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 over!” the doctor barked.
Assail wondered about whom they were speaking … as he lost consciousness.
TWENTY-THREE
“Speak, healer,” Wrath demanded as he stood over the motionless body of his shellan. “Speak!”
Dearest Virgin Scribe, she looked dead.
Indeed, immediately following his Anha’s collapse, he had carried her back to their mated room, the Brothers going with him, the aristocrats and their worthless social gaming left behind. It was he who had laid his beloved out upon the bedding platform as the healer was summoned, and he who had been the one to loosen her bodice. The Brothers had departed as soon as the trusted physician arrived with the tools of his healing trade, and then it had been only the three of them, the crackling fire, and the scream that rebounded in his soul.
“Healer, what say thou?”
The male looked over his shoulder from his crouch beside Anha. With the black robes of his station flowing to the floor, he rather resembled a giant bird, imminently due to take flight.
“She is dangerously compromised, my lord.” As Wrath recoiled, the healer rose. “I believe she is with young.”
A cold draft hit him, rushing from his head to his feet, wiping out the feeling in his entire form. “She is…”
“With young. Aye. I could tell when I felt her belly. It is hard and distended, and you did say she recently was upon her needing.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “So this is caused by the—”
“’Tis not a symptom of early pregnancy as she is not bleeding. No, I do believe this malaise is accounted for by something different. Please, my lord, let us approach the fire to speak so as not to disturb her.”
Wrath allowed himself to be drawn closer to the banked flames. “Is she ill then with fever?”
“My lord…” The healer cleared his throat, as if mayhap he was worried about a death that had naught to do with the queen. “Forgive me, my lord…”
“Tell me not that you have no explanation,” Wrath hissed.
“Would you prefer I mislead you? Her heart is sluggish, her pallor is gray, her breathing is shallow and intermittent. There could be some internal difficulty that I cannae measure that she is succumbing to. I do not know.”
Wrath shifted his eyes back to his mate. He had never been one to feel fear o’ermuch. Now terror slipped into his skin, possessing him as an evil spirit would, taking him o’er.
“My lord, I would tell you to feed her. Now and for as often as she may take the proceeds of your vein. Mayhap the charge of energy that comes with it with turn this about … certainly, if she has any hope, it is you. And if she rouses, I shall give her fresh water only, no ale. Nothing that will cause a further depression of her systems—”
“Get out.”
“My lord, she is—”
“Leave us—now!”
Wrath was aware of the male stumbling to the door. And well the healer might—a murderous rage was risen in the chest of his King and liable to be directed upon any bodily form within reach.