The Nymph King by Gena Showalter

Author:Gena Showalter
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3, pdf
Tags: Paranormal Romance Stories, Fantasy Fiction, General, Romance, Fantasy, Supernatural, Atlantis (Legendary Place), Fiction, Love Stories
ISBN: 9780373775354
Publisher: HQN Books
Published: 2007-01-02T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DR. BRENNAJOHNSTONtied her black curls on top of her head with a thin strip of cloth. As always, a few of the shorter curls escaped confinement and cascaded down her temples.

How did I get myself into this situation?

She gazed down at the man lying unconscious on the bed of sapphire silk. His beautiful dark hair was spread over his large shoulders. His eyelashes etched shadows on his cheeks. His nose was slightly crooked, his lips lush.

He looked like a fallen angel.

A dying, bloody, pain-entrenched fallen angel.

Blood oozed from the thick gashes on his chest and thigh. His skin, she knew from seeing him earlier, was usually tanned. Now it was pale, tinted slightly blue because he’d gone into a mild form of shock.

She was a surgeon, but she would have preferredher tools inher hospital withher nurses. Not the jars of oil and sand she’d been given, not the nonsterile environment, not the lughead standing guard at the door.

Still, Brenna couldn’t let her patient die. She wouldn’t.

She had been terrified since she’d been taken by these giant, hulking beasts, but for the first time since entering this... whatever it was, she felt in control. Like herself. Confident and in her element.

Brenna motioned to the guard stationed at the door, and he approached her. She didn’t back away, but forced herself to stand her ground as she signed what she needed.

His face scrunched with confusion, and he held up his hands, a command for her to be still. “I do not understand what you are doing. Can you not speak?”

She sighed inwardly. Her vocal cords had been severely damaged years ago. There weren’t any scars on the outside; no, her scars were internal. She’d been attacked—a blurred, blackened, hated memory she could not allow herself to relive at the moment, not if she hoped to function—and while she could speak, her voice was... ugly.

“Needle,” she croaked. “Thread.” Primitive that he obviously was, he probably wouldn’t know a scalpel from a butter knife. “Operating tools.”

He cringed at the rough, broken sound, but nodded and raced off. When he returned a short while later, he handed her a lumpy black satchel. She unrolled it, finding a bronze scalpel, long, thin hooks and several iron needles.

“Fire,” she said. “Hot water.”

Understanding, he grabbed a lit sconce from the wall and tossed it into the hearth. The logs inside quickly caught flame, crackling and burning. After he had gathered the bowl of water, she heated the instruments over the fire.

Once everything was as sterilized as she could get it, her hands scrubbed clean, she at last approached her patient, ready to act. He had yet to move, had yet to make a single sound. His features were relaxed, unaffected.

That both elated and worried her. At least he wouldn’t feel the pain of her needle. But such a deep sleep... Brenna squared her shoulders and got to work. She cut off his pants, cleaned the gaping wounds on his legs and chest, and did her best to repair the torn tissue—which was in better shape than she’d dared hope.

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