Page 3 of Dr. Danger

"Sorry, I’m…" she begins, her voice soft, almost hesitant.

"Late?" I clip, cutting her off. I stand, my gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that makes her flinch. "Do you have any idea how valuable my time is, Miss Weston?"

Her eyes widen, the smile faltering as she takes a step back. "I—"

"No," I say sharply, advancing a step toward her. "Clearly, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t keep me waiting. I run a private clinic, not a charity. My time is expensive, and I expect patients to respect that."

Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks down, her fingers twisting nervously together. "I’m sorry," she murmurs.

"Sorry doesn’t return the minutes I’ve wasted sitting here," I snap.

I see the guilt welling up in her eyes, but I don’t relent. I can’t afford to. She rouses something in me—an unfamiliar and unwelcome stirring that I don’t like. I thrive on control, on cold, calculated precision. She disrupts that balance, and I won’t allow it.

"Do you understand?" I demand, my voice as hard and unyielding as stone.

She nods quickly, swallowing hard. "Yes, Dr. Deathweather. I understand."

"Good." I straighten, smoothing my coat. "Then let’s proceed."

Swallowing, she leads me to the room where our consultation will take place. I glare at her slender back, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort. She’s just another patient. A silly, nineteen year old girl. She’s just another case to solve. Nothing more.

But I can’t shake the image of those bourbon eyes on me. They fill me up with agitation and something else. Something I refuse to name.

3.

Avon

My heart is pounding as I lead Dr. Deathweather down the hallway to a smaller, more private room. His presence is cold and unyielding, yet there's something about him that makes my insides churn and twist in ways I don't understand. He’s rude, condescending, and his words cut deep, but when he looks at me, I feel like I’m melting from the inside out.

I open the door to the sunlit room. It’s modest compared to the rest of the manor, with a comfortable chair, a small table, and a window that looks out onto the gardens. I gesture for him to take a seat, my hands trembling slightly.

"Please, sit," I say, my voice low because I don’t dare raise it in front of him.

He nods curtly, taking the chair with an air of authority that makes the room feel even smaller, and like he’s the lord of the manor and I’m his…servant. I sit opposite him, my fingers fidgeting with the stiff hem of my dress. Lifting my hand, I twirl the pearl in my earlobe. I always try to look older than my years, and usually I think I can pull it off but in front of him I feel like a kid playing dressup.

Dr. Deathweather pulls out a small notebook and a pen, his eyes flicking up to meet mine briefly before focusing on the page.

"Let's get this over with," he says brusquely, not bothering with pleasantries. "Describe your symptoms."

I swallow hard, trying to gather my thoughts. "I’ve been feeling tired lately," I begin, my voice soft. "No matter how much I sleep, I always wake up exhausted. I’ve lost my appetite, and I’m often nauseous. Sometimes, I get dizzy spells that make it hard to stand."

He scribbles notes quickly, his eyes never leaving the page. "How long have these symptoms been present?"

"A few weeks," I say, my voice even softer. "But they’ve gotten worse recently. I’ve also been having nightmares—terrifying dreams that leave me feeling drained when I wake up."

He nods, still writing. "Any other symptoms? Pain? Fever? Weight loss?"

I hesitate, trying to recall everything. "I’ve lost some weight, yes. And there’s this constant feeling of unease, like something is wrong but I can’t pinpoint what."

He glances up, his green eyes icy and penetrating. "Have you experienced any recent trauma or significant stress?"

The question catches me off guard, and I look down, my fingers twisting together. "No... nothing specific," I whisper.

Nothing other than the fact, that my entire bloodline is gone and I’m the only Weston still standing. Everybody else has left me. But none of that happened recently so it doesn’t count.

Dr. Deathweather nods again, making more notes. The room feels colder, his disinterest a freezing barrier between us. He doesn't look at me, doesn't offer any comfort or reassurance. It’s as if I’m just another case, another puzzle to solve.

"Are you on any medication?" he asks, his tone clipped.

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