Did he feel a teeny, tiny, thrill of power when this man with the authority and carte blanche to tell him to undress pulled the earpieces out as if Zechariah had burned him?

No. He felt alive again.

Zechariah rose from his seat, hands clasped behind his back. Dr. Wells was a tall man. He rested his hand on the small of the doctor’s back, gesturing down the hall to where he intended to guide him.

“The drawing room gets a much better view,” he said, pleasantly, as if he had not just launched a crude come-on and then shocked him with his own equipment. “Or we could take this conversation to the wine cellar.”