The Bad Guy's Doctor

TWENTY SIX

I stand with a foot between his legs, his hair resting against the side of my thigh. His hands weave around my ankle and rest lightly on the floor. His figure was blocked from view by my counter, along with a familiar collar secured around his neck. Taking him back in has been full of retreating—on his part.

Arsenio holds onto me but doesn't make a sound. Doesn't ask for more.

Being deprived of something truly makes you want it more, even though he tried his best to squash it down. I could feel his presence, even more, perhaps instinctive, unwavering and observing.

"Let go," I say and he shakes his head, softly. Resisting, yet not tightening his grip. I let my fingers drag against his hair, soft and silky, before resting against his temple. Stepping away, I watch Arsenio look down at his hands before resting them on the ground completely. He looked a lot better than a few nights ago.

The exhaustion wasn't completely gone, but some of the blood had entirely returned to his face.

I go to the back, sliding open a drawer as I picked out a finger splint. For tomorrow, I'm guessing that someone will end up breaking a bone. I enter the clinic again, an unfamiliar face thrumming his fingers against the counter. Arsenio is tracing the collar around his neck, still on the ground. His eyes don't rise to my own, his attention completely on what's behind him--the stranger.

The man doesn't know about the predator in front of him.

"Hello, sir. What would you like from the menu?" I gesture to the display, stopping at the counter. The man on the ground caresses my calf slowly. Gentle. Tentative.

"Lemon grass soup please." I nod and he hands me the appropriate amount of cash. He rubs the back of his neck, checking his phone. I leave the money on the counter and turn around, heading toward the back. No one would dare steal in my clinic.

Not when they knew who was watching.

I use the ladle to scoop the soup into the bowl, feeling it warm against my hand. I emerge from the room to see Arsenio with his hand around the man's wrist, eyes colder than a winter's day. He turns to glance at me, before sharply letting go of the customer. "What happened?" I say, narrowing my eyes.

Arsenio draws back, wincing slightly at my tone. "Ah, sorry, I just wanted to recount the bills, and, uh, this fellow surprised me. It was my fault, I apologize." I place the bowl on a tray and slide it toward him.

"Did he take anything?" I question Arsenio who shakes his head. "Good." The tension releases from Arsenio's shoulders, almost as if he let out a breath. I point toward the other side of the counter, toward a stand of utensils. "If you need anything, let me know. Napkins and spoons are over there." The man thanked me quickly, before hurrying off. Arsenio looks down at his phone, eyebrows raising slightly.

I tap my fingers against the counter, before taking the money and heading toward the back room. Tucking the bills inside a pouch, I lean against a table and stir the soup. A few minutes later, Arsenio joins me. The door swings silently closed.

Arsenio knows me better than I know myself.

"Who is he?"

"A detective recently sent over from another nation. Probably tracking the foot traffic to the clinic." He walks toward me, the dimness of the room casting perfect shadows on his face. I reach up, cupping his cheek in my palm. His hand raises slowly to my own, his lips pressing against my pulse point without breaking eye contact. "He's not a known name. They're gathering information on him now, but..."

"He has to be good. He must've traced someone here." Someone's identity was revealed. Under surveillance. "Start weeding them out, in groups." Arsenio nods, eyes lowering to my hand. Bandaged, like his own. He traces the curve of my finger, a whisper of contact.