The medical wing stank of fear-sweat and antiseptic at six in the morning. Milly Flores floated in her pod like a drowned saint, dark hair fanned around a face that had laughed too loud and loved too hard. Her skin carried that particular waxy sheen of the suspended, caught between life and whatever came after.
Alec pressed his palm against the glass. Cold bit through to bone, but he didn't pull back. Milly had run the best bakery in three counties, her coffee strong enough to wake the dead, her pastries worth sinning for. She'd come to his bed smelling of cinnamon and flour, tasting of the wine she'd always had with dinner, the brandy she'd sipped after.
"Her blood alcohol levels concern me." Dr. Hathaway didn't look up from her charts. "The suspension process should have halted any dam
