Father Mine by J. R. Ward Page B

that maybe he should get closer to the phone so he could call security.
    The man had a scarred face and serial-killer black eyes, and as he came in, he filled the entire room: He was big enough and broad enough to classify as a heavyweight boxer, or maybe two of them put together, but Christ, that was the least of your problems as he stared at you. He was dead inside. Absolutely without affect. Which made him capable of anything.
    And T.W. could have sworn the temperature of the room actually went down as the man came to stand next to his wife.
    The woman spoke calmly and quietly. “We’re here to see if his tattoos can be removed.”
    T.W. swallowed and told himself to get a grip. Okay, maybe this thug was just your garden-variety punk-rock star. T.W.’s own taste in music ran more toward jazz, so there was no reason he’d recognize this guy in the leathers and the black turtleneck and the gauge in his ear, but it could explain things. Including why the wife was model gorgeous. Most singers had beautiful women, didn’t they?
    Yeah . . . the only problem with that theory was the black stare. That was no manufactured, commercially viable, hard-ass front. There was real violence in there. True depravity.
    â€œDoctor?” the woman said. “Is there going to be a problem?”
    He swallowed again, wishing he hadn’t told Marcia to go. Then again, women and children and all that. Probably safer for her not to be here.
    â€œDoctor?”
    He just kept looking at the guy—who made no move other than breathing.
    Hell, if the big bastard wanted to, he could have busted up the place twelve times over by now. Instead? He was just standing there.
    And standing there.
    And . . . standing there.
    Eventually, T.W. cleared his throat and decided that if there was going to be trouble, it would have happened already. “No, there’s no problem. I’m going to sit down. Now.”
    He planted it in the desk’s chair and bent to the side, pulling open a refrigerated drawer that had a variety of sparkling waters in it. “May I offer you anything to drink?”
    When they both said no, he cracked open a Perrier with lemon and downed half of it like it was Scotch.
    â€œRight. I’ll need to take a medical history.”
    The wife took a seat and the husband loomed over her, eyes locked on T.W. Odd, though. They were holding hands and T.W. got the impression that the wife was the husband’s tether in some way.
    Calling on his training, he took out his Waterman pen and asked the usual questions. The wife did the answering: No known allergies. No surgical procedures. No health problems.
    â€œAh . . . where are the tattoos?” Please, God, let them not be below the waist.
    â€œOn his wrists and his neck.” She looked up at her husband, her eyes luminous. “Show him, darling.”
    The man reached to one side and pulled up his sleeve. T.W. frowned, medical curiosity taking over. The black band was incredibly dense, and though he wasn’t an expert on tattooing by a long shot, he could safely say he’d never seen such deep coloration before.
    â€œThat is very dark,” he said, leaning in. Something told him not to touch the man unless he had to, and he followed the instinct, keeping his hands to himself. “That is very, very dark.”
    They were almost like shackles, he thought.
    T.W. eased back into the chair. “I’m not sure whether you’re a good candidate for laser removal. The ink appears to be so dense that at a minimum it’s going to require multiple sessions to make even a dent in the pigmentation.”
    â€œWill you try, though?” the wife asked. “Please?”
    T.W.’s eyebrows popped. Please was not a word in the vocabulary of most of the patients down here. And her tone was equally foreign to the locale, its quiet desperation more what you would find in families of patients treated upstairs—those with