FrankenDom

by Rotham, Robin L.

  “No.” A tear streaked down my cheek before I could check it and I wiped it away self-consciously. “Just Ju— Just his brother. Their parents are dead.”

  He sighed. “Rachel, you must know that our code of ethics is just a framework for helping us understand conflicts. It can’t always tell us how to resolve them. Sometimes we’re placed in a situation where there is no good answer, and we just have to do whatever we feel is right and hope for the best. If this guy was his brother’s only advocate and his only hope, what other choice could he have made?”

  Another tear escaped. “I don’t know.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, reaching for my hand and squeezing it. “Sometimes I don’t know when to quit.”

  I wiped my eyes. “It’s not your fault, Adam. In fact, I wish I were more like you.”

  “Opinionated? Oblivious?” he asked with a grin.

  I couldn’t help smiling. “I suppose both would make my life easier. At least I wouldn’t agonize over every little thing.”

  “You gotta learn to let go, Rachel,” he said. “The stress will kill you if you don’t.”

  Sighing deeply, I said, “I know.”

  “And I’m sensing a deep and abiding platonic friendship developing between us,” Adam said dryly, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb.

  “You’re probably right. For the time being, anyway.” I sighed. “I apologize if I’ve led you on.”

  Adam grinned. “I’d sound like an ass if I said you did but I’d get over it, wouldn’t I?”

  “Probably, but friends can get away with sounding like an ass occasionally,” I told him ruefully.

  The server came back with our entrees. “Are you done with that?” she asked, looking at my untouched salad.

  Realizing I was hungry after all, I told her to leave it. I obviously had a lot of soul-searching to do and I couldn’t do it on an empty stomach.

  * * * * *

  Three days later, I finally made it to the post office and checked my mail for the first time in weeks. I’d managed to squeeze in a lot of thinking around my last few shifts, going over everything Julian had said to me again and again, and I still wasn’t any closer to having the answer I needed.

  Yes, his brother was young, and yes, his father had died of the same disease, and yes, he’d dedicated his life to finding a cure. And yes, he’d even found one and it was frustrating as hell that his brother wouldn’t accept it.

  But even taken all together, those facts weren’t enough to justify what Julian had done, what he’d risked. What he’d sacrificed.

  So why did it feel like I was missing some vital piece of information? Why did it feel so utterly wrong that I’d left him? Left them?

  “Bad Rachel,” I scolded when I opened the box and found it stuffed with envelopes. The last time I’d gone this long without checking, my electricity was on the verge of being shut off for non-payment of the first bill. Not a good way to renew my relationship with the power company.

  Setting the pile down on the lobby table, I sorted out all the junk and threw it into the recycle bin. There was a plain white envelope postmarked Coppell, Texas with no return address, just my name and address on a computer-generated label. I didn’t know anyone in Texas and thought about tossing it away but then decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Maybe I’d just inherited millions of dollars from some distant relative I’d never heard of and this was my only chance to claim it.

  Instead, it was a photocopied newspaper article, dated more than fifteen years ago, about a commercial jet crash that had killed twelve passengers and injured fifty more. The name Kilmartin jumped off the page at me.

  Among the dead is Elaine Kilmartin, 43,who was on her way to lobby the National Institutes of Health for increased funding for Bain’s atrophy research. Mrs. Kilmartin founded and was a tireless supporter of the Bain’s Research Project after her husband, Dr. Stuart Kilmartin, died of the neuromuscular disorder four years ago. She was dedicated to finding a cure before it cut any more lives tragically short. Elaine Kilmartin is survived by two sons, Julian Kilmartin, 20, and Jordan Kilmartin, 10.

  My chest hollowed out as I stared at nothing, letting the article fall to the post office floor. Julian hadn’t just lost his father to Bain’s—he’d lost both his parents. And Jordan…

  I couldn’t let it take him, too.

  If he’d let Jordan go, Bain’s would have cost him his entire family.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered.

  Without giving myself time to think, I hurried to my car, dug out my phone with shaking hands and hit Colin’s speed-dial number. His service had been disconnected. I tried Vince’s number next and it was also out of service.

  What the hell?

  I rolled several stop signs in my race to get home and scoured the internet looking for information, but there was nothing current on any of them that I could find.

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  After dithering for two hours, I finally picked up the phone again, totally forgetting that Bree was on night shift. When she answered in a sleep-roughened voice, I took a deep breath. “How would you like to go to Montaneva with me?”

  * * * * *

  We pulled up in front of Bangenschloss three weeks later, this time in a terrifying little excuse for a taxi. The terrifying little excuse for a driver dumped out our two small bags with an indecipherable grunt and then zoomed away like he was afraid I was going to demand a refund of his tip, which I’d paid in advance along with the fare.

  “Charming,” Bree snorted, gazing up at the castle, which looked even grimmer in the bright light of a sunny spring afternoon.

  “The driver or the castle?” I asked.

  “Take your pick.”

  “Well you can’t say I didn’t warn you about the castle.” I picked up my bag. “Come on. The entrance is this way.”

