Page 11 of From Hell
I know most of the staff at Mitre. It’s Whitechapel’s only hospital—even if it is private sector—so the roster is small and intimate. While he looks familiar, I’ve not seen him before; I would remember. Though, something niggles the back of my mind. I can’t quite grasp it. Then, it floats away.
“She’s not here,” I say before he can open his mouth.
Instead of waiting for him to reply, I shoulder my bag and walk around the desk to leave, grimacing at the throb of pain in my arm. The doctor moves in front of me, blocking my way.
“Who isn’t here?” he asks softly, almost dangerously, as he eyes me up and down.
I stare back. “Fiona. I mean Consultant Lee. I’m her daughter. I was just getting something she’d forgotten.” See? I’m armed with a perfectly good excuse if he accuses me of stealing.
He frowns. “You’re bleeding all over the floor.”
I look down at my hand that’s pouring with blood, raining spots on the linoleum. The wound must have opened up. “I, uh, cut my arm earlier.”
He cocks a brow, then puts the files he was holding down and drags the desk chair around to the front. “Sit,” he orders, and my muscles move to obey him for some reason. He has one of those voices that men used to getting their own way have—smooth and controlled. “I’ll get a suture kit.”
He walks into the office bathroom. After a few seconds, the sound of him washing his hands filters through. I’m stunned for a minute, sitting there, but when I think to escape, he comes back in, hands clean and dry, and sits in the visitor chair opposite. He pulls on a pair of surgical gloves and places my arm on the table edge between us.
“Cut? More like sliced.” His silver-gray eyes bore into mine after removing the blood-soaked bandage. “How did it happen?” There’s a coldness in his observation of me, clinical almost.
Who is this man? And why am I still here?
“Shaving,” I say abruptly, a flush of irritation heating my cheeks at how stupid I sound.
He looks unimpressed too. “Shaving?”
He waits for further explanation, but I’m flustered. Weirdly, I’m taken aback by how devastatingly gorgeous he is, close-up, with a hawkish nose, strong, angled jaw, and cheekbones that could slice through thin air. Even with his flinty gray eyes boring into me, his demeanor offensive and imposing as he inspects the wound, he’s incredibly attractive.
My stomach somersaults at his touch as if to agree. I squash it down. It’s been a long time since I got laid, that’s all. After the attack…I wasn’t interested.
“The laceration isn’t too long, but you’ll need stitches since it’s over half an inch deep,” he continues, voice sliding over my skin like silk. “May I?”
I nod as he sprays something freezing cold onto my skin, in contrast to the heat underneath where his fingertips have been. “Antiseptic solution with a mild anesthetic,” he explains, the muscle in his jaw ticcing, not looking up from what he’s doing. When everything is numb, he gets to work cleaning the wound. Despite how he looks at me, his touch is gentle, like I’m made of cut glass. Fragile in his hands. I expect him to use the steri-strips, but he takes a needle from the kit.
You might want to look away,” he suggests at my wide-eyed look.
“I’ve had worse.” I sound brave. I’m not, and I wince when he starts suturing. It dawns on me then that I’m in my mother’s office, letting some strange doctor patch me up after I killed a man. I shouldn’t have come here. There will be questions…
A cold whisper drags through my veins.
Only the pain is a reminder that this is not a dream. I want to snatch my arm away, but I hold it in place, my gaze landing anywhere but on the man in front of me and what he’s doing to my arm. Powder blue walls. Jade green chenille sofa and chairs. Antique-looking books on the wooden shelves above the sofa. A few have strange titles, and I frown as I read them:The Secret Doctrine,The Kybalion, The Book of Thoth…I don’t recall my mother having books like that.
He catches my eye on the books. “So, do you always go around snooping in other people’s private things?”
I turn my gaze toward him, eyes still narrowed. “It’s my mother’s office.”
He gives an amused look and goes back to task. It’s the first I’ve seen his lips make a shape that could be interpreted as a smile. My legs squeeze together at the sight of his mouth. “No, it’s not. It’s mine. Your mother, Fiona, has been relocated down the hall.”
Mum has been relocated? I blink at him, my own mouth making a slight O. “Those books are yours.”
He nods. “You can borrow one if you like?”
My mind spins with a million things. Fuck. How could I get the wrong room? “I didn’t know.”
“I’m beginning to see that, Miss”—his silver eyes dart to my other hand, the ring finger empty, and then meet mine briefly—“Lee?”
“Summers. Lee is my mother’s maiden name.”
He gives me a strange look, a dark shadow flashing across his face, silver-gray eyes turning almost black. “Miss Summers.” His grip tightens on my arm, fingers digging in. Pain shoots through the closed wound. Whatever bedside manner he had is gone—not so gentle anymore. Panic stabs through me like a knife.