“Go stand in the sun for a while, Miss Reed.” He gestured to a patch of bright sunlight streaming through the glass panels a few feet away, creating a pool of gold on the stone floor.
“I would rather help,” I protested. “I can—”
“Miss Reed.”
He met my eyes with a depth that made my breath catch, and grinned, the gesture spreading slowly over his lips, transforming his entire face.
It did something profoundly immoral to my pulse.
“I believe as your employer, I have your best interest in mind. You cannot work if you cannot feel your fingers. Now please, indulge me.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to insist I was perfectly capable and did not need managing or accommodating, but the truth was, I was cold—a sort of bone-deep chill that had not left me since my accident.
“As you wish,” I conceded, and crossed to the area he had indicated.
The effect was instantaneous and glorious. The ambient heat of the greenhouse combined with direct sunlight penetrated my skin, seeping into muscles and bones that had forgotten what true warmth felt like. It was like drinking something hot after hours in the cold, thawing from the inside out.
I closed my eyes, tilting my face upward toward the sun, and my body responded. The constant ache in my joints eased. My erratic pulse steadied. The sensation was almost pleasant enough to be alarming, deep and spreading.
Photosynthesis, I thought. That was exactly what it was like.
The absurdity of the observation made my eyes fly open.
Dr. Ambrose had returned to his work, though I caught him glancing at me from the corner of his eye more than once over the next hour, each look brief and assessing, studying me like an experiment in progress.
Silence gathered over the greenhouse, broken only by the soft clink of glass instruments and the drip of water from the irrigation system overhead. I stood in my patch of sun and observed him. He moved with the certainty of someone who had repeated the same process so often that his hands knew the sequence before thought was required—adding drops of liquid, heating solutions, and recording observations in his neat hand. Everything he did was controlled, yet passion lived beneath that restraint. It lived in his eyes as theynarrowed in concentration, and in the way he leaned close as though proximity might yield information that distance withheld.
What would it feel like to be the subject of that passion—to be unearthed and dissected while he studied each of my broken pieces?
I turned away, directing my focus to the sky beyond the glass panels.
For a while, I was content to bask in the sunlight while he worked, but eventually my attention drifted elsewhere around the greenhouse. Well—it was not my attention exactly. It was guided, the movement of my gaze not one of idle curiosity, but steered by a hidden hand searching for an object it refused to name.
“How are you feeling now, Miss Reed?” he asked without looking up from his task.
My focus snapped back to Dr. Ambrose. My companion startled, then retreated with a disappointment so distinct it moved through my mind until I felt thoroughly dissatisfied for reasons I could not understand.
I shoved it somewhere deep within me, shifting and focusing on the apricity streaming through the glass panels overhead.
“The sun helps,” I said, surprised at the steadiness. “I feel… better.”
He set down his notes and motioned me forward. “Come here. Please.”
I crossed to him, uncertain of his intention.
He gestured to one of the worktables, clearly built for standing while working. “Sit.”
I assessed the height of it, then considered my own stature. “I am not sure I can—”
His hands were at my waist before I had finished the thought, warm and entirely sure of themselves. “May I?”
I managed a nod, words deserting me entirely.
He lifted me without effort and set me on the edge of the table, the casual display of capability undoing my cool composure. His hands lingered at my waist a single moment too long before he cleared his throat and took a step back, restoring the illusion of professional distance.
“This will not take long,” he said, pulling over a stool and positioning himself just below my eye level. “I just need to assess you properly if you are going to be working with potentially toxic specimens.”
“It was just the cold,” I said. “I told you, I am—”