  I’d finally broken down and told her everything the evening after I woke her out of a sound sleep to invite her to Montaneva. Okay, not everything—nothing too specific about the patient other than his identity, nothing at all about the donor, and certainly nothing about the dungeons and what I’d gotten up to in them with various and sundry men. I’d signed a confidentiality agreement, after all, and I was walking a very fine line by telling her that much.

  But I’d finally admitted to having a three-way sexual relationship with both Julian and Colin, something that, much to my surprise, hadn’t surprised her at all. What surprised me even more was how cool she was with it.

  “I mean really, how could you choose between two men you love?” she asked reasonably.

  She wasn’t so cool with Julian performing an unauthorized organ transplant on his own brother, or involving me in his little conspiracy. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, she lost her shit.

  “That is so many fucking shades of wrong!” she’d raged, storming around my apartment like she was looking for something to break. “I’m going to kill him. Slowly. And painfully. With nothing more than a Foley and my bare hands.”

  I stifled smile. “As much fun as that would be to watch, I really wish you wouldn’t. I still love him.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  “Bree, he had no other choice, and I know he’s paid over and over for it already. If Jordan survived, he probably hates Julian.”

  Bree’s eyes went wide. “If he survived?”

  “It was a pretty drastic experimental procedure,” I told her uncomfortably. “But it was the only possible way to save him. Jordan would be dead without it.”

  “God, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about all this sooner,” she said.

  “Sorry, but I signed a confidentiality agreement and I really didn’t feel right saying anything more than I had to.”

  Then I told her about being unable to reach anyone at the castle. She looked both worried and intrigued. “Really? We’re dashing off to the Castle of Fear because everyone has disappeared? Doesn’t that scream too-stupid-to-live ho
rror movie heroine to you?”

  Nevertheless, she’d jumped on the opportunity, arranging for two weeks off work just in case I needed her. Since I was just a temp, it hadn’t taken much haggling to get me the same two weeks off.

  When we rounded the corner of the castle, I was startled to see that the wheelchair ramp was gone. Oh God, did that mean Jordan had died, he’d left the castle, or he didn’t need a ramp anymore? I rooted for the last option with everything in me.

  No one answered when I rang the doorbell.

  “Are you sure it’s working?” Bree asked, leaning back and shading her eyes with her hand to look up the side of the castle. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I didn’t the last time, either, but Vince came right down.”

  “Hmm.” She reached over and turned the knob. It was unlocked.

  When she looked at me with wary eyes, I shrugged. “We’re way out in the country. They probably never lock the doors.”

  “If you say so.”

  Pushing past her, I walked down the dark hallway and into the tower room. No one here, either, not that I expected there to be. I pushed the button and had to wait for the elevator to open, which meant it had last been used to go up. Hopefully that meant there was someone upstairs—if not the someones I sought, then someone who could give me information about them.

  Bree joined me in the elevator with a doubtful look. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  I tugged her dark brown ponytail with a grin. “What happened to Bree the buff nurse who could kill a man with a single bubble of air?”

  “I left my infamous hypos of horror at the hospital,” she said wryly.

  The door opened on the second floor and I stepped out into the tower room. No lights were on, but the narrow windows let in enough daylight for me to see at least partway down the corridor. I thought I heard a faint clinking sound from that direction.

  “It looks like no one’s—”

  “Shh!” I cocked my head. “Do you hear that?”

  She listened, too, and her eyes widened. “Chains? Really? What’s next? Moaning and shuffling footsteps?” She looked around. “You’re playing some kind of practical joke on me, aren’t you? Come on, Rae, where are the cameras?”

  “Breanna, when have I ever played a practical joke on you or anyone else?”

  “Never, which makes this the perfect setup,” she declared. “I’d never suspect a thing.”

  I rolled my eyes again. “And Julian said I had a vivid imagination. Let’s go.”

  Setting my bag down, I started down the hall, and Bree quickly followed. When the rattling chains and clanking noises grew louder, she grabbed the back of my windbreaker and stepped on my heel, pulling my canvas sneaker off.

  “Get off me,” I hissed, bending down to tug it back on.

  “Sorry.”

  There was another loud clank. And then a deep moan.

  Followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps.

  “Oh, please,” Bree whispered. “This is getting ridiculous.”

  “Shh! It sounds like it’s coming from the dungeon.”

  “The dungeon!” she squeaked.

  “Not that kind of— Never mind. Just stay here for a minute.”

  “No freaking way, sister. Not on your life.” She grabbed my sleeve this time. “I’m coming with you.”

  “All right then, but prepare to see some stuff that may shock you.” When I realized how that sounded, I added, “Kinky stuff, not blood-and-guts stuff.”

  She paused. “Kinky? You mean that kind of dungeon?”

  “Yes. And how do you know about that kind of dungeon?” I demanded quietly.

  “How do you know?” she countered.

  “Shh!” I stopped outside the punishment room and realized the sounds were definitely coming from inside. There was a sliver of light bleeding through beneath the door. Crap, what was going on in there? I hated to interrupt somebody’s scene—unless it was Julian and Colin. It made my heart hurt to remember they’d probably done plenty of scening without me in the last few months.

