Elaris's POV
The first thing that hit me as we stepped into the clinic was the smell. Not antiseptic or alcohol, but decay and a heavy dose of rottenness festering wild in the halls.
Bile rose fast to my throat, and I'd almost doubled over and thrown up my breakfast, that is, even if I had had any. The smell clawed into my nostrils, charging madly for my insides, until my intestines were curling with disgust.
I froze just past the threshold at first, unable to take the stench. Torren wasn't joking around when he said I needed a nose mask. This was more than a nasal assault; it was nasal warfare. With no alternative for a nose mask, I pulled up my dress enough that my legs were still covered, while I could cover my nose too with it.
Torren continued into the halls. "Move," he said flatly from ahead of me, not even turning back. "Or is this too much for the great doctor already?"
I don't know why he was picking on me, but I had known him to be an asshole, so I refused to let his words get to me. Years ago, I'd thought he was the cutest of the brothers, but I'd realized over the years he was perhaps the worst, predictably violent, arrogant, too macho, and an utter drunk.
He threw the whiskey bottle to his lips, chugging at it mindlessly as he led the way further in.
I wanted to tell him drinking so heavily around such smells and disease was inviting trouble, but when has he ever been the listening type?
I kept my opinion to myself. He could rot in hell for all I care. I swallowed hard, forcing my feet forward, scanning the clinic now from my medical perspective.
It was overcrowded and chaotic. Beds—if they could even be called that—were packed too closely together. Some patients lay on makeshift cots, while some others were on the bare floor with only thin sheets beneath them.
Ventilation was poor too. Windows were too small or sealed shut. Heat clung to the room, thick and suffocating, worsening the stench.
Hell! This was worse than I had initially thought. This was proving to be more than I could deal with. I would need far more than my team too…
My breath caught, gathering in my chest until it felt painful.
Skin lesions. It wasn't just on a single case. It was widespread.
I stepped closer to a young boy, barely older than ten. His eyes looked almost absent in his head as he raised them up to me.
His body was drenched in sweat, his lips dry and cracked. His breathing was shallow, his chest barely moved, and yet he seemed to be breathing faster than normal.
Tachypnea. I thought, letting back my breath slowly before my chest could burst. Fury roared up my veins at the sight. How could they let this happen? How could they let things descend into such a state where a child like this is vulnerable?
I looked up to Torren, who just chugged on his whiskey, his face hidden behind the cloth he covered his nose with. But his eyes told me he was unconcerned about all this. The bastard. This was a serious epidemic.
I returned to the boy, staring over the necrotic patches spread across his arms, darkened and peeling at the edges. Some areas oozed pus, thick and yellow-green.
My fingers twitched at my side, instinct screaming at me to examine him properly. But I knew the danger of touching him without gloves or protection myself.
"Don't," Torren's voice cut in, sharp and mocking, though I was already pulling back from the boy. "Unless you plan to actually fix him."
"Yeah, I do, and not like you who just chugged on a drink with no care in the world about your subjects." I wanted to yell at him, but I shot him a not-too-polite grin to work his nerves up.
And by the disgust that was plastered on his face after, I knew I had succeeded.
I crouched beside the boy, careful not to touch the open lesions directly. "How long has he been like this?" I asked low and controlled.
"Days. Weeks. I can't tell. No one keeps track?" Torren shrugged.
I clenched my jaw.
Unmonitored progression. No proper charting. No isolation protocols. They weren't running a clinic but a morgue, except the corpses still had a little bit of life in them.
I moved my gaze across the room, to the sea of patients at different stages of illness.
Some had early symptoms—rashes, inflammation, mild discoloration. Others were far worse—full tissue breakdown, muscle exposure in extreme cases. A few… weren't moving at all.
Probably dead or beyond help?
My stomach twisted the more I took in the sight. Bile rose fast to my throat. I did everything I could mentally to hold onto whatever food was left in my stomach. Rage pumped through my veins as I watched how bad they had handled the epidemic. It was bad, too bad.
"This isn't just one condition," I said to him. "There's primary pathology, then opportunistic infections layered on top. Possibly immunosuppression…"
"Speak English, doctor," Torren drawled.
I clenched my teeth tight, grunting. I wanted to rip him apart with my claws. I wish I could.
I turned to face him, my face hostile enough to let him know the hate was more than mutual. "This is an epidemic."
He gave a dry chuckle, leaning lazily against a wooden beam. "Congratulations. You've figured out what everyone already knows." He threw the bottle of whiskey to his lips again, still chuckling.
"No," I snapped, sharper than I intended. "You don't know. If you did, this place wouldn't look like this."
His eyes narrowed slightly, but I didn't stop.
"Where are the quarantine sections?" I demanded. "Why are late-stage patients mixed with early-stage cases? You're accelerating transmission. Cross-contamination alone—"
"—is inevitable," he cut in, bored. "The epidemic spread too quickly for the pack's medical team to handle, and besides, no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't narrow down the cause, and before long even they fell prey to the epidemic. Hence, you see no medical staff around. We've flown them out for treatment."
"Still, you should have done something. "Things got so much worse," I said, looking around at the bodies around, most nearing their last moment or already past it. "You should have brought in more medics, faster, and tried to contain the disease, however basic. You should have—"
Torren tilted his head, watching me like I was some entertaining spectacle. He amused himself with his whiskey. "You done?" he asked when I stopped.
My hands curled into fists. Yeah, I should probably rip him apart if I got the chance.
"You should know we tried to bring in more medics, and after more fell to the disease, none wanted to come again. They couldn't find the main source of the illness and were only treating their symptoms until they were overwhelmed and incapacitated. Hence, why we sought your great medical expertise. So why don't you get right to work and perform the service for which we are paying you an exorbitant amount of money?" he said, his gaze flicked to me, and then he suckled on his bottle harder and walked past me for the door.
I followed him quietly, multiple thoughts of murder screaming in and out of my mind. It was a miracle to me that I didn't act on even one until he disappeared out the door.
I hurried after him. "I will need more than my current team," I said.
"And you will get it," he said, wiping the whiskey off his lips with his sleeves. "I'll ask Karl to request more medics. With the famous Miracle Doctor here and a good pay, they should want to come."
"I will also need you to get a good, well-ventilated, and comfortable place for the patients and also a quarantine space."
"I will have a guard prepare that too." He said over his broad shoulders too.
"And I will need you to stop drinking and look at me and assure me you are fucking really listening." I snapped angrily, yelling. He'd successfully worked my irritation and rage right to the roof.
He turned to me now, his brows furrowed tight, his eyes squinted hard at me. Before I could move my lips for even a syllable, he'd ridden me fast to the nearest wall.
I tried to stay calm and firm, tried to stay in control, but the weight of his gaze was so pressing my chest heaved, heart hammering against it, despite every effort.
"Be careful, doctor. This is the nicest I can be. I assure you, you don't want to see the other side of me. So know your place, and stay the hell away from me and my drink." He said.
Then he leaned back, his eyes dropping low down my body. "And…" he drawled with a strange bite to his expression and voice, words forced through clenched teeth. "You are no longer in the clinic, so drop your dress from your nose. The sight beneath is distracting."
I hadn't gotten a response to him yet when he turned around and strode down the corridor, chugging more of his whiskey.
I remained against the wall, following the departure of his broad, strong back. My eyes widened slightly, and my mouth hung open. But I wasn't shocked by his actions but by how I reacted to them and why something close to desire had swept my core at his nearness earlier.
I looked down, past my fingers tightened on the hem of my dress now. He wasn't wrong. A little too much of my legs were exposed. But why should he even care about that for it to be distracting to him?