Synopsis

In a city on the brink of revolution, science and passion offer their own strains of violence.

Petrograd, 1916 After her aristocratic family’s fall from fortune, Mariya is desperate to survive – and to support her widowed mother and sisters. Matters alleviate when she finds work as an assistant to Dr. Nikolas Rodin, a reclusive scientist. Though the job makes ends meet, she is soon pulled into his strange and secretive world: a world of flickering gaslights, whispered experiments, and a man whose brilliance is as alluring as it is unstable.

Tuberculosis and revolution both ravage Russia. And as political unrest swells and illness creeps closer, Mariya finds herself torn between a future of safety and a love that threatens to unravel everything. But in the dark corridors of the laboratory, nothing is as it seems – and the line between devotion and danger disappears entirely.

Darkly romantic and steeped in suspense, THE LABORATORY ASSISTANT explores the perilous chemistry of desire, madness, and the choices that haunt us.

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This book releases on June 2, 2026

Excerpt

Mariya followed after the scientist. The smell assaulted her senses, an amalgamation of urine, sweat, and infirmity. The room—cell, really—was dimmer than the hallway. And when the patient came into view, it took every ounce of willpower to swallow her gasp.

The man was a giant, easily over seven feet in his convalescence. His hands were enormous, his fingers as thick as sausages.

Patient is violent. Mariya shuddered, unable to imagine the kind of devastation such a man could inflict.

At that instant, a consumptive rattle exploded from the man’s chest. The rasp undulated his torso and sprayed sick wetness through the air.

Mariya shrank back, but the scientist did not seem perturbed. There was no sink, and the assistant watched as the man soaked a cloth with alcohol and rubbed his hands. He beckoned her and she approached cautiously, taking a wide berth around the patient.

“If you would,” he said, glancing at the gloves. “Place them on, please.”

He raised his hands and the assistant disinfected her own hands, then slipped them on with a deft touch. She took care to give an extra tug on the bottom, just as he liked.

Dr. Rodin nodded toward the corner. The assistant took her post. She flipped to a new page in the notepad and dated the entry.

Dr. Rodin began, taking out a wide assortment of medical utensils.

He worked over the patient, taking basal temperatures, mucus samples, and spending a significant portion of time listening to the patient’s lungs and heartbeat. All the while, he gave descriptions of his observations and issued streams of numbers Mariya copied in her neat hand. The doctor worked quickly. She had to ask him to repeat himself several times. As promised, there was no irritation in his voice as he did so.

Mariya concentrated on the scientist’s verbal annotations. But she could not help her hyperawareness—and on two occasions, she witnessed the patient suddenly rouse and strain upwards against his bonds.

Each time, Dr. Rodin seemed to sense this seconds before it happened. The patient would grow still—and silent. And in the next instant, would lunge against his restraints, by which time, Dr. Rodin had already stepped back, observing the patient with a cool eye.

Mariya’s heart beat furiously within her ribcage. The consumptive air swirled around her, threatening to engulf the scientist and his assistant along with the patient. The tubercular energy thickened and condensed, so that Mariya had to squint in the dim light to read her own writing.

The doctor gave statistics and numericals, and the assistant ignored the shiver metastasizing and rattling in ever-increasing decibels. She did not falter, and the only indication that she was not entirely composed was the ink that splattered the page when the patient would convulse against his bonds.

At last, she sensed more than saw Dr. Rodin move away from the patient. He indicated toward the door and Mariya snapped the notepad shut and moved.

That’s when it happened. She was passing by the table when the man gave a great lurch, stronger and more determined than before, and had Mariya been merely a pace closer, the man might have seized her. As it was, the displaced wind of the movement assaulted her. The assistant gave a cry and lunged toward the door.

Dr. Rodin observed this from behind his face mask. The scientist and his assistant made eye contact: A cold fear trickled into her stomach as she saw something foreign, something nearly alien move behind his irises.

The air of the place rose up behind her, as if the shadows in the crevices were now conglomerating, joining together to rise into a looming figure immediately behind her.

Mariya flew past the scientist toward the door. The assistant escaped into the hallway, only narrowly avoiding the burly figure of Sergei.

The man grinned at her. “Did you enjoy meeting Nikolay Vladimirovich Radkevich? You’re braver than you look, girl—raped and murdered seven prostitutes, all about your age. Not many would have the stomach for it.”

The remnants of stale bread roiled in her stomach. She pressed a trembling handkerchief to her lips and swallowed the nausea.

Patients, Mariya remembered Dr. Rodin saying. Plural. They had barely gotten through the first examination. The assistant did not know whether she could manage a second.

About the Author

Natalia Loya is lawyer/writer/amateur guitarist. When not wrangling legal briefs or weaving works of fiction, she’s usually out on a run or working on her Not Terrible Flamenco guitar skills. Her work blends her love of feminist history, emotional depth, and magical realism. She lives in Texas with her husband and three dogs.

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