As Bridget walked over to the security guard's station and asked him to buzz her out into the lobby, she looked through the thick bulletproof glass, searching for Turner.

Kian hadn't given her a description, but it was unnecessary. Chances were there would be no one else in the lobby.

The residents of the high-rise, mortals and immortals alike, parked in their designated underground garages and used the elevators to get to their apartments. The non-clan residences were rented out to corporations in need of temporary lodging for their traveling executives, which meant that most of them were unoccupied and that guests were rare.

Clan members didn't invite outsiders as a rule.

She spotted him standing with his back to the guard station and looking out onto the street, his feet shoulder-width apart, and his hands behind his back with the thumbs interlocking.

The first thing she noticed was the bald head, the second was the perfect posture—straight but not rigid, confident but not arrogant.

The third was his attire, which reminded her of Andrew. Did all agents, active and retired, wear slacks with suit jackets to work? Not that she had anything against it, but it was uncommon in a world dominated by jeans and T-shirts. A guy who worked mostly undercover should not dress in a way that made him stand out.

Perhaps he had dressed up for his meeting with her. Some people still regarded doctors with respect. Especially those belonging to older generations.

The door didn't make a sound as it swung open, defying the term getting buzzed in and out, but nevertheless, her visitor immediately turned around, pinning her with the most intense set of eyes she'd seen on anyone other than Kian.

Gray, focused, and super intelligent.

A man to be reckoned with.

As he strode toward her, Bridget took a few steps and met him halfway. "You must be Turner." She offered her hand. "I'm Doctor Bridget."

He affected a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Bridget."

Most people reacted with surprise when first seeing her, either because she looked too young to be a doctor, or because of her red hair. But if Turner found her appearance surprising, he didn't let on. His facial features remained impassive, as did his scent.

Evidently he didn't find her attractive at all.

Disappointing, since she found him very much so, even though he wasn't as tall as the men she tended to gravitate toward.

With his beautiful, intelligent gray eyes, tight, muscular body, and confidence to rival Kian's, Turner was a splendid male specimen despite his somewhat less than impressive height and his human limitations.

Besides, with her five foot one, he still had about half a foot on her.

She could make an exception for him.

"Follow me."

On the way to the clinic, Turner didn't talk, but his eyes were busy taking everything in. She had no doubt that if asked he could draw a map of the place from memory.

"Here we are," Bridget said as she unlocked the door to her domain, ushering him into her office.

He took the seat she'd offered. "Aren't you going to examine me?"

Bridget treated him to one of her indulgent doctor's smiles, which was condescending when directed at an intelligent adult, expecting to get a rise out of him, but she was again disappointed. Apparently, Turner didn't react to implied put-downs either.

Was there anything he reacted to?

"I need to ask you a few questions first. I'm sure you've seen a number of doctors by now and are familiar with the process."

"I saw only one, and now you."

She lifted a brow. "Ever?"

"No. Just about this. I had to see a number of them during my military career. The physicals required of all military personnel are mandatory."

Bridget opened her tablet to her favorite note-taking application. "What about when you were a kid? Did you get sick a lot?"

"No."

"How often did you get a cold or a flu?"

"Rarely."

"Define rarely." She waved a hand. "Once a year, twice a year…"

"I didn't keep a record, but no more than once every three years, probably less."

"What about your parents? Any health issues?"

"I wouldn't know. My mother ran off with some guy when I was four, and my father remarried and left me with his parents. We didn't keep in touch."

Bridget wasn't a psychologist, but getting abandoned at a young age by both parents might have explained Turner's emotional detachment. "Is your father still alive?"

"No."

"Do you know what he died of?"

"Not cancer."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It was liver failure."

"How about your mother?"

"I don't know."

Bridget put her tablet down. "Given what you do for a living, I would assume you could have found her."

"What for?"

"Curiosity?"

Turner shrugged. "She wasn't worth my time."

"What if she had a good reason to leave? You were only four at the time. Maybe your father was violent with her? Maybe he threatened her life? It happens."

"Not in her case. Even if it were true, she could have found a way to contact me. I was living with my paternal grandparents. I wasn't hard to find."

"That is unfortunately true. How about your grandparents? Did they suffer from any major diseases?"

"Not really. They both lived to an old age, so there was Alzheimer's and frailty."

"Both paternal and maternal?"

"I didn't know my maternal grandparents."

Bridget had strained her mediocre sense of smell in an effort to detect any emotional change in Turner, but he was either very good at keeping his feelings buried deep inside, or she was very bad at sniffing.

But she wasn't.

Bridget had an average sense of smell for an immortal female, which should have been enough to detect a human's emotional state. Maybe not every subtlety, but things like anger, anxiety, or disappointment produced scents strong enough for her to recognize.

Turner was like a vault. Which, surprisingly, just whetted her appetite to dig deeper and see what made him tick.

"Why do you refuse conventional treatment?"

He lifted one blond brow. "How do you know I'm not getting treated?"

"That's what you told Kian."

"Not in so many words, but you are correct. I don't want to go through chemotherapy." He smoothed his hand over his bald scalp. "I don't want to lose all this great hair." He smiled, taking her breath away.

Turner's lips were beautiful, they were his best feature after his eyes. When his expression was grave, which was most of the time, they had a cruel bent to them. When he smiled, though, his expression softened and those lips looked good enough to nibble on.

Get a hold of yourself, Bridget. He is a patient, and you're his doctor.

"We wouldn't want that. But seriously. Cancer treatments have advanced significantly over the last decade. It's no longer the death sentence it used to be."

His expression impassive again, he pinned her with those gray eyes of his. "I refuse to live in the shadow of death. To do what I do, I need complete emotional stability and calm. It's not that I fear death, I don't mind a swift departure, but I don't want to live a life that revolves around treatments and words like remission instead of cure."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do. But I still think you are wrong. Your solution is far more extreme than the treatments you dread. I feel horrible for telling you that, but you're too old for the transition. Besides, it's highly unlikely that you are a Dormant."

"Ouch. Hearing a beautiful young woman telling me I'm too old hurts my feelings."

Obviously, it was untrue. His feelings weren't hurt. Turner was just trying to lighten the mood, for her sake, not his. Bridget appreciated the effort but didn't need it. Still, in case he actually felt something, and was just very good at hiding it, she returned the favor.

"I'm much older than you are. And you look great for what I assume is your age. You keep yourself in excellent shape." Even the suit jacket couldn't hide his muscular chest. Turner was built like a bulldog, all muscle and leashed ferocity.

He smiled again and dipped his head. "Your compliment is much appreciated. May I ask how old you are? I know it's impolite, but I'm curious."

Bridget smirked. "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to satisfy your curiosity. A lady never reveals her age."