the tight head—marveling at how smooth and warm it is, how broad—man, does it feel real.

He flinches when I make contact. It's not the reaction I would prefer, but it's my sleeping hallucination, so I persist, wanting—no needing—to feel his skin against mine. I lift my hand and flatten it against his chest. He grabs my wrist, the grip firm but not painful.

"This can't be." His brow is furrowed, and he looks at me like I'm the one who's invaded his rest. Except he almost looks angry. Furious is more like it. "It can't be you."

He drops my hand and takes a step back, then another, and then another, letting the darkness at his back envelope him until he's just a shadow moving further away.

"It can't be you." The voice that reaches me from that darkness is deep and clear.

I lurch up in bed, my body slicked over with sweat, my legs tangled in the sheets.

The room is shrouded in darkness. When I glance at the clock on my side table, I'm shocked to see it reads nearly midnight.

I slept for almost seven hours.

It felt like only a few minutes. My fingertips tingle with the memory of Noel's smooth, tight skin.

I shift, and a telltale dampness between my legs says the rest of my body remembers, too.

There's also, rolling around in my belly, an immense sense of rejection, which started churning when he declared I couldn't be the one and backed away.

It felt like everything else in my life over the past year, one more person turning their back on me.

I fight the sheets off my legs, using the wild kicks to dispel the lingering arousal and the lingering hurt. Trudging to the bathroom, I pee and scrub off the little makeup I was too tired to remove earlier.

Back in bed, I trust fall onto the pillows, releasing a lungful of air.

That dream was weird.

As short and uneventful as it was, it felt monumental, like something beyond me was moving across the space Noel put between us. It's like someone attached a string to my spine, and it was pulling me forward no matter how far away he went.

And the weird thing is, I still feel it.

As I lie in bed, trying to still the flutters in my belly, I want to see him. It keeps me awake so that by the time my alarm has gone off for work five hours later, I haven't managed to fall asleep again.

***

My middle is a jumble of complicated intersections as I walk toward my lab, or more like a tangle of cords, springing with tension that could launch me in every direction.

I'm nearly at the door when it slides open, and Dr. Umansky walks out.

He doesn't see me as he mumbles to himself.

It's too low to hear, but his expression tells me that whatever happened inside wasn't good.

When he finally notices me, Umansky doesn't bother putting on his fake smile. He brushes past, nearly bumping my shoulder.

"Make sure you stick to the script today, Doctor."

"I'll do my best." I watch him storm away with my stankest stank face before pivoting forward again.

Dear lord, I need my job.

I stare at the closed doors and take a deep breath.

The tug is still there, and I scan my badge and let it pull me into the room where the man from my dream waits.

He's already looking at me when I enter. And, like yesterday, it's as if he knew I was coming.

His eyes are shards of glass as they meet mine, and before I can even get in the room good, his mouth curls into a snarl, and he jerks against the restraints.

"It can't be you ."