“Out.” His cologne reminded her of leather and cedar. “Good. Again.”
Another breath in and out.
He removed the stethoscope so abruptly, scribbling another clinical note in her file.
It was ridiculous to be this nervous. “Sorry. I’m not used to doctors.”
“No? That’s okay. We’re almost finished. Let’s get your weight and height.”
She stood on the scale in the corner, the old-fashioned kind with a sliding counterweight.
“Hold still.” His body heat warmed her back through the thin paper gown as he adjusted the weights. “Five feet five inches, one hundred six pounds.” His tone shifted to disapproval. “Underweight. Not dangerously so, but notable. We’ll need to ensure you’re properly fed during your stay.” He set a basket of vials on the metal tray and patted the table. “Up you go.”
She couldn’t seem to settle, and her heart was beating harder than usual.
“Make a fist.”
He tied a tourniquet around her arm and tightened it so the skin bulged. She sucked in a breath when the needle sank into her skin, then he released the band from her arm and drew several samples of her blood. It was over quickly, ending with a small piece of cotton taped over the puncture mark.
“Hard part’s over. Lie back.”
She stiffly reclined on the table, the paper gown crunching loudly with every shift. His eyes traveled down her body, his hands gently uncrossing her wrists from her chest, placing them at her side. “Twenty-two, right?”
It took her a moment to realize he was confirming her age. “Yes.”
“Sexually active?” He opened her gown.
“N-no.”
He cocked his head, cool fingers lowering to her breast. “Is this your first gynecological exam?”
Her face burned. “Yes.”
“Preventive care is important, Ms. Burdan.”
“Preventative care costs money,” she said robotically.
“Everything always comes down to money, doesn’t it?” He clinically pressed into her breast tissue, feeling around the nipple. “Money’s a great equalizer. Or rather, the great divider.”
He glanced at her, briefly making eye contact with a smile. She didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing.
“Breasts feel fine.” He snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Next, I’ll examine you for any existing marks or injuries. Some photography is involved—strictly for documentation purposes, you understand. A baseline before the hunt.”
“Hunt?” Was she allowed to say it? “You mean the Feast?”
He chuckled. “Sure. Stand up, please.”
She closed the gown and scooted off the table, moving in front of the wall where he waited with a digital camera.
“Remove the gown.”
Her throat went dry. Head down, eyes on the floor, she slipped out of the gown. Her lungs forgot how to breathe smoothly in and out.
Hands at her sides, she gripped the paper shield in her fist as he circled her like a buyer at an auction. His gloved fingers lifted her arms, examined her wrists, traced the blue veins showing through her pale skin, and lingered on the faint scars on her knees.
“These?”
“Old. From when I was a kid.”
