Page 43 of Dose

Silent.

I count when I surface. I always count.

“Eleven,” I say.

She stirs beneath me. “Eleven what?”

“Seconds.” I lift my head and look at her. “New record. Broke the old one by two.”

Her mouth trembles. Her eyes shine, but she smiles through it.

“Records exist to be broken,” she says. “Rigorous science demands that we keep trying.”

“After the release files.”

She studies me. “Was that responsibility?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

I ease out of her, make certain she is comfortable, and hand her the water from beside the bed. After she uses the washroom, she returns in my shirt. I pull her against my chest for five minutes—exactly five, because if I do not impose a limit we will still be here when the assay window closes.

I am addicted. There is no clinical hedge left and no gentler word that feels honest. Not because she has replaced my chemistry or erased what was done to me. Because I wake reaching for proof that she exists. Because her laugh has become a sound I organize my violence around protecting.

“Baseline later,” I tell her.

“After the release files,” she agrees.

We dress again and return to the annex. Thirty-nine checks remain, a hunt is tightening above us, and Isla’s shoulder brushes mine as she reaches for fresh gloves.

I have never worked faster.

17

ISLA

At six ten, the isolation-suite lock releases with a message from Nikolai: Internal lockdown lifted. External restrictions remain. Report to the common level.

By then, we have been below for forty-eight hours.

The common level smells like breakfast, and for the first three steps I am convinced everyone knows.

This is not a defensible conclusion.

They know Theon and I spent two days sealed in a room with one bed. They can see his hand at the small of my back and the fading mark above the collar of my shirt. They can observe that I lean into him instead of away. From those data, they may infer.

They cannot know.

The kitchen conversation does not stop when we enter. Darius is telling a story at the stove. Damon is correcting it from the counter. Raphael is dividing eggs between plates, and Ezra is reading something on one tablet while eating toast over another. Lucien occupies the floor beside Henrietta as if chairs are a negotiable custom. Marcus sits in the corner armchair with his eyes closed and a cup of coffee cooling in his hand.

Dominic’s chair is empty. He is still in Cleveland.

Darius notices us first. His story trails off. His gaze moves from Theon’s hand to my throat, then back to Theon’s face.

His grin is inference, not knowledge. This distinction does not stop heat from climbing my neck.

“Well,” he says. “The bunker returns our chemists alive.”

“Disappointing, I know,” Theon says.