"Yes." His tone shifted, the moment of levity, if it had been such, draining away. "Specifically, I am researching how certain botanical compounds affect cognitive function in dementia patients."
My heart leapt.
"For memory restoration?"
"Memory preservation," he corrected, then paused before adding, "The restoration aspect is more theoretical at this stage."
"But not impossible?"
The question escaped before I could stop it, desperation showing through my careful facade.
His interest sharpened. "Does that possibility intrigue you, Miss Reed?"
He knows,the voice said, pleased at the prospect.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat and forced myself to ease back in the chair, arranging my expression into professional curiosity rather than the raw, frantic hope of someone drowning.
"I find the intersection of botany and medicine fascinating," I replied, the lie slipping between my teeth with ease. “And I have often wondered at its broader applications, at the ways in which plants might heal as well as beautify."
He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and my thoughts fixed on the gesture—curious if his mouth would feel soft and tender, like the fleshy petals of a flower, or rough and brutal, like rose thorns scraping against my skin until all the darkness inside me bled out onto his tongue.
"I see.”
He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair, as though the vivid image in my mind had somehow materialized in the space between us and unnerved him.
"The work is demanding,” he said, abruptly shifting the topic. “You will be exposed to long hours and potentially dangerous specimens. Many of the plants I study are toxic in their raw form. You will need to follow safety protocols at all times."
"Of course,” I said.
He stepped closer and my pulse stumbled. I caught his scent then—clean and earthy, like soil after rain withsomething herbal underneath. It was pleasant and soothing in a way that surprised me.
"And what do you hope to gain from this position?"
The question caught me off guard even though I had known it would come eventually. I shifted in my seat, buying myself a precious second to formulate an answer that would not reveal too much.
"Experience," I said, one shoulder lifting. "Knowledge. The opportunity to work with someone at the forefront of their field."
"Nothing else?"
I tilted my head and offered what I hoped was a suitably curious expression. "What else would there be?"
One corner of his mouth curved, and I had the profoundly unsettling sense that he saw straight through my mask of composure.
"Most people who seek positions in private research have personal motivations—a family member suffering from dementia or their own fears of aging.” He paused, observing me closely. “Or perhaps an interest in prolonging life beyond its natural limits."
“I am not seeking immortality, Dr. Ambrose,” I replied earnestly.
I did not want to live forever. I only wanted to live, properly and wholly, with the parts of myself that had gone missing reattached. I wanted to know who I had been before death had stolen my life from me.
His eyes trailed to my throat again, to the ribbon that concealed evidence of how close I had already come to thosenatural limits he spoke of. The weight of his attention landed there with such pressure that I felt it as distinctly as if he had reached out and touched the fabric himself.
My hand rose before I could stop it, fingers brushing the ribbon in an involuntary gesture of protection.
He noticed.
His mouth opened, some question forming there before he closed it again. He glanced down briefly, fingers flexing at his side before he turned toward his desk.
"I keep detailed records of all my specimens," he said, retrieving a thick leather-bound journal from beneath the chaotic pile of notes on his desk. "Acquisition dates, growing conditions, observed effects, and experimental results."
