40. Cohen

40

COHEN

M ost people saw a stiff on a cold slab and were reminded of their mortality. How insignificant they were. How short life was. Me? I saw another dead ant under a magnifying glass. Bits and pieces of unpurposed meat. Mine for the taking. I felt like a god. Immortal. An artist with unsculpted clay, the amorphous blob just begging me to transform it into something useful. To learn and apply that knowledge to the next lump of fleshy pulp to land themselves in my office. On my operating table. Beneath my knife.

I guess you could say I'd always been this way. Different. While masking myself to be the same. The star football player who examined his teammates' injuries on the field a little too closely. Who didn't gag at the sight of blood. Torn flesh and protruding bone. Because, of course, sports medicine was my interest. When, in reality, the need to dissect— pick something apart —ran as deep as a bone saw. As fluidly as an intravenous drip.

I felt empty without a scalpel in my hand. Filled that emptiness with my obsession. And now even that wasn't enough. Instead of need, I was driven by rage. Unsatisfied rage lacking proper output. And disjointed fingers that could barely clutch a butter knife, let alone a fifteen blade.

Truth was, accepting employment at Briarwood wasn't much of a choice. And Dr. Jekyll knew it. Mr. Hyde had yet to be seen. While both versions of the man had me by the balls. With or without throwing Emily's name in the mix.

It was this… or rotting in some gutter until the madness consumed me and everything around me. Until I plunged over that abyss into insanity and took everyone in a five-mile radius with me into that six-foot pit.

As much as I didn't give a fuck about society as a whole, I loved what I could do. The skills I'd fine-tuned over the years. It was that rose-tinted narcissism that wouldn't let me dip my toes into the idea of suicide. The belief I was better, smarter, more capable than those in my midst.

That and the need to make her pay. Because how the fuck dare she kill a part of me. The brilliance that could have been and wasn't.

But those were thoughts for another day. After I'd planned out every detail of her downfall. After I jerked off to images of her blood on my mangled hands. Her tears on my stained bedsheets and her juices coating my cock before she took her last fucking breath.

That was what drove me now. Her suffering and this fucker's promise to end mine.

I flipped through the various books on anatomy lining the walls of Dr. Adrian Lambert's office. Some modern, some archaic. It still wasn't clear what went on behind the tall iron gates of the outdated sanatorium. Couldn't even tell you what part I was meant to play. Just that it revolved around my medical acumen.

He wanted my skill set and he needed to make me whole in order to do that. It was the most basic example of a little tit for tat. A few experimental surgeries, unsanctioned medical devices, and I would be forever in his debt. I wasn't so na?ve to believe there was a way out once I was in. It was a lifetime commitment—one I was willing to make if it improved the dexterity of my hands.

I heard him enter the room, his steps not nearly as inconspicuous as his counterpart's. Not that I thought he intended for me to be taken by surprise. It was more of an observation than anything else. I was keen on reading people when I wasn't drinking myself into oblivion.

"You're still here," he hummed.

I pivoted on my boot to face him. "We both know my leaving was never really a choice."

"Wasn't it?"

"No, it wasn't." I paced in front of his desk while Adrian lowered himself onto his chair. "No surgeon from here to the coasts will touch me with a knife. Insisting there is nothing they can do for me. Regulations are far more strict overseas and I can't very well operate on myself without my good hand. Believe me, I've tried. I'm not too arrogant to admit I've done more harm than good. So here we are. Here I am. Without any other options."

"You can stay as you are. That's a very real option, Dr. Michaels." He shrugged, the movement subtle, before pinning me with a glare. "I wouldn't recommend it, given the… alternative." His eyes flicked to my hand resting on the back of the armchair before landing on my face again.

He meant more than my present deformities. He meant what he would do to me if I refused. We both knew it. And while I loved a good game of cat and mouse as much as the next guy, I hated being the rodent in this analogy. If I was walking into a trap, shit would be done willingly and not because I was backed into a corner. There was no winning when the loss was self-imposed. Not for men like us. The challenge was the best part.

"Here's the thing, Doc. Bedside manner was never my forte so let's rip the bandage off and get straight to the point. What do you want?"

"How about I show you what I can do first, then we can decide how grateful you feel?"

"You mean indebted ."

"I mean what I say, Dr. Michaels. Stop thinking you're the most clever man in the room. That's not true in my company." He pushed to his feet, his demeanor calm despite the slight curl of his upper lip. "Learn your place or you'll be re placed. You aren't the only asset in need of my services."

"No, I'm probably not." I paused, waiting for his snarl to drop into the hint of a smirk. "But something tells me I have far looser morals."