Page 10 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

I settle onto the edge of the table, half-sitting with her still cradled in my arms, one leg braced on the floor. One-handed, I dig into my back pocket and pull out another wad of cash—grateful I usually carry more than I need.

I toss the money toward the other end of the table. He picks it up with trembling hands, his eyes watching me closely for any sign that I will act on the murderous rage I know is simmering in my eyes .

Dr. Denton stares at me long enough to have me curling my lip in disdain over his lack of action. He startles at the expression on my face, before turning away and scurrying like a rat to his desk. He deposits the payment quickly.

“Did she mention what brought her in here?”

“Migraine,” I say simply, frustrated that he is moving so fucking slowly.

He nods in response, turning away from me and heading back into the pharmacy.

I take the opportunity to touch her. My finger traces the arch of her mouth, caressing her full bottom lip, then trailing up the curve of her jaw to brush the long, black lashes resting against her cheek. Next, I trace the outline of her face, the skin soft but pallid.

My hand descends, wrapping gently around the delicate column of her throat, fingers spanning the width like a collar. Her pulse flutters wildly beneath my palm. I don’t squeeze, I just hold her, focusing on the life still thrumming through her veins.

Such a frail little lamb.

A fondness expands from the center of my chest, and I find myself unsure what to do with the feeling. So I stroke her pulse for another few minutes, until the doctor steps back into the room.

He stops in the doorway when he sees my hand wrapped around her throat. I turn my head to meet his gaze unapologetically. This part isn’t his fucking business.

He watches me warily, like he’s trying to judge the level of danger in the room right now.

I’m sure I look exactly as unhinged as I feel .

“What’s that?” I nod toward him, my attention turning to the syringes gripped in his fist.

He clears his throat as he walks over to us, uncapping the first one and setting the others down beside me.

“This first one is a steroid to prevent the migraine from reoccurring,” he explains as he injects it into her shoulder muscle. “It will reduce any inflammation in her brain.”

I listen closely, switching between watching her face and keeping track of his movements.

“This one,” he continues, uncapping the next, “is an anti-emetic to stop the nausea. And the last one’s a strong painkiller.”

I nod, as if I fully understand the chemical cocktail he’s giving her. Absentminded, I begin massaging her shoulder where the injections were administered. I stop when I realize what I’m doing, unsure if it will help or make things feel worse when she wakes up.

“I need you to lay her down so I can start an IV line. I’ll draw some blood for tests, and she needs fluids. She’s probably dehydrated.”

I hesitate, then shift and slip off the table. I carefully lower her body down onto the exam table, tucking her arms in along her sides.

I drag my fingers through her hair as Dr. Denton turns away to grab more supplies from the cupboards, gently untangling a few of the small knots I noticed earlier.

When he returns with what he needs, he gets to work inserting the IV line. Once it’s in place, he draws several vials of blood. When he has what he needs, he attaches her to the machine. It beeps a few times then begins a steady drip.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He disappears into the pharmacy and leaves me alone with her again.

As soon as he’s gone, I walk over to the door and grab the backpack that slipped off her earlier. Bringing it over to the exam table, I set it down and unzip it.

She wasn’t lying about being homeless. There’s a rolled wool blanket strapped to the bottom of the pack, the material coarse and worn.

I find random items inside. A hair tie and a broken comb, a pack of baby wipes, an empty bottle of Ibuprofen, the book she mentioned earlier, and a few pieces of clothing stuffed into a plastic grocery bag.

In one side pocket, I find some pads and tampons, a flashlight, and a toothbrush with a tube of toothpaste secured together by a hair band. In the other side pocket, there is a bus schedule, a pamphlet on resources for homeless people in Toronto, and a folded paper.

My hand freezes as I stare down at it.

The paper says Medical Assistance in Dying in bold letters in the top left corner.

A wave of sadness washes over me, and the application slips from my hand and lands on the exam table. I turn to watch her where she lays motionless on the table.

What kind of hell is she living in that makes her want to end her life ?

I snatch up the application, crumple it up and stuff it into my pocket. She’s not going to die. Her life doesn’t end unless I decide it does.

Lastly, I find another bottle of medication. This one is a prescription, and it has her name written across the label: Wren Holloway.

I read the directions: Take one tablet daily for prevention of migraines.

It’s empty. That explains her current state. I frown, seeing that there are still three refills. I assume she couldn’t afford to fill it.

I set the empty bottle down beside her bag, put everything else away, and zip it shut.

When I look back at her, I’m surprised to find her awake. I’m met with her big brown eyes and a set of eerily dilated pupils. She says nothing, just holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity before Dr. Denton enters the room and breaks the spell.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, walking over to her with yet another injection. “How are you feeling now?”

Her glassy eyes bounce between us, before she turns her attention to him with a heart-felt smile that makes me want to set the doctor on fire for being the one it’s aimed at.

She clears her throat, finding her voice. “The pain and nausea aren’t so extreme now.”

I watch as the doctor injects something else directly into her IV port. “I’ve given you a pretty strong migraine cocktail, and the fluids should help you get back on your feet quickly. ”

“Thank you. I’ve been having the most intense migraines lately.”

He tosses the needle into the sharps bin before turning towards her, crossing his arms over his chest. “You really should consider getting on a preventative medication if your attacks are this severe.”

A beautiful blush spreads across her pale face, all the way down her neck. “I have one, I just… haven’t been able to get a refill.”

His attention shifts to the empty bottle I left beside her bag. He picks it up to read the label. “I’ll get this refilled for you. I have extra large bottles in stock, so it will last you the rest of the year.”

Her blush only deepens, “Oh, I’m sorry. I—” She stops mid-sentence. Her eyes flick to me. I recognize the shame that spreads like wildfire across her face. “I can’t afford that right now. In fact, I can’t afford any of this unless it’s covered by the province.”

Dr. Denton waves her off, turning away from her with the bottle in hand to head back into his pharmacy. “Dominic has covered your medical expenses today.”

Her surprised expression falls to me, and the look I find there rattles me to the core.

“Oh, wow. Thank you,” she whispers.

She’s looking at me like I’m some kind of hero. She doesn’t realize she just thanked the devil for his mercy.