Page 10 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo
He had.
The revelation hit his gut like a swallowed stone.
The evidence was in his violent, visceral reaction to everyone and everything.
Except her.
Scrambling around the aching emptiness in his brain for the barest hint of a past, he found nothing. He rememberednothing. Not his name. His age. His origin. Not even his own hair or eye color.
Yet certain powerful, primal information gave him a terrifying glimpse into his nature.
He knew things a monster would know. Noticed what a monster would notice.
He could kill. With that decorative letter opener, the pillow beneath his head, the pitcher of water broken into lethal shards. He could and would open an artery, or throat if necessary. He knew exactly how much damage he could inflict. How much time it would take. Where to exert the most force or pressure.
Pain was not only his oppressor, keeping him useless upon this bed. It was his tool.
His friend.
The only friend he could remember.
How was it he knew nothing, but could ascertain that?
The doctor’s touch repulsed him, in every confusing and conceivable way. A strong man with cold eyes. Someone who wielded more power than he did.
For now.
This he could not abide. Why?Why?
He leveled a cautionary stare at the doctor as Holcomb measured the pulse at his throat.
Holcomb regarded him strangely, in turn, before standing. “I—think I’ll go tell the earl the news.” He paused in the doorway. “My Lady, would you like to accompany me?”
“I’ll stay and make certain our patient keeps down a few sips of soup.”
“Are you certain you should be alone with—”
“We’ll be fine, Dr. Holcomb, thank you ever so much.” Even her dismissal sounded like a compliment.
The doctor’s eyes narrowed dubiously. “As you say.”
Then they were alone.
Could she hear his heart pounding? Could she see how quickly his chest rose and fell? Did she feel anything but pity when she looked at him?
She released his hand, and reached for the bowl of soup at his bedside.
Bereft, he brought his empty hand back over his heart, which ached more than it beat.
“Hungry?” she asked brightly.
Unable to find words again, he shook his head. He couldn’t think of eating. Not in front of her. She was a lady, refinement evident in her every graceful gesture. What if he did something embarrassing?
“It’s very good.” She lifted the spoon. “I’ve been feeding you every day while you’ve been here. This is a favorite of yours.”
It was? He eyed the brown liquid dubiously, wondering just what floated beneath the surface.
“If I have some first, would that help?” She lifted a healthy spoonful of what appeared to be broth and soggy vegetables to her plump pink lips.
