Page 42 of Damsel in Disguise

With much care, I cut off the ruined clothes. The more I tear through, revealing more skin, the harder I grit down on my molars. So I throw away the scissors when there’s nothing left but her in a matching underwear set.

For a second, I consider removing the gloves and touching her skin directly.

My throat swallows before I can suppress it.

It’s illegal to look at a patient this way, which I’m acutely aware of. I could justify it as clinical efficiency, as contamination prevention, or as oversight. But the truth beneath those excuses is far less comfortable to admit out loud.

I can do anything I want to her at this moment, and the best part is she won’t know a thing. My cock twitches at the thought.

A strained grunt leaves me.

The idea makes me want to slam my head against the wall until I can’t form these unwelcomed thoughts anymore. I’ve never hated myself more than now.

Focus, Alistair. I mentally scold myself and try to tame all my unhinged thoughts at the name of being recorded.

My gloved fingers brush over bruised skin as I assess the damage. Warmth blooms faintly against latex.

I withdraw almost immediately, as if the contact itself has crossed a forbidden boundary. This reaction is foreign to me, and I resent it.

Road rash burns along her thighs and forearms, gravel still embedded at the edges of torn skin. I irrigate each wound methodically, watching the subtle change in her breathing whenever I reach the rawest patches.

She remains sedated, but her body registers the pain every time.

Her shoulder confirms my suspicion the moment I test its alignment. An anterior dislocation was deliberately left untreated.

My jaw tightens.

I’m an engineer—the chief architect of the Triarch Dominion’s electronic neurological infrastructure.

My expertise lies in designing the biomechanical pathways for the Synthète program, not in resetting joints and suturing flesh or playing the role of a trauma surgeon for fuck’s sake.

Yet, I chose not to delegate this to any number of people outside this room to touch her.

An illogical choice. A dangerous deviation from protocol.

So here I am, cleaning her up and changing her into a medical gown, pretending I’m not being watched while this proximity is clearly affecting me in the worst possible ways.

I clean the split along her lip and remove the dried blood from her temple. She smells of antiseptic and asphalt, with a metallic undertone that lingers beneath both. The world narrows to the steady rise and fall of her chest as I work every wound slowly.

This is nothing.

I’ve handled bodies before in the name of science. I have a wife, a marriage constructed like everything else in my life by the Triarch Dominion—functional, strategic, devoid of intimacy.

Physical proximity has never translated into vulnerability.

This is just another girl. I keep reminding myself.

The lie fractures the moment my fingers rest against the curve of her neck, and I feel her pulse accelerate beneath my touch. My fingers subconsciously wrap around her throat, feeling the last of her life right in my grasp.

I don’t put much pressure. Not only because I don’t want her alive, but want her breathing under my command.

Then I remember I need to go and talk to the council about this situation. With that in mind, I reluctantly pull my hand from her throat and focus on finishing what I started.

When I finish treating the external injuries, I retrieve a clean hospital gown and dress her with careful precision. The fabric guides over bruised skin as I adjust her limbs into it carefully, tying the fastenings securely without allowing my gaze to linger where it shouldn’t.

This is so unlike me. And I despise being out of control.

The room is silent except for her soft breathing and the periodic beep of the attached monitors. I hate that I like the sound of her being alive at least.