Chapter 8
The heavy, carved walnut doors of Benedict’s private study closed with a solid, reassuring thud, muting the vast emptiness of the mansion. The study was a fortress of deep wood tones and rich leather, illuminated by a single, ornate brass desk lamp that cast a soft elegant warmth across the room.
Benedict gently set Nolan down on a large, overstuffed leather sofa. The boy, exhausted by the emotional turmoil of the evening, immediately curled up, pulling a throw blanket over his small formal dinner suit. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Vera stood awkwardly near the center of the room, her slender figure looking out of place among the heavy, masculine decor. She kept her injured hand cradled against her waist, her sophisticated black maid dress pristine despite the chaos of the night.
"Are you comfortable standing, or will you take a seat?" Benedict asked, gesturing toward a plush armchair near the desk.
"I prefer to stand, thank you, sir," Vera replied politely, her softly oval face illuminated by the lamplight.
Before Benedict could ask another question, the study door opened. Dr. Evans, a middle-aged man carrying a sleek black medical bag, hurried into the room. He took one look at the sleeping boy and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"You called for me, Mr. Hale?" the doctor asked.
"Will you examine her right hand, Doctor?" Benedict asked, nodding toward Vera.
The doctor approached Vera, setting his bag down on the desk. "Let's take a look, Miss. Please, sit down, it will be easier."
Reluctantly, Vera sat in the armchair. Dr. Evans carefully unwound the makeshift bandage she had applied earlier in the kitchen. As the gauze fell away, the true extent of the injury was revealed. The back of her fair, rosy hand was swollen to twice its normal size, mottled with ugly shades of black, purple, and deep red. Two of her fingers sat at an unnatural, slightly crooked angle.
Benedict stood behind his massive desk, his cold, perceptive eyes tracking the doctor's movements. His powerful shoulders were rigid in his dark three-piece suit.
"It's a severe crush injury," Dr. Evans murmured, gently probing the swollen skin. Vera hissed quietly, her delicate cheekbones tightening in pain. "Two fractured metacarpals, possibly a hairline fracture in the proximal phalanx. You are incredibly lucky the skin didn't burst."
"Will she require surgery?" Benedict asked, his deep voice carrying a terrifyingly calm authority.
"I don't believe so, sir. But she will need a custom splint, heavy anti-inflammatories, and absolutely no physical labor for at least six weeks to ensure proper healing," the doctor explained, pulling a medical-grade brace from his bag.
"Will you ensure she receives the best possible care?" Benedict asked.
"Of course, Mr. Hale. I will set the bones now and apply the brace," Dr. Evans said. He looked at Vera sympathetically. "This is going to hurt quite a bit for a moment."
Vera closed her eyes, bracing herself. She gripped the arm of the chair with her uninjured left hand. As the doctor applied pressure to realign the fractured bones, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips.
Suddenly, a large, warm hand rested on her left shoulder.
Vera opened her eyes and looked up. Benedict had walked around the desk and was standing directly beside her chair. His presence was overwhelmingly masculine and grounding.
"Are you going to pass out, Vera?" Benedict asked softly.
"No, sir," Vera breathed, the pain momentarily eclipsed by the electric warmth of his tattooed hand on her shoulder.
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"Will you squeeze my hand if the pain becomes too much?" Benedict asked, offering his left hand to her.
Vera looked at his hand, the refined artistic tattoos swirling across his knuckles. Trembling, she reached up and wrapped her small, uninjured fingers around his. His grip was a solid, unbreakable anchor in the dimly lit study, holding her steady until the doctor finally secured the heavy medical brace in place.
