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The runaway bride drops her arms, violin and bow at her sides as she sways in place. Her mascara is smeared down her cheeks, her red hair still half up but partially askew, accenting her round cheekbones and pouty mouth. The bride’s dress is caked with dirt along the hem, and its tattered enough to show her bare feet underneath… God, they’re torn and bleeding.
The glazing in her eyes tells me this is trauma, not a trap.
I nudge Judge with an elbow, and he nods.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside. It’s time to tell us why you’re here.” As if half of the story isn’t evident.
Reaper peels off the group, going to find her car. She wouldn’t have gotten this far without one, so it’s likely broken down on the side of the road. Leaving it would be a definite clue for her whereabouts, and my instincts tell me that it wouldn’t be good for anyone to find her here.
She steps forward, wobbling and packing away her violin with reverent care even though it’s obvious she’s wrecked. The shock is wearing off, and it’s not likely the first one she’s had today.
She’s skittish as she comes into the bar, as the men swarm to their regular spots. She hugs the case to her front and follows, looking each man she passes in the eyes. It’s brave. Probably stupid of her. But my medical training, and my instincts as a man, is to protect her. I follow behind her like a guard and help her maneuver back to my office.
The bride looks around the space oddly. It’s bigger than it seems, crammed with the necessities it takes for my job as the Sanctuary’s doctor. I stitch up a lot of knife wounds and extract a lot of bullets, but nothing like this.
I close the door behind us and pull a stainless steel table from the back wall and lower it so I can check her feet.
Her eyes go wide. Closer, I can see they’re a deep green with flecks of gold. Pretty. Like the rest of her.
“Sit on the couch there.” I point behind her. “Feet up here.”
I tap the metal and wait for her to mutely nod and do as I say. She lowers herself like a princess, setting her violin gently down beside her, then she tucks the ruffles between and around her thighs before she lifts her feet for me.
The bottoms are worse than they looked.
A small part of me breaks at how much pain she’s hiding. The fact that she can keep it not only off her face but out of her eyes reconfirms her trauma. She’s been through much more than whatever’s happened to her today.
I pull my tools and supplies out and lay them behind me. First, I’ll rinse out as much debris as I can.
Judge settles in a chair off to my left, arms crossed as he looks her over, clever with his silence, but she’s not offering anything.
I sit on my stool and spray the wounds with sterile water, wiping gently to see the real damage. She’s got small shards of glass embedded in her heel. When I pull it free with my tweezers, she barely hisses.
I brace her ankle as I extract another piece out. Her shoulders draw tight, but she doesn’t otherwise move, watching me as I work. She’s tough, calm, and I like the feel of her skin under my palm. It makes me extra gentle.
I’m not used to this kind of delicate work, or maybe it’s her delicate bone structure that has me feeling softer than I’m used to.
“Tell me the story,” Judge says—stern without being menacing. Because every runaway bride has one.
Silence beats between us, and I use my light to check her over for anything I might have missed.
“I never wanted to marry him, but I’ve always done what I’m told. What’s best for the family. Even if it’s not good for me.” This woman’s voice is soft but not weak. I’m far too curious about how she’s learned this skill, how she’s built this inner strength.
She stares back at Judge, unwilling to flinch away. Playing a maiden won’t work for her right now, and I think she knows that.
Applying the alcohol finally gets me a hiss out of her. It’s enough of a distraction, enough of her attention back to me for me to ask, “What was the final straw?”
Because she hurt herself badly to get away. Ran so quickly that she left everything but her violin. I don’t see any bruises or cuts other than on her feet. A scrape on her palm matches the two abrasions in the middle of her skirt, indicating she tripped at least once.
Tears glitter in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “Does it matter?”
I squeeze her ankle, but it’s not swollen, and I’m not rough. I find it difficult to let go of her. It seems to keep her grounded. “Of course it matters.”
“Because you won’t help me if I’m just a silly girl who’s changed her mind?” Her features harden, challenging me with her gaze. I want to meet it, to prove I’m more than she expects me to be.
