Degrees of Wrong

  This time, the straight-and-narrow path could be the road to ruin.

  Dr. Elyse Morgan’s mission: find the cure to the HTN4 virus. The

  compensation, courtesy of the United Nations: a lab stocked with hi-tech

  goodies, limitless resources and enough chocolate to make her rear look like a

  cellulite farm. Bonus: she gets to live.

  Rescued (kidnapped) and secreted (imprisoned) on an undersea warship,

  Elyse adjusts to her assumed identity as a cadet with the finesse of a toeless

  ballerina. Her sulfuric temper and blatant insubordination capture the unwanted

  attention of the ship’s captain, the gorgeous, infuriating, engaged Nicoli Marek.

  Elyse would rather perform her own autopsy than become the other woman,

  but Nicoli—who’s as full of himself as he is of secrets—regards his impending

  marriage as a mere political transaction. And Elyse as fair game.

  As Elyse’s suspicions about the UN’s true agenda mount along with her

  attraction to the relentless, chronically shirtless captain, she must choose between the murky path to everything she’s ever wanted, or the squeaky-clean path of

  self-sacrifice—which could mean taking the secrets of the virus with her to the

  grave.

  Warning: Features a strong, chocolate-loving heroine who takes no prisoners

  on the way to saving the world from an epidemic and winning a captain’s heart.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  Degrees of Wrong

  Copyright © 2012 by Anna Scarlett

  ISBN: 978-1-61921-042-4

  Edited by Sasha Knight

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2012

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  Degrees of Wrong

  Anna Scarlett

  Dedication

  For Lisa B., who put up with my incessant chatter about writing day in and

  out. And for being there for me in general, in all things.

  Chapter One

  2053 A.D.

  Pacific Island of Peleliu

  I was too tired for his charm to be charming. In fact, since I’d already

  bludgeoned the medical code of ethics today, overdosing him to shut him up

  seemed an acceptable degree of wrong.

  Fortunately—and unfortunately—I lacked the morphine to do it. This last

  injection wouldn’t shut him up, wouldn’t impair him beyond silliness—but it

  just might take the bite out of stitches. Possibly it would make him drool too.

  I tightened the tourniquet around his leg. The blood oozed from his nicked

  artery, an improvement from the pulsating rush it had been moments before.

  “This is morphine,” I told him as I injected it, breaking another rule. After all, if he was lucid enough to flirt, then he was lucid enough to ask for permission.

  He shrugged, his composure bordering on disinterest. Sitting against one of

  the wooden beams holding up the makeshift hut, he shifted often, ending each

  almost-grimace with a smile. Though well played, I knew he was in pain—and if

  he wasn’t, we had bigger problems.

  “You’re the doc,” he drawled. Apparently he’d run out of wisecracks. That

  only solved one of our issues. An explosion outside rattled the hut and my

  nerves as I slid on clean gloves and pulled the makings of stitches out of my kit.

  “We’re winning,” he said. “We always win.”

  “That’s good.” By “we” I assumed he meant the other black-clad soldiers

  littering the field and aiming their guns at Team Khaki. Whether that really was

  Degrees of Wrong

  good, I couldn’t say. I didn’t know who these people were, why they were here

  or why they chose this island as the setting for their disagreement. I also found it difficult to care. This inconsequential dirt mound had been inhabited in peace for decades, and now the fields marinated in the blood of its people. While I still

  valued this man’s life, I couldn’t curb my irritation at his obvious contribution to the melee.

  “I’ve got to stitch your leg. You’ve lost some blood.” Lots and lots of blood.

  That he was coherent enough to annoy me seemed impossible. “Swallow this.” I

  pushed the pill through his lips, not even flinching with that particular rule. The antibiotic would ward off the most virulent infections for up to ten days—and

  upset his stomach for most of them. This I didn’t disclose. Acceptable degree of wrong.

  Each rule sounded like glass shattering in my head.

  “I can’t wait for the morphine,” I told him. “You want something to bite

  down on?”

  He nodded, the action flooding the tiny tributaries of sweat on his forehead,

  his blond hair now dark and sopping. The black grime on his face accentuated

  the bluest eyes I’d ever seen—eyes that entertained pain and humor as company.

  I retrieved a wooden stick from my kit, barely suppressing the inappropriate

  smile. I’d been teased throughout medical school for including this caveman tool

  on my list of essentials, the butt of endless jokes. I didn’t think my colleagues would be laughing right now.

  He bit down with a nod of thanks. Should’ve thought about the stick sooner.

  Would’ve spared me the guilt I’d feel later for contemplating his overdose.