  The light under the door suddenly disappeared and the shuffling footsteps grew louder. Acting on some childish instinct, Bree and I both darted away from the door and flattened ourselves against the wall, holding each other’s clammy hands. The doorknob turned and I assumed the door opened, though it was hard to tell with the castle’s well-lubricated hinges. A tall figure stepped into the corridor and went directly across to open the door of my room. The curtains must be closed because I could barely make him out as he went inside, leaving the door ajar.

  A light, probably the bedside lamp, switched on. Taking a deep breath, I peeled myself away from the wall, disentangled my hand from Bree’s, and tiptoed over to peer into the room. A tall, lean blond man, dressed all in black, leaned over the nightstand.

  My heart did a sickening flip in my chest.

  “Julian?” I said without thinking.

  His head jerked toward me, revealing blazing blue eyes.

  No, not Julian. Someone younger.

  Someone much, much angrier.

  “Who the bloody hell are you,” he demanded in a stiff British accent, “and what are you doing in my castle?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I gasped. “Oh my God, Jordan?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, stepping fully into the room and holding out my hand. “I’m Rachel McBride.”

  He straightened and turned toward me, crossing his arms. “Dr. Rachel McBride?”

  I dropped my hand. “Yes, that would be me.”

  The man stood there staring long enough to make me squirm, but I couldn’t help staring back. Jordan Kilmartin was not just alive, he was functional. Six months after having his head transplanted, he was actually walking and talking. It was unbelievable. He was still pale and looked older than his twenty-eight years, but that was to be expected, especially considering he’d suffered from Bain’s for five years before the transplant.

  “You look— I mean, you’ve made an amazing recovery,” I said. “The last time I saw you, you were—”

  “Decapitated?” he asked pointedly.

  “Nooo…” I swallowed. “I believe comatose would be a more accurate description.”

  He sneered. “I suppose you’re waiting for me to thank you for restoring the blood supply to my brain.”

  “Not at all.” God, could this possibly get anything more awkward?

  “Good, because you’d have an interminable wait.”

  “Trust me, I understand. Completely.”

  “Oh, I hardly think so but believe what you like. Would it be too much trouble for you to tell me what you’re doing in my bedroom?”

  I looked around quickly. Except for the bed, which had been replaced by an ordinary king with no headboard, everything looked just as it had when I left. “Your room?”

  “Yes. Why, was it your room when you stayed here?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

  “Er, yes,” I admitted, unable to help flushing.

  He smiled, and it wasn’t pretty. “That would explain a great deal, Dr. McBride. Or do you prefer McBride of FrankenDom?”

  Oh hell. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “I’m quite sure you didn’t. You seem entirely too sensitive, and it has all the earmarks of Julian’s twisted little sense of humor.” He glanced around the room. “However, the room is all you, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, it was exactly like this when I arrived.”

  “He created this little pampered slave chamber and filled it will all sorts of amusing toys just for you, though.”

  My face was blazing. “Probably, yes.”

  He prowled toward me—not quite evenly, but still a prowl. Wearing a long-sleeved black turtleneck, loose black pants, black sneakers and even black leather gloves, he reminded me of a panther about to pounce.

  “I wondered what sort of fe
male it would take to capture Julian’s attention,” he murmured, letting his flame-blue gaze slide down my body. “I always thought he was gay.”

  “That would be a reasonable assumption, I guess.” I cleared my throat. It was time for me to get the hell out of Dodge. “Actually, I was looking for Julian. Perhaps could tell me where to find him?”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed, stopping right in front of me. He leaned down until I could feel his warm breath gusting on my lips when he added, “For a price.”

  “All right, I’ve heard enough,” Bree declared, marching into the room. “Back off my sister now, you asshat, or I’ll make you wish you had.”

  Jordan didn’t move, but his eyes flickered to her briefly. “Go away, little girl. You’re not wanted here.” When I started to step back, he barked, “Rachel, stay.”

  I froze, my heart pounding, and his lips curled in a sensuous smile. “Such an obedient little slave. I’m sure my brother enjoyed the fuck out of you. I’m sure I would too. What do you say, Rachel? Would you like to shag FrankenDom’s monster, perhaps in the dungeon across the corridor?”

  “Rachel, would you get the hell away from this guy!” Bree grabbed my wrist and yanked hard, jarring me away from the awful spell of Jordan’s burning eyes. “He’s clearly batshit.”

  He focused on her. “Oh, I am. Certifiably batshit, as a matter of fact. Perhaps I’ll chain you both up and have some fun with you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Good luck catching us if you’re six months post-transplant. Now quit trying to scare us or we’ll chain you up and force you to watch a SpongeBob marathon—the new episodes where he’s lost all his charm and every word he says makes you want to gouge out your own eardrums with an icepick.”

  Jordan looked at me. “Is she always like this?”

  “Pretty much. She’s a nurse,” I added, as if that explained everything. For some people, it would. “Jordan Kilmartin, my sister Breanna McBride.”

  “Delighted,” he sneered.

  “Decapitated,” she sneered back. When he stiffened, she taunted, “What’s the matter, Jordan? Did I hit a sore spot?”