16. Tasha

16

I'm ripped from restless sleep by the door that's swept open, harsh light flowing in. I jolt upright, clutching the throw to my breasts. "Don't! Please!" I blink into the sharp light that's blinding me, terrified to look beyond it. Several figures are filing into the room. Burley, who is holding the light, an Asian woman, and my host, Matteo. I cower back, my heart in my throat, not wanting to know what's going to happen next.

What time is it even? I don't know. Not with the black-out shutters still down. I tried to open them last night, but they seemed to be locked in place. I rub at my eyes with a groan. I've hardly slept. I thought I'd pass right out, but once I was alone my brain wanted to dissect everything that's happened. Visions of the killing scene haunted me, and then there was Matteo. His touch. His plans for me. The doctor who is coming to take blood samples so that they can match me with desperate people who need black market organs.

I swallow as Matteo comes to stand right beside me. I glance up at him, nervous, and at the same time wanting to fly at him and scratch. He is dressed impeccably in his usual suit, looking well rested. Asshole. Hot freaking prick.

My gaze jumps to Burley. He looks as if he slept like a baby last night. His gaze is flighty, not looking me in the eye, as if we didn't spend a good half hour bonding while cleaning brains and blood off that tile last night.

"Open the shutter," the woman says, and as Burley presses the button and natural light floods in, I curse. I was either too dumb or too rattled to get it right last night. Or maybe they unlocked the jail while I was sleeping. It must be at least eight o'clock already.

She's an older woman, grey at her temples where her hair is sternly swept back, and slightly stooping with age. She has a doctor's traveling case with her which she puts on the edge of the bed. Then she takes the light from Burley, pulls at something, and a telescopic stand folds out with little wheels at the end of it.

Ah hell. I know those. They have them standard everywhere where doctors get to dig. I drop back against the cold wall, a giant knot twisting in my gut. That type of auction. I should have known. I want to bury my face in a pillow at having been so naive, but I don't have one.

"This will take a few minutes," the doctor says, looking at Burley and then in Matteo's direction.

Burley nods and walks out of the room, but Matteo stays put.

"I'll watch," he says, and I curl up inside and die.

The doctor shakes her head with a grunt as she opens her case and pulls out sterile gloves. For the first time she looks me in the eye. "Lie back, legs open."

When I don't move, her cold hand reaches under the throw, touching my foot. I jerk away, only to feel Matteo's warm grip settling on my shoulder.

"You do this with the throw or without. With Burley restraining you, or not. Choose."

I close my eyes at his words, scoot down to lie on my back, and obediently open my legs. A hot red flush is sweeping over me, and I cup my face with my hands to hide. At least they're not auctioning off my organs. Not yet in any event. This comes first.

Every time I've attended a patient's physical exam, whether this intimate or not, flashes in my mind's eyes. How freaking horrible. This one is probably the worst of them all, and I try to force my brain into medical mode to stop tears from seeping from my eyes. I won't be weak in front of him.

The throw shifts and cold air sweeps up my legs and higher, to my sex, all exposed to that stark light. I hear the doctor pulling on her gloves, but I feel Matteo's eyes on me, just like I did that first time he watched me from the veranda at our house. That feels like years ago now.

There're touches to my legs, urging me to open even wider, and I comply, forcing myself to relax to avoid any pain. There follows the confident approach of the doctor's fingers as she probes, the sound of her shifting as she looks properly.

"You know this isn't accurate, right?" she says as her fingers slide from my entrance. "Nothing is hundred percent, but from what I can gather, I'd say she's untouched. I'll write up the necessary letter."

A warm hand rests on my forehead, fingers caressing my hair. His callused palm, scented with the fresh-scented soaps in his shower, only hitches up my already frantic pulse. He is clean and I feel so dirty right now.

"Good girl," he murmurs as he drops something next to my head. A T-shirt. One that smells of him. His hand moves away, and I don't look. Not when I know he's covering my legs again. Not when the doctor pulls off her gloves and closes her case. Not when footsteps fall and the bedroom door locks again.

I turn on my side and curl into a ball, finally letting go of the bottleneck of tears.