Page 7

My hand presses against my navel. He's in my domain. I should not be nervous. I repeat my domain in a silent mantra until I settle.

His eyes are wide and slightly slanted, and for a moment I wonder if he comes from a line of Mongolian tigers. They are an unusual reddish-brown, so rich and dark they remind me of polished mahogany held up to the light. There's something else about them, too. Something that makes me want to look closer, though I'm pretty sure staring into an unfamiliar alpha's eyes isn't the brightest decision I've made today.

I glance at the other two. They can only be brothers—same powerful builds, same jawlines cut straight from stone. The man behind my desk has a slight sickle-shaped dimple peeking over his beard, and my tongue presses against the back of my teeth like it wants to trace it.

Impressive.

And inappropriate. I'm engaged, for heaven's sake.

I drop my hand to my skirt, twisting and untwisting the fabric. "I'm sorry, Mr. Brusilov, but I'm not sure of the reason for this meeting. You're lucky you caught me on a Monday—it's my only office day. I'm not sure how I can help you."

His voice, when he speaks again, only confirms what I've already suspected. Definitely a Russian accent. It rolls out smooth as ice. Not threatening. Firm.

"Cienna," he says. "I hope you don't mind if I call you Cienna."

It isn't a question, and I would bet my last lab mouse he doesn't care if I mind. So I don't answer.

"I was referred to you by my physician," he goes on. "He told me you have made remarkable advances in shifter prosthetics."

My shoulders relax. I take in his suit, and it should have been obvious from the start: he's money. He's probably here to talk about the foundation—grant applications, more information about our trials. I nod, because now everything makes sense. The arrogance. The assumption. I've dealt with these donors before. Usually, it's one or the other—either they're extremely solicitous and kind, telling little jokes and laying on the charm, or they're suspicious and quiet, looking for every hidden loophole they can snag. He is definitely not in the first group.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Brusilov—my assistant didn't tell me you would be here today. I must have overlooked the appointment. Are you here to talk about our research? Did you want to participate in some form of funding? I'm so embarrassed I don't have your information in front of me, but I'm happy to answer any questions you have."

His eyes widen. "Good. I'm glad. And I do have questions for you. This makes it much easier. If you're looking for funding, I'm willing to pay you whatever you need."

My eyes are probably saucers. Unlimited funds, shrieks a voice in my mind, but I only say, "That's certainly a generous offer. As you know, medical research is always very expensive. The materials alone—the supplies, the sourcing. Any help we can receive, Dr. Singh and I would tremendously appreciate, as we go forward with this miraculous development that could change the lives of so many shifters."

He is peering up at me, seated in my chair, his fingers tapping against my desk, and he says, "I'm glad to know your work will help many shifters. But you are mistaken, Cienna. There is only one shifter I am concerned about at this time."

My brows pull together, and I bite my lip. "Yes?"

He looks at the brother he has not introduced. The brother slides a folder across the desk. I take it, and this time I do sit down and pull out the film.

It's a terrible wound. A completely separated bone. My eyes meet his again. "Is this from a shifter?"

He nods. "A tiger shifter."

"What happened?"

"This X-ray was taken of my brother's arm three days ago. He was shot—by a weapon we are still trying to locate, to figure out exactly how it was created, and by whom. But before we can pursue that—"

"Is this taken before or after he healed himself?"

"Neither," he says flatly. "He hasn't been able to repair himself."

My eyes jump back to the X-rays.

Now that is interesting. Horrifying for the patient, obviously, but from a medical standpoint, I'm looking at something I've never encountered. A clean, circular absence of bone and surrounding tissue, with no visible evidence of the regeneration I would expect from a large feline shifter. I tilt the film toward the light, studying the injury's margins.

"So you see the problem," he says. "Can you fix it?"

I barely hear him. I'm already indexing the questions I need answered. How long since the injury? What condition are the surrounding nerves and blood vessels in? Is there infection? Has the patient's body tried to bridge the gap and failed, or has the regenerative process never started? Those are two very different problems, and the answer could determine whether a graft has any chance of succeeding.

"Dr. Layne?"

I'm still studying the film, but my eyes dart to him when he says, "We heard about your research. And I need you to help my brother to continue shifting."

"I can't—" My eyes almost pop out of my head. My gaze jumping from him to the X-rays and back again. "I'm sorry. I can't. I don't know where you got your information or what you heard, but this research, what Dr. Singh and I are doing, is still in the very early stages."