The private clinic, nestled in an unassuming building in a district known for discreet, exorbitantly priced medical care, was a world away from the bustling chaos of St. Maria's. The air smelled of lemongrass and money, not antiseptic and despair. Elena, accompanied by Marcus in the town car, felt like a specimen being delivered to a lab.
Lionel was already there, waiting in a serene, wood-paneled consultation room. He wore a suit, looking every inch the concerned patron, but his presence made the room feel small and cold.
"Baseline metrics are essential for any effective consultation," he explained, his tone clinically detached. "Given my… unique parameters, we require an extensive profile. Consider it the foundation of your work."
A phlebotomist entered—a quiet, efficient woman named Anya. She set up her tray with an array of vacuum-sealed vials, more than Elena had ever seen drawn for a standard panel. There were tubes for hematology, chemistry, immunology, toxicology, and several with specialized preservatives she didn't recognize.
"This is… comprehensive," Elena murmured as Anya expertly tied the tourniquet around her arm.
"Thoroughness is a virtue," Lionel replied. He had taken a seat in a chair against the wall, outside of Elena's direct line of sight, but she could feel his gaze like a physical weight.
The needle slid into her vein. Dark red blood surged into the first tube. As Anya switched vials, one after another, the rhythmic filling and the soft *click* of each new tube became hypnotic. Elena, a veteran of countless blood draws, usually watched with professional curiosity. Today, she felt strangely exposed, her life essence being quantified and bottled.
Her eyes drifted to Lionel's reflection in the glass of a framed medical certificate on the wall.
He was not looking at her face or at the procedure. His entire focus was on the vials. His posture was rigid, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. His storm-grey eyes were fixed on the rising crimson liquid with an intensity that was neither clinical nor concerned. It was a look of profound, almost painful *hunger*. It was the look of a man in a desert watching water being poured into glass after glass, none of it for him. His lips were slightly parted, and for a fleeting second, she saw the tip of his tongue touch his upper lip—a quick, involuntary gesture of yearning so raw it stole her breath.
He wasn't just observing her tests. He was *craving* her blood.
The realization sent a jolt of primal terror through her, colder and deeper than any fear of his speed or his strength. This was the core of it. The silver, the healing, the golden eyes—they were symptoms. This hunger was the disease.
Anya finished, applying a pressure bandage. "All done. The results will be compiled and sent to Mr. Valerian's private server within 48 hours."
Lionel stood abruptly, his movement smooth but too quick. "Leave us," he said to Anya, his voice tight.
The phlebotomist gathered her tray, the dozen vials of Elena's blood clinking softly, and left without a word.
The silence in the room was thick. Lionel's gaze remained on the closed door for a moment, as if he could see the blood through it. Then he turned to Elena. The hunger was veiled now, but a fierce, restless energy vibrated from him.
"One more sample," he said, his voice low. "A small one. For a… specific allergen panel. I need it fresh."
He produced a single, small, empty vial from his pocket, along with a sterile lancet. He held them out to her.
Elena stared at them, then at his face. The pretense was so thin as to be insulting. "You want to taste it," she whispered, the words a barely audible accusation.
His eyes flashed, not with gold, but with something dangerous—acknowledgment. "The chemical composition, the scent markers… they can indicate compatibility, intolerances. It is a diagnostic tool."
"Liar," she breathed, but there was no force behind it. She was trapped by her own signature, by the contract, by the terrifying fascination of the unknown.
Slowly, she took the lancet and the vial. She pricked her own finger, a familiar, simple action that now felt like a ritual sacrifice. A fat, crimson bead welled up. She held her finger over the vial, squeezing until a few drops fell into the glass container, a tiny, brilliant ruby in the sterile room.
The moment the blood hit the vial, Lionel's controlled composure cracked. A shudder ran through his frame. He took the vial from her nerveless fingers, his own hand closing around it with a startling gentleness.
He didn't drink it. He raised it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply.
His reaction was instantaneous and profound. His face, usually so impassive, contorted in a spasm of what looked like acute agony mixed with ecstasy. He gasped, a ragged, pained sound, and his knees buckled slightly, forcing him to brace a hand against the wall. The knuckles of his hand holding the vial were white.
"My God," he choked out, the words raw, torn from him. He opened his eyes, and they were wide, haunted, the grey depths swirling with a storm of emotion she couldn't begin to decipher: longing, revulsion, wonder, and a loneliness so vast it seemed to swallow the room.
He looked from the vial to her, his gaze searing. "What *are* you?" he breathed, echoing her own unanswered question, but with a desperation that was entirely his own.
Then, as if he couldn't bear the proximity a second longer, he shoved the vial into his pocket, turned, and fled the room. The door shut behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Elena stood alone in the quiet clinic room, the coppery scent of her own blood in the air, the pressure bandage on her arm, the tiny prick on her finger still stinging. The chill of the encounter seeped into her bones. She had just witnessed a predator's hunger and seen it break him. Her blood wasn't just a curiosity to him; it was a torment. A siren's call that caused him actual pain.
Marcus appeared silently at the door to escort her back to the car. The ride to the tower was made in absolute silence. When they arrived, Marcus said, "Mr. Valerian is not to be disturbed. He has retired to his study."
Elena returned to her suite. Hours later, as dusk fell, she stood at her window, looking down at the city. Somewhere in the vast penthouse, Lionel Valerian was locked away with a few drops of her blood. The echo of his pained, awestruck question hung in the air between them, a mystery now shared, and more terrifying than ever.