The Surgeon’s Scars: Running From My Past

"Sir! Sir, please let me look at that!"

The hotel manager came rushing over, clutching a white first-aid box like a shield. He looked terrified, his eyes darting between the blood dripping from Damon's hand and the expensive carpet.

Damon didn't look at the manager. He looked at Adonis, then tried to look past him to where Adria was cowering. With an impatient growl, he snatched a linen napkin from a nearby table and wrapped it crudely around his palm. The white fabric blossomed red almost instantly.

"I'm fine," Damon rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. "Back off."

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. The organizers, desperate to salvage the evening, began ushering guests toward the dining area with overly loud voices and strained smiles.

"Dinner is served! Please, everyone, find your seats!"

Adria felt a hand on her back. It was her mother, Mrs. Barr. Her grip was firm, bordering on painful. "Pull yourself together, Adria," she hissed in her ear. "Don't make a scene. We are at the main table."

Adria wanted to vomit. She wanted to leave. But the social contract of her world was a steel trap. She let herself be guided to the large round table near the front of the room.

She sat down, her knees knocking together. She reached for her water glass, needing something to do with her hands.

Then the chair opposite her was pulled out.

Damon sat down. He didn't sit like a civilized guest; he sprawled, taking up space, his bandaged hand resting on the tablecloth like a declaration of war. He was directly across from her. There was nowhere to look but at him.

Campbell slid into the seat next to him, smoothing her silk dress. She looped her arm through Damon's uninjured one, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Oh my god, Damon, you scared me," she murmured, loud enough for the table to hear. She looked at Adria with a triumphant, pitying smile.

The rest of the table filled up. Ollie and Zack, Damon's childhood friends, took the remaining seats. They looked like they would rather be anywhere else.

Ollie, never one to read the room, cleared his throat. He looked from Damon's bleeding hand to Adria's pale face and let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, this is cozy. Just like the old days, right?"

Adria's hands were shaking so badly she had to tuck them under her thighs. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to use the physical pain to ground herself.

Damon didn't speak. He just watched her. He saw the way her shoulders were hunched, the way she was making herself small. His jaw worked, a muscle feathering under his skin.

Waiters descended, placing appetizers in front of them. Oysters on the half shell.

The smell hit Adria instantly-the brine, the raw metallic scent of the sea. It triggered a violent recoil in her body. Her stomach cramped hard. Since the miscarriage, since the hemorrhage that had nearly drained her life away in that apartment, her body rejected raw food. It rejected the smell of blood and brine.

She stared at the plate, bile rising in her throat.

"You know," Ollie continued, oblivious to the homicide stare Damon was giving him, "I'm surprised you came, Adria. You used to avoid these things like the plague. Especially... well, you know."

Especially to avoid Damon. That was what he didn't say.

The words felt like a scalpel slicing through her composure. It reminded her of the rumors, the whispers that she had run away because she was weak, because she couldn't handle the pressure of being with a Hansen.

Adria's face went paper-white. She reached for her water glass again, but her hand jerked. Water sloshed over the rim, staining the tablecloth.

Thud.

A dull, heavy sound came from under the table.

"Ow! Fuck!" Ollie yelped, jumping in his seat. He glared at Damon. "You kicked me!"

Damon didn't even blink. His eyes were cold, dead sharks. "Shut up, Ollie."

The command was low, but it carried a threat of violence that silenced the entire table.

Campbell didn't like the attention Damon was paying to Adria, negative or not. She picked up a napkin, dipping it in her water glass. "Here, let me clean your cuff, honey," she cooed, dabbing at Damon's sleeve, though there was no blood there. It was a performance. He is mine. I touch him.

Damon flinched. His instinct was to pull away-Adria saw the muscles in his arm bunch. But then his eyes flicked to Adria. She was looking down, refusing to witness their intimacy.

Damon didn't move. He let Campbell touch him, staring at the top of Adria's head with a look of tortured frustration.

Adria forced herself to pick up her fork. She had to eat. She had to look normal. She cut a piece of the garnish, the silverware screeching against the china.

Heads turned. Adria dropped the fork, her cheeks burning. "Sorry," she whispered. Her voice was a broken rasp.

She looked at her plate. The oysters seemed to be mocking her. She couldn't do it.

Damon was watching her plate. He saw the way she swallowed, the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. He remembered. He remembered how she used to love seafood. And he saw the revulsion now.

He raised his hand, snapping his fingers at a passing waiter.

"Take this away," Damon said, pointing at Adria's plate.

Adria's head snapped up. Campbell froze, her hand still on Damon's arm.

"Bring her the soup," Damon ordered. "Hot. Cream of mushroom."

The waiter hesitated. "Sir, the menu is set-"

"Did I ask?" Damon's voice was a whip crack. "Bring the soup."

He turned his gaze back to Adria. His expression was a mask of sneering disdain, but his actions were confusingly precise.

"You look like a ghost," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "I don't need you passing out and ruining my dinner. It's depressing to look at."

The words were cruel. They were meant to hurt. But the soup... he remembered she liked mushroom soup when she was sick.

Adria stared at him, confusion warring with the pain in her chest. "Thank you," she whispered.

Damon watched her, his anger warring with a terrifying realization. She wasn't fighting back. The Adria he knew would have thrown the drink in his face. This Adria... she was broken. And the thought made him want to burn the world down.