Page 1 of The Packaged Deal
one
Adrian
“Hurry, Doctor.” The harried night receptionist of the Omega Refuge leads me through a maze of corridors. She glances back anxiously, her ridiculous corkscrew curls bouncing with every step. I’ve been here many times, but they usually prefer using female doctors at night. I was surprised to get the call so late. They must be desperate, which tells me things must be bad.
“Tell me what’s wrong, slowly, this time,” I say, and shift my bag to my other hand so I can sweep my hair back. It’s getting too long, but he said he liked it. I wince at my runaway thought and push him out of my mind.
“She was found half an hour ago, curled up by the back door. She’s not conscious, and the damage, well, it’s severe. It looks quite bad. We called you straight away.”
She, the receptionist, Margo, or is it Martha, slows and turns, gesturing to a door. “Through there.”
“Thank you. Fran,” I say, recalling her name suddenly, “stay close, I might need your help.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
I walk inside and see a lump in the middle of the bed, looking incredibly small on the cheap blue sheets. She’s tiny. Is she a child? They wouldn’t have brought a male, even a boy, this deep into the refuge. I pull up a chair and set my bag on it, trying not to make any loud noises. I hope she’s not a screamer. I always get terrible nightmares after I treat them. She doesn’t move as I pull out a blood pressure cuff and take her readings or when gently place my stethoscope under her shirt and listen to her chest.
It takes exactly one swift glance up and down her body to establish that, no, she’s not a child. Her hair is dark, and her lashes are long. That’s about all I can tell about her features other than she’s too thin, and she’s bruised all to hell. The swelling is everywhere.
Her vitals seem good, her heart strong. Her pupils are responsive. I frown and start cataloging the collection of bruises she’s covered in. Her face has been hit several times. She’s got a broken nose, split lips, black eyes, and a nasty cut to her temple that I suspect is where the majority of the blood comes from.
I can’t even tell what colour her hair is because of the blood. I work my way down, checking her front and back, and finally hesitate. There’s only one thing left to do, but I'm not doing it without permission, and there has to be another woman here. I refuse to be that trauma.
“Fran. It’s not as severe as it seems. But, hmm.” I look at the tiny woman and wonder how someone could do this to someone as small as this woman. After the things I’ve seen, I know it’s possible. I suddenly realise I can’t even catch her designation. It’s not unusual for perfume under extreme pressure or influences of drugs to become undetectable or appear as something different. I make a note of it in the chart for the refuge.
The receptionist comes inside with an armful of blankets and a bowl of steaming water. “Do I need to check for-”
The woman sits up, gasping. I reach out, cradling her back, taking the pressure off her as she fights to work out where she is.
She moans in pain, lifting a hand to her face, and lets out a small sob. I should be used to this, but it never gets easier.
“Easy, love, easy. It’s okay, you're safe now, you made it to safety.” I keep my voice low and unthreatening. “My name is Adrian Shultz. I'm your doctor.”
Her wild eyes find mine, and I'm stunned to find that behind the swollen flesh, her eyes are a strikingly unusual violet colour. They seek me out, searching into my soul, trying to discern if I'm lying.
I’ve never felt so raw. Faintly, I catch the barest hint of blackberries.
“Do you know your name?” I ask in a low voice.
The terror scent in the air spikes, and she shakes her head.
“All right, that’s fine. We’ll call you Jo for now. Okay?” I ease around, so she can see my face. “Listen, I need to do a test to see if he raped you. I’ll be quick and gentle. I know it’s difficult, but I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
She shakes her head and moans. I hate the fingerprints on her throat. Would that I could erase them.
“Didn’t get a chance,” she whispers huskily.
“Are you sure?” I’m not sure if she’s lying or not, but I get a sense she’s telling me the truth.
“Very. He didn’t do anything but what you can see.”
The sour scent of terror is easing, but the assault of it on my senses still urges my alpha out to destroy whatever threatens her. I’ve never reacted like this before.
I lick my lips and swallow hard. “Okay, do you have any family?”
Her eye’s cut away from mine, and her fingers clench the sheet until her knuckles turn white. “No. But can you find Onyx Treyfield or Hazel Montford?”
My eyebrows rise. Those are two names I wouldn’t have thought she’d say. “I'll bring them here.”