This is a patient, she firmly reminded herself.
Not a man. A patient.
She cleared her throat, pushed her glasses farther up her nose, and leaned in. Still too close, too much. She thought she could smell him. Probably his deodorant, although it was more animal than chemical—very light, but inevitable in the stifling heat—and a hint of something less healthy. Alcohol?
“Please take a seat on the table, Mr. Blane.” There, that would give her some much-needed distance. Doctor, meet patient. She waited as he stepped up effortlessly and settled himself with a crinkle of paper, perfect muscles shifting under tragic skin.
Burns and battle scars. Even the tattoos.
Most weren’t professionally done, except for the arms and one word she could see, curved at the top of his chest in scrolled lettering that skimmed his collarbones. Mercy, an oddly poignant blazon fluttering above the mess beneath.
“This one looks professional,” she said, reaching out toward the letters before stopping herself, her finger almost close enough to touch the crisp-looking hair. She’d have to touch him eventually, she knew. But better to do it with gloves on, laser in hand.
“That stays.”
Good, she thought, with the strangest sense of letting go inside. Just a tiny slide into relief that the man wasn’t all blades and bared teeth.
“And like I said, I’m keeping the sleeves. They’re…mine. Except for the clock.” He touched his wrist. “We can get rid of that.”
His hand moved to his chest, and he rubbed himself there. The move seemed unconscious, mesmerizing, the sound of his hand rasping over hair loud in the quiet room.
Mercy. What a strange banner for a man who looked like he’d been spared nothing.
“Got it. Keep Mercy and the arms,” she said with an attempt at a smile. She eyed those arms, where death and destruction appeared to play the starring role. A skull, covered in some kind of cowl with a scythe and what looked like oversize earrings, took up his right forearm. Higher, from shoulder to elbow, leered a mask, Mayan or Inca, and perfectly in keeping with his chiseled face. The other arm had darker imagery: a kilted man with a sword, wreaking havoc on what looked like a big wolf. A griffon sat, claws sharp and deadly, and around all of the violence, rooted in the clear-cut line of his wrist, was a complicated design made up of knots and what she thought were Celtic symbols. Crowning it all, an oversize cross covered his entire shoulder, overflowing into the ink on his chest and back, connecting the Mercy in front to his back.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Doctor, she almost wanted to correct him, because anything was better than ma’am. It sounded old, dried-up, sexless, which, on second thought, was probably more than appropriate. Although she didn’t feel sexless right now.
Christ, not at all.
For each tattoo, she went through her usual questions: How long ago had he gotten it? Had it faded? Was it professional? What kind of ink was used?
He didn’t know about the ink for two of them—the eyelids and knuckles—which wasn’t good. She’d had people come in with tattoos made from soot—a lot of those ex-cons—but his didn’t look quite so crude. People would use anything, anything at all, on themselves and each other. She’d once had a patient whose “ink” had been made from melted car tires. The memory made her shiver.
George glanced up to find him looking at her, his attention intimidating in its focus.
She ignored it. Back to his body.
Around his neck curved a black spiderweb, its lines thin and delicate, unlike the heavier areas where no ink had been spared.
“This should be faster than some of the others. The black and the…” She leaned in. “Huh. It looks sketched in. Very light. Interesting how shallow this one is. Looks professional.” Which was weird for a prison tattoo. She’d seen spiderwebs like this before, and they were all prison tattoos.
He nodded, didn’t appear surprised in the least, and quirked that eyebrow again—his version of a smile. “Good eye, Doc.”
“And the rest? You want those gone?”
“All of ’em.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to hurt.”
“Don’t mind.”
Across his body, front to back, her gaze traveled, taking in every pit, every crag, every heartbreaking curve. What a tragic story—she’d seen bits and pieces of ones like it, but this—
Her eyes landed on a swath of discolored flesh marring his side—a burn, if she wasn’t mistaken—an elongated triangle, curved at the top like an—
“Oh no,” she gasped before her hand flew to her mouth to cover it. An iron. He’d been burned with an iron, the skin melted. “Who did this to you, Mr. Blane?”
