Page 16 of The Ecstasy of Sin
His fear is obvious as his eyes flicker between me and the door, like he’s trying to determine how long it will take him to reach it if I decide to eat him alive, and he needs to run from me.
Why do they always look like they want to run? Don’t people know that predators are hard-wired to chase moving prey?
I don’t say anything in response to his question, merely tilting my head slightly to regard him with subtle amusement etched into my face. It’s a dumb question, considering the blood streaking down the side of my face from a gash above my eye.
"Ah. Got yourself a n-nice little f-facial laceration.” He stammers over his words, his hands fussing with a worn clipboardhe’s gripping like it might shield him. A clipboard he quickly sets aside, since we both know he won’t be needing it.
My brothers and I use him for a reason. He accepts cash, asks no questions, makes no records, and keeps his mouth shut about what he sees and hears. Mostly.
He’s a chatty motherfucker, a trait I don’t find endearing.
Although his fear brings with it a sweet little surge of pleasure, unfurling along my spine, I don’t want to waste my time. I want this done as quickly as possible.
Tonight was exhausting for too many reasons to count, and I’m ready to go home and crash.
Reaching behind me, I pull a stack of cash from my pocket and take a step towards him with my arm outstretched. He flinches, taking a step away from me, and a sick fucking grin tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Come on, Doc. You know better than to act like prey in front of men like me.”
He recoils like I struck him. I rarely speak more than a few words whenever I stop by. That may have been the longest sentence I’ve ever spoken to him in all the years I’ve paid him for his services.
He eyes the stack of cash in my hand like it’s a bomb. I can see his thought process written all over his anxious face: he’s wondering if this is worth all the money I pay in exchange for his medical skills. If it’s worth the fear for his life he experiences every time I enter his black market clinic in the dead of night.
Money is the greatest motivator for most men. I stare at his throat as he swallows hard, then reaches out to take the cash from me.
I hold onto it for longer than necessary, just to watch as the pulse in his neck skips and races like a terrified rabbit caught in a trap.
Once I release him, he clears his throat and turns away from me. But only half way, like he’s too afraid to actually expose his back to me. He flips through the stack of cash, counting it roughly, before placing it inside the top drawer of his desk.
By the time he faces me again, I'm already sitting on the vinyl-padded examination table.
He takes a deep breath as he walks back over to me, snapping on a pair of sterile, white gloves. “That’s a nasty gash.” He leans in, examining the torn flesh of my eyebrow.
Another rivulet of blood snakes down the side of my face as his fingers poke and prod the laceration with gentle precision. His other hand is quick to grab a thick piece of gauze and press it just below my brow to shield my eye.
“I know you usually decline local anesthetic, but I highly suggest it for today. I will need to layer in the dissolving sutures to make sure this heals faster.”
When I nod, he turns away from me to prep the tray of tools he’ll need to treat me.
Although I don’t care if it scars, or hurts, I do want it to heal properly before the next time I step into Ryker’s illegal fighting cage. I’m not on the roster for the near future, but that can change quickly when everything in Ryker’s notorious club, Blood Siphon, tends to happen last minute.
I close the eye he is working above as he starts flushing the wound with saline solution, a white towel catching the red-tinged liquid.
I pull out my phone and check my messages, having felt it vibrate several times in my pocket since I’ve been here.
GHOST
I'm disowning these two fuckers.
They're in your kitchen arguing about who gets to take Hunter out.
I'm two seconds away from knocking them both the fuck out and taking him out myself.
I’m relieved to hear that Torin is back to his normal self—not that any of us would be considered normal by any stretch of the word.
It’s 4:30 in the morning, and I’m actually surprised they haven’t passed out on my couch, the rerun of tonight’s hockey game playing quietly in the background, considering everything that went down tonight.
A small sound of amusement slips out of me as I read Ghost’s text message, and the noise startles Dr. Denton.
