"Turn around," I whisper.
"No."
"Alaric—"
"Doctor Graves," he corrects. "And no. I need to observe your motor skills. And your hesitation."
I close my eyes for a second, wishing I could disappear. Wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. But the floor issolid terrazzo, and I am trapped. Slowly, hating every second, I reach for the zipper at the back of the neck. My fingers fumble. The wool feels rough now, abrasive. I pull the zipper down. The cool air hits my spine.
I slide the dress off my shoulders. I have to shimmy to get it past my hips. It falls in a pool of grey fabric at my waist. I am wearing the simple white cotton underwear set he provided. A wireless bra and high-waisted briefs. Functional. Unflattering. Or so I think.
Alaric’s gaze drops. He scans me slowly, starting from my neck, moving down to the hollow of my throat, over the swell of my breasts in the thin cotton, down my stomach, to my hips. His eyes are clinical, yes. But they are also dark. Heated. He isn't just checking for bruises. He is memorizing me.
"Stand up," he orders. "Step out of it."
I slide off the table, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. I step out of the dress and kick it aside. I stand before him in my underwear, shivering. Goosebumps erupt along my arms and legs.
"Sit back down."
I climb back onto the table. I feel naked. Exposed. Alaric steps back in. "Breathe normally."
He picks up the stethoscope. He doesn't warm it. He places the diaphragm against the upper swell of my left breast, just above the bra line. The metal is freezing. I gasp, my back arching reflexively.
"Cold?" he asks. He doesn't sound sorry. "Yes." "Good. Sensory response is intact."
He moves the stethoscope lower. He slides itunderthe fabric of the bra. I stop breathing. His gloved knuckles graze the underside of my breast as he positions the device. The friction of the latex against my skin sends a jolt of electricity straight to my groin. It’s not pleasure—it’s shock. It’s the confusion of the body reacting to stimulus even when the mind is screamingdanger.
"Breathe, Elodie," he commands, his eyes locked on the wall behind me, listening. I inhale shakily. "Again." I exhale.
He moves the stethoscope to the center of my chest, right over my sternum. "Tachycardia," he notes. "Heart rate is one hundred and twenty. Elevated." He looks at me then. "Are you afraid of me?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Good. Fear keeps you alert." He pulls the stethoscope out and lets it hang around his neck. "Now. Lungs."
He puts his hands on my waist. His thumbs press into my lower ribs, his fingers splaying over my back. Through the gloves, his grip is firm, possessive. "Deep breath." I inhale, my chest expanding against his hands. "Exhale." I let it out.
He slides his hands up my ribcage, tracing the bones. "You're too thin," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "I can feel every rib. Stress starvation?" He answers his own question. "Likely. The cortisol levels in your blood work were off the charts."
He moves his hands to my shoulders, squeezing the trapezius muscles. They are rock hard with tension. "Relax," he says. "I can't." "You can. You just don't want to let go."
He begins to massage the muscle, digging his thumbs in deep. It hurts. It hurts so good that a moan trapped in my throat almost escapes. I bite my lip to suppress it. "There," he whispers."Knotty. You carry the weight of the world here, don't you? The prodigy. The perfect daughter."
He moves his hands to my neck, his fingers encircling my throat. I freeze. This is it. The threat.
But he doesn't squeeze. He palpates the glands under my jaw. "Lymph nodes are clear." His thumbs brush over my pulse point. "Still racing," he whispers.
He steps back, breaking the contact. The loss of his heat leaves me feeling colder than before. "Lie back."
I lie down on the crinkling paper. The ceiling lights are blinding. I feel like a specimen on a slide. Alaric moves to the end of the table. "Lift your legs."
I hesitate. "Elodie." The warning is in his tone. I lift my legs, bending my knees, feet flat on the table.
He palpates my abdomen. His hands press deep into my stomach, checking my organs. It is uncomfortable, invasive. I stare at the ceiling, counting the tiles.One, two, three, four...
"Does this hurt?" He presses on my lower right quadrant. "No." "Here?" "No."
He moves his hands down to my hips. He traces the sharp jut of my hip bones. "I see a scar here," he says. His finger traces a thin, white line on my right hip. "Old. Appendix?" "Yes. When I was ten." "Sloppy stitching," he critiques. "I could have done better."