  As I stitched, I heard the screaming, the discharging of guns and of life. Each

  explosive blast shook the hut, seasoning us with dust. The sweltering air strafed us with the mingling scent of smoke and death. My patient for his part held still,

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  Anna Scarlett

  fixating his glare on what was left of the palm roof, his teeth grinding an

  impression into the wood. He grimaced sometimes but never verbalized the

  pain.

  I finished, saturating the wound with antiseptic, wrapping it with gauze.

  “This is just the beginning.” I snapped off my gloves. “As soon as you can, get

  follow-up treatment. It’ll need to be examined to make sure it healed correctly

  and has no infection. And it needs to be cleaned and re-dressed often.” He might

  need surgery too. This I also didn’t disclose. Acceptable degree of wrong.

  He relaxed, pulling the stick from his mouth and discarding it with a toss.

  For the first time since the initial stitch, he looked at me, his posture less rigid.

  And incredibly, he grinned. It was the laziest smile I’d ever seen—only one

  corner of his mouth bothered to participate. “Now you owe me a favor,” he said.

  Moving his arm behind his head for support, he all but sprawled out in front of

&
nbsp; me. He looked comfortable.

  Perhaps the morphine had worked better than I’d anticipated.

  Although his declaration was cousin to ridiculous, I humored him and the

  narcotic. “Really? For what?”

  If he needed a diversion from the pain, I could understand. I made a display

  of relaxing, moving from my heels to sit on the earthen floor, even as I reminded myself of the others who still needed me. I’d leave him here as soon as I

  ascertained he wouldn’t go into shock.

  “I let you poke and prod my innards.” He referred incorrectly to the area. “I

  believe that entitles me to a repayment of some sort.”

  “What can I do for you, soldier?” I waited for the punch line of my own joke.

  It came.

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  Degrees of Wrong

  “Lots of things, Doc. But the one I want most is…” his wicked grin widened,

  both corners of his mouth working together in a smile that reached those devilish blue eyes as he finished, “…a date.”

  I expected the occasional flirtatious patient—it came with the territory—and

  I always took it in stride, adjusting my bedside manner as needed. But this

  wasn’t the occasional patient. Confidence was transparent on his filthy face. This man knew what he was doing. His definition of bedside manner had to be

  different than mine.

  I allowed myself to look at him as a woman instead of a doctor. Of course,

  there were those impressive eyes, fertile with mischief, and the blond hair that

  seemed to pay tribute to his baby-face features. I guessed him to be around my

  age, twenty-four. His black uniform—what was left of it, anyway—fit his body

  as if hand tailored to accentuate it. It was absurd to think any military would

  accommodate each soldier in this way—and impossible not to feel sorry for the

  countless men who must look and feel inadequate in this uniform designed for

  his perfect build.

  He did appeal to the eye—and he knew it.

  “A date? You live around here?” I kept the rhetorical question cordial, noting

  I could no longer hear gunfire.

  His grin faltered with the geography. “No. But I’m sure we could make it

  work. I could pick you up at your office.”

  I didn’t bother telling him this was my office—wherever my patient was—

  because the clarity in his voice troubled me. The morphine and blood loss should

  have teamed up against him by now, commencing with the drool and slurred

  speech. Had it even taken effect yet? For his sake, I hoped so.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

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  Not rolling my eyes was almost physically painful. “Well, should I call you

  soldier all the time? You get many dates that way?”

  “What’s your name, Doc?”

  I would have answered—none of the secrets I kept had anything to do with

  my name—but I swallowed the response as a stampede of soldiers charged into

  the hut in a whirlwind of weapons, boots and dirt. At least six barrels pinpointed my head, marking me for dead with their lasers. The shuffling behind me hinted

  that looking back would be both pointless and dangerous. Instead, I eased up,

  stifling an almost overwhelming reflex to run.

  As the hut reached maximum capacity, it collapsed around us in a pile of

  palm, exposing us to the sunlight—and the devastation of the battlefield. When

  the dust settled and my eyes adjusted, I took in a full view of the destruction, as best a statue could.

  This five-square-mile speck would never be the same. Was my home still

  standing? Did my lab still have four walls? I couldn’t convince myself of it.

  The apparent leader stepped forward, and I forgot about my home. In a

  fraction of a second, he inspected my blue-eyed patient, taking in the bandages

  and my open medical kit.

  “Identify yourself, woman,” he barked. His black mask allowed a teasing

  view of his dark eyes. He sported an intact version of the black regimentals my

  patient wore.

  “I was just getting to that, Geoffrey,” said my still-very-lucid invalid. “You

  interrupt everything.” Two of the other masked soldiers helped him to his feet.

  He cut off my objections with a dismissive wave. “I’ll be fine.”

