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Fiona
Ahand grips my shoulder, pulling me out of my spiral; I drag my stare from the laptop screen where my final grades are posted and try not to let the weight of crushing disappointment shine through.
Biting down on the inside of my cheek until the taste of copper spills onto my tongue, I glance up at Kal Anderson with a smile, my mind stuck on my stats professor’s notes.
Student missed several big-point assignments and never reached out to make them up. Unfortunately, without an explanation on their part, I’m unable to allow them to pass.
My throat burns, a ball of fire lodged within that makes it hard to concentrate on anything but my mistakes, even with the epitome of tall, dark, and dangerous looming over me. Any other time, being in the presence of Doctor Death would chill me, but right now I’m too numb to care.
I don’t even really care about the grade, except that I’ve never failed anything before. The thought lodges in my brain, trying to stake a claim on a new obsession before the one I’m really afraid of can edge its way in.
I didn’t turn in my final paper because I was busy watching my mother, who’d fallen down the stairs and gotten a concussion. She needed to be watched for a full twenty-four hours in case signs of trauma outside the bruise on her forehead appeared, and I didn’t have time to write a paper on the psychology of losing a parent when I’m living the fucking thing.
Sliding the laptop off where it’s propped on my legs, I set it on the step beside me and stare out into the greenhouse, absently eyeballing the various potted tropical plants and bags of soil that line the rows of tables.
Kal exhales, bending to sit beside me, sprawling his legs out past the bottom step because they’re too long to fit tucked against him.
Revered as one of the most attractive, unattainable bachelors in the country, Kal Anderson is the human embodiment of a solar eclipse; he’s almost too perfect, the angles of his jaw and cheekbones so defined that they could be used as weapons, his irises so dark and terrifying that they look demonic.
He’s tall, the tallest man I’ve ever seen, and intimidating in presence alone, and this is really the only time we’ve ever spent together alone.
Situation aside, it’s unnerving sitting beside Death himself.
Carding a hand through his jet-black hair, Kal looks at me; I feel the implication of his stare in my soul, know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth.
“How much longer does she have?”
He folds his hands together, balances them on his knees. His black trench coat fans beneath him, a staple despite the warm weather outside. “There’s no real way to know for sure, but she’s regressing rather quickly. She won’t be in this stage much longer.”
I know his matter-of-factness probably makes him a great doctor—and even better hitman—but right now, all it does is push down on the weight resting on my shoulders, making it impossible to carry.
Tears sting my eyes and my throat tightens, crumpling beneath the pressure. My hands spread along my thighs, my index finger tapping out a rhythm, but this time it doesn’t do anything for me.
Isn’t quite strong enough to deliver me from the pit of despair as its sinewy tentacles reach out and pull me under, drawing me toward an abyss I’m not sure I can come back from.
“So... what now?”
Kal’s frown deepens, the crow’s feet around his eyes expanding as he turns his head. “Did she ever get a chance to talk to you?”
“About what?”
“Getting her affairs in order.”
My face grows clammy. Why would she talk to Kal, of all people, about it? Was our conversation not good enough?
“Yeah, she mentioned it a few weeks ago. Said she... didn’t know if she wanted to wait for the disease to take her.”
Reaching out, Kal plucks the petal of a nearby Gardenia, rubbing the soft yellow petals with his thumb and forefinger. It’s such an innocent, calming gesture that my brain immediately locks in on the movement, enraptured by the rhythm of it contrasting against the darkness of the person behind the action.
Kal’s more of a mystery than Boyd, having swept in one day years ago as an in-house doctor and occasional hitman for the Montaltos.
Supposedly, his particular brand of hits is unlike that of any others, in part due to his medical background—but even that’s just a rumor.
Every once in a while, between jobs for Elia Montalto and his parent outfit in Boston, Kal will volunteer at clinics across the country, often offering his services in exchange for... well, nothing. He donates his time and knowledge, as if trying to recoup the morality lost each time he murders for hire.
If not for the relationship he’d already established with my brother and parents, I never would have agreed to let him become my mother’s personal doctor, but she needed one who could be discreet—a great feat in a town as small as this one—and who wouldn’t try to sabotage her condition because of the wealth behind her name.
“You know,” he says after a long stretch of silence. There’s a distinct lack of warmth in his words, something that almost feels practiced—like he’s actively trying not to get involved. Maybe that’s how he sleeps at night. “My mother passed when I was young.”
