He purses his lips. “Now, Miss Ward.”
“Turn around.”
He huffs. “The specimen needs my assistance then.”
I wrinkle my brow. “The what?”
He bounds toward me. A breath catches in my throat. He grabs my shirt and hoodie, and I shove his chest, pushing him away from me.
“What the fuck?” I yell.
His hands scrape my stomach as he wrenches the clothes over my head, then twists my arms behind my back. My chest slams into the exam table, and the paper lining crunches under my cheek. His peppery cologne engulfs me.
My core flames with the need to scratch his eyes out and the desire to thrust my ass into his groin.
I don’t like this, I tell myself. I’m here for my mother. I’m not into the assistant. And I’m definitely not into Dr. Ambrose. I’m here for?—
With his free hand, the assistant pulls down my thong and thermal leggings. Cold air cascades over my ass, my skin pebbling in goosebumps.
The tube of acid is lodged against my foot. I need to play nice, so he leaves me alone, then I can hide the vial without his knowledge.
“Undress,” he mutters. “Or I will get rid of the clothes for you.”
His voice is dry and harsh, as if my existence is an inconvenience to him. Acid rises in my esophagus, repulsion and excitement warring in my rib cage. He’s so dismissive that it’s infuriating, but there’s something else there, buried inside of me, that isn’t quite sure how to feel. A part that enjoys this for some reason. A part that thinks it would be better if it came from Dr. Ambrose.
I shift on my feet. The tube of acid rides against the arch of my foot. Slowly, I push down my leggings. I don’t take them off completely yet.
The assistant steps back, returning to his clipboard. His face remains blank, as if forcefully stripping someone’s clothes is a normal part of his job. Maybe it is.
I take off my bra. A metallic clang echoes, startling me.
The assistant arranges a tray of medical equipment with so many tools, I’m not even sure what they are.
“Follow orders,” he barks. “Undress. Then sit.”
I undress cautiously. Once his back is to me again, I take off my socks and shoes, then quickly hide the vial under the exam table. My hip bumps into the table and shifts it. The assistant flips around.
“What are you doing?” he snaps.
I cross my arms over my bare chest. “Waiting for you to get on with it.”
He huffs. I sit my bare ass on the paper lining. The leather’s chill seeps through the barrier. He narrows his eyes, then glances from me to the tray to the exam table.
He’s disinterested in me again. I let out a breath.
He takes my clothes and shoes off of the floor, then stuffs them inside of a biohazard bag. I straighten and blink at my reflection. My skin prickles. Is Dr. Ambrose watching me? Did he see me hide the vial?
Does he want me?
My cheeks redden. I don’t know why that crossed my mind. If Dr. Ambrose is my father, then he made it pretty damn clear he wanted nothing to do with me. And I can’t think about anything sexual like that. Not right now. Not when I’m here because of my murdered mother.
The assistant removes two stirrups from the exam table’s far edge. My stomach churns, my temperature rising.
“Those are for a gynecological exam,” I say. “Why would?—”
“This is about your sexual behavior, Miss Ward,” he says. “Obviously, we’ll need to inspect your holes.”
My stomach flutters. Inspect my holes?