  I clenched my jaw. Who exactly is the physician here? Hoping to find an ally in the leader, I said, “He is not fine. He was bleeding to death, and I just stitched 10

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  Degrees of Wrong

  him up five minutes ago. The morphine will be wearing off soon, and he’ll wish

  he didn’t just stand.” Or the morphine will just be kicking in.

  He proved to be my friend—well, the blue-eyed womanizer’s friend,

  anyway. The leader nodded without losing eye contact with me, and the twin-

  like soldiers whisked my patient away, amid his protests. To make him aware of

  my disapproval of his stunt, I huffed aloud, stomping my foot. Blue Eyes never

  looked back.

  I felt betrayed. Used and betrayed. Unappreciated, used and betrayed. I

  resolved to send him a bill, if I ever found out who he was.

  The leader recaptured my attention by taking a step toward me. “Your name,

  Doctor.”

  His abrasive tone chiseled at my backbone. I bit my lip in contemplation.

  Well, in anxiety too, but mostly contemplation. I almost told Blue Eyes my name, but it felt different, like a casual introduction. This… this felt like an intrusion.

  Common sense screamed at me to resist. To withhold it, to keep it safe, to use it for negotiating. But for what? I wasn’t wealthy or famous, had no political ties

  and no friends gracing those categories. Still, if the man with the gun thought my name was valuable, then I ought to consider it priceless. I lifted my chin.

  Surprise flickered in his eyes before he shifted back to business as usual. He

  lowered his gun then swept it behind his back before clasping his hands in front

  of him. Confidence and ease—neither of which belonged to me—filled the air

  between us like a vapor.

  I tried to gulp in a way that didn’t seem cowardly. I also tried to remember

  why I’d decided to be difficult in the first place. Something about negotiating

  came to mind but didn’t seem quite as important as before. No doubt these men

  were well trained in the art of Information Extraction—how far would I let it go?

  Was it worth pain? Was it worth suffering?

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  Anna Scarlett

  “Dr. Elyse Morgan,” he said.

  I tried to rein in the shock before it reached my face but could tell by his

  triumphant glare how poorly I’d succeeded. I’d been handed over like a gift.

  Might as well have been wearing a bow.

  “We’ve been looking for you. You’ll need to come with us.”

  The sharp pain at my neck catapulted me into the long, black tunnel of

  unconsciousness. As coherency slipped from my grasp, as I struggled against the

  detachment, one last thought broke the surface—I forgot to lock the front door

  this morning.

  I hated being tazed.

  “Dr. Morgan? Can you hear me?”

  Yes, vaguely. My eyes were open but registered inky nothingness. A hand

  shook my sho
ulder, then disappeared.

  “Dr. Morgan, if you can hear me, please acknowledge.”

  Acknowledge what? And was someone holding me down? My thoughts felt

  uncatchable, circling in my head like agitated bees. And then the buzzing

  stopped. My memory came back like the bursting of a dam—a slow trickle at

  first and then the final, violent rupture, flooding me with images and sounds and smells. Then the pain. Rage worked through my body, reanimating my arms and

  legs through the numbness.

  I hated being tazed.

  After a few seconds of unproductive blinking, my vision returned, albeit a

  little blurred. A lone light fixture hung from the ceiling by its own cord. I was strapped to a metal chair with hands bound behind me, my neck stiff from the

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  Degrees of Wrong

  weight of my head hanging limply while I slept. It was chilly. Or my neurons

  were misfiring from the trauma.

  I hated being tazed.

  The leader from the hut stood before me. He’d ditched the mask, but I

  recognized his sentient dark eyes. I guessed him to be about my height, stocky

  and of Native American descent. It was impossible to tell if the straight line

  across his face was a frown or a smile.

  This must be the Information Extraction Room. Pushing back fear, I examined my surroundings, searched for the torture devices. The concrete walls were a

  stark, institutional white. No tools or straps hung from the ceiling, no eerie hooks protruded from anywhere. Of course, I couldn’t see behind me—maybe

  everything was placed out of sight, in case they could get me to talk without

  torture. I had, after all, confirmed my name without so much as a paper-rock-

  scissors.

  The room seemed to hold its breath, bloated with unease, gravid with

  suspense, waiting for the delivery of the first word, the first movement, the

  birthing of the consequences of sitting in this chair. I supposed anticipation could be torturous—maybe this was the first level. I inhaled deeply to slow my

  traitorous heart rate—which had tripled since I woke up—and stiffened my

  spine, sat straighter. I will pass this level.

  Only two soldiers stood guard with my tight-lipped captor. Guess they

  didn’t expect me to put up much of a fight. How embarrassing.

  “How do you feel?” the leader asked. His question reverberated like

  percussion off the walls, startling me almost out of the chair. I suspected he did it on purpose.