Page 9 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo

The thought of that angel—of someone like her—missing him, loving him, assuming he was gone, fueledhis ability to crawl, broken and burning, through the storm to the roadside.

But during these weeks in the dark, when he could think through the pain, he’d realized a few things. No one had come for him, though the old earl had sent word far and wide.

He’d awoken in a pauper’s grave, one saved for the unloved and the unwanted.

Or worse. The condemned.

He had an enemy. One who’d beaten him to death. Or at least assumed they’d succeeded.

And now… he had an angel. One come to life. More beautifully rendered than any artist could compose. Hers was a face molded by a loving celestial hand.

She was young.Quiteyoung.

Was he? He didn’t think so. He felt as old as time.

Though they’d drawn the drapes and lit a single candle for the unveiling, the room may as well have been illuminated by the noonday sun.Sheglowed with some inner luminescence, a light both otherworldly and pure. Her wide lapis eyes glinted like jewels against fresh, gilded skin. She was too soft to be real, surely. Too divine to be mortal. Too golden to be made of the same clay as himself.

And he…

Oh, buggar me blind!he thought.What do I look like?

He needed… something. Something that wasn’t on the dark wardrobe on the far wall, nor the bedside table, but—

There.Above the ivory washbasin to his right.

A mirror.

“It’s… best you don’t look just now.” An impish nose wrinkled with worry as the rest of her features battled with composure when she correctly guessed the reason for his distress.

His shoulders gave out, curling in upon themselves. He wanted to pluck his own eyes out. He wanted her to look away. To let him go. His heart shriveled like a piece of wet rubbish thrown on the fire.

Because she’d confirmed his worst fears.

“I’m a monster,” he groaned.

Was that his voice? As raspy and graveled as the pit he’d pulled himself from.

Fuck,how could those be the first words he spoke to her?

“Oh no!” She clasped his hand even tighter. “You mustn’t think that! You’re a miracle. An absolutemiracle.”

Her eyes shone so earnestly, he couldn’t bear to look at them.

“You don’t have to lie.” As he glanced up at Dr. Holcomb’s impressive muttonchops, his stomach clenched around emptiness at the grim expression tightening the man’s sharp features.

“Your nose didn’t heal as straight as I’d hoped and there’s more swelling than I like. But your more… superficial wounds shouldn’t take too much longer to heal. Your ankle will take the longest, and you should stay off it until I relieve you of the plaster cast in a few weeks’ time.” The doctor bent to pick up the candle and hold it in front of both eyes, tracking their movements.

He wanted to shrink away from the man. The impulse powerful enough that he couldn’t suppress a wince. His skin crawled and his blood sang with ferocity and… fear.

Holcomb pretended not to notice. “Though your eye remains red, it’s reactive to light and movement. Can you see as well as before?”

The truth was, he had no idea.

“I… think I can see fine.”

“All things considered, Miss Weatherstoke is correct. Your continuing recovery is nothing less than miraculous. To be honest, I didn’t expect you to survive.”

“You see?” she encouraged. “A miracle, not a monster. In order to be considered a monster, you must first do something monstrous.”