Page 49 of Crave

I barely made it two steps before he marched out, hospital lanyard swishing, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair mussed from a long shift.

“Can you believe I’ve been at the hospital all bloody day and not a single person…” He stopped dead, eyes widening. “Bloody hell, what happened to you? Have you been mugged?”

I tried for a smile. It probably looked more like a grimace. “Nothing like that. Wrong place, wrong time.”

Henry frowned. “You’ve got blood on your face.” He moved closer, scanning me the way he would one of his patients. “And your jaw’s swelling. Sit down before you keel over.”

“Henry, I’m fine.”

He ignored that completely and ushered me to the edge of the stairs and put me on the bottom one like a naughty child. He flicked on the lamp. And when he returned to inspecting my face, the scent of hand sanitizer and coffee, hospital corridors and exhaustion, got me back to reality.

“Was it a fall? Or, Tris, were you assaulted?” He leant back on his heels. “Or, Jesus, was this your father…? God, did one of your fights turn physical?”

“No. No, Henry, honestly. It wasn’t Father.”

Henry waited a moment. “Good. Not that I could imagine him swinging at you but…Jesus, Tris. What the fuck happened?”

“Honestly, nothing.”

“Wait there.” Henry exhaled, then headed off to the kitchen, muttering under his breath about London being a cesspit. He came back with a first-aid box and a clean flannel. “Hold still.” His tone softened into his practiced doctor voice. “You might’ve cracked something. Let me check.”

He tilted my chin up, and I had to force myself not to flinch. His touch was careful, but it burnt all the same. He didn’t know what he was touching. Didn’t know that the man who’d done this hadn’t taken anything from me, but something out of me.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Not really.”

He raised a brow. “Liar.”

I almost laughed, but it caught halfway up my throat.

He dabbed gently at the corner of my lip. “You should get this checked properly. There’s a fracture clinic at Hammersmith—”

I caught his wrist, a little too hard. “Please. Drop it.”

He sighed, the medic in him giving way to the friend. “It wasn’t Oliver, was it?”

I looked at him, and for a moment I almost said yes. It would’ve been easier. He’d have believed it, and in a way it was true. Oliver had started this, the domino effect that had tipped everything. But I couldn’t lie about that.

“No.” I grabbed the banister and pulled myself up.

“Tris, Oliver wasn’t good for you.”

“I know.” I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. “Took me a couple of years to work it out.”

“I did try to warn you. Repeatedly.” Henry gave a small, tired smile. “Better late than never. Imagine if you’d married him.”

“Yeah.” I managed something almost passing for a laugh, then turned for the stairs. “Hey, Hen?”

Putting the med kit away, he glanced over his shoulder. “Hmm?”

“Did you know about him and Benji?”

Henry went still. Half a beat. Then he looked up, neutral tone too controlled to be innocent. “In what sense?”

“Did you know they were sleeping together?”

Henry waited a moment. “If I’d had proof, I would have told you.”