The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,92

onto the sheeted, padded surface, he was glad the healer didn’t turn the chandelier on. It seemed far too bright already in the tiled room, the stainless-steel and glass cabinetry glinting at him, the rolling table with its instruments a threat even though those tools were supposed to help in the right hands.

Dearest Virgin in the Fade, Sola’s face was gray from pain and exhaustion as she sat there, her knees up tight to her chest, that navy blue sleeping bag wrapped tight as a second skin around her.

“I’m going to ask all nonessentials to stay out in the hall,” the doctor said, shooing the Brothers, the cousins, and that male healer out. “No, nope—we’ll be fine. Right, bye-bye.” Then in a lower tone, she hissed, “He’s a bonded male. You want to deal with that if I have to do an internal exam on her?”

Bonded … male? Him?

As the Brothers began to argue with her, Assail nodded grimly at the warriors and Rehvenge. “There shall be no problems from me. You have my word.”

Except then he wondered if Marisol’s privacy didn’t also deserve protecting from the likes of him.

“Marisol,” he said softly. “Mayhap it would be best if I—”

“Stay.”

He closed his eyes. “All right.”

Going over to her head, he turned his back on her body so she could return eye contact with his face, but he could see nothing that would compromise her privacy.

The doctor stepped in close to her and spoke softly. Kindly. “If you could lie back, that would be great. If you don’t feel safe, I understand, and I’ll put the top of the bed up for you.”

There was a long silence. “What was your name again?” Marisol asked roughly.

“Jane. I’m Jane. Behind me is my nurse, Ehlena. And nothing is going to happen here that you don’t consent to, okay? You are in charge.”

Indeed, he had a feeling he was going to like this physician.

“Okay. All right.” Marisol grabbed his hand and eased back, grimacing until she was fully prone. “Okay.”

He expected her to let go once she was settled. She did not—and her eyes didn’t budge from his. Not as the healer unwrapped the sleeping bag and covered her with a blanket. Not as questions about a possible concussion were asked, and reflexes tested. Not as that thigh wound was poked and prodded at. Not even as a portable X-ray machine was brought over and a picture taken from several different angles.

“So I have all kinds of good news,” the doctor said a little later as she approached with a laptop. On its monitor, there was the shadowy image of Marisol’s thick, strong thighbone. “Not only is your concussion mild, the bullet passed cleanly through. There’s no evidence that the bone is broken or chipped. So our main issue is the risk of infection. I’d like to clean things out thoroughly—and give you some antibiotics as well as some pain meds. Sound good?”

“I’m fine,” Marisol cut in.

The doctor laughed as she put the laptop aside. “I swear you fit in here so well. That’s what all my patients tell me. Still, I respect your intelligence—and I know that you’re not going to want to put your health at risk. What I’m worried about is sepsis—you told me in the car that you were shot twenty-four hours ago. That’s a long time for things to get cooking in there.”

“Let us see this through, Marisol,” Assail heard himself say. “Let us take the advice given.”

Marisol closed her eyes. “Okay.”

“Good, good.” The doctor made some notes on the laptop. “There’s just one other thing.”

“What?” Assail asked, when there was a lengthy pause.

“Marisol, I need to know if there’s anywhere else you might have been hurt.”

“Anywhere … else?” came a mumbled response.

Assail could feel the doctor staring at him. “Would you mind excusing us for a minute?”

Before he could answer, Marisol squeezed his hand so hard, he winced. “No,” she said stiffly. “Nowhere else.”

The doctor cleared her throat. “You can tell me anything, you know. Anything that is pertinent to your treatment.”

Abruptly, Marisol’s body started trembling again—the way it had in the backseat of the Range Rover. In a rush, like she was ripping something off her skin, she said, “He tried to rape me. It didn’t happen. I got him first—”

All at once, the sounds in the room receded. The idea—no, the reality—that someone had mistreated her, hurt her, scarred her precious body, tried to …

“Are you okay?” someone asked. The nurse. It must be the—

“He’s going

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