Death of Connor Sanderson: Chap 1:Part 6.

Chapter One: Part 6.
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Connor’s words spawned a subconscious gesture as Rufus’ index finger dragged down the side of his healing nose and swept along the fading bruise on his cheekbone. The malicious smile became fixed and brittle as he said, “I’m sure she would. Was she suitably thankful last time? Spread her thighs for you did she? Was she..?”

Scorn stiffened Connor’s smile as he closed a fist around Rufus’ shirt front, effectively strangling his words. He froze as his cold knuckles dug into the young man’s throat, and his own chest echoed with the cadence of the pumping current of blood that massaged his clenched fist.
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An unsettling feeling of panic rattled at the cell door inside Connor's head at yet another sign that every sensation in his body was alien to him. He heard the capillaries creaking in Rufus’ throat as they threatened to burst, and before the young man registered it too, he eased back to human pressure. I don't want others to question what I have become. Connor absorbed the shiver that rolled through Rufus’ body as the chill of his iron grip still bit into his victim’s skin like freezer burn.

His gaze darkened to steel-gray flint in a face sculpted in ice, and Rufus’ arrogant expression splintered as a flash of alarm stirred in the depths of the narrowed brown eyes.

Connor’s own vision clouded as his lightning-fast perception played out a crystal-clear recollection of a night, three weeks before. It was the last time that he had laid a hand on Rufus Clare...

It was the night Connor had checked on a patient on ward B, and, determining that the young man’s delirium was pain induced, Connor decided a dose of laudanum was in order. He cast a glance around, looking for the attending nurse. The squeak of rubber-soled shoes scudding over waxed linoleum drew his attention to where the matron was pushing the medication cart along the foot of the beds at the far end of the ward.

Her nose was firmly buried in the notes on her clipboard, and he paused, taking in the dark blue crescents framing her eye sockets, dressing her face in an exhausted expression. Even the crisply starched fabric of her navy-blue uniform could not disguise the slump of her shoulders.

Recognising a fellow sufferer of that dog tired feeling, Connor took pity on her. She must be going off duty soon, there will be a night nurse along in a minute. His searching gaze took in the empty nurses’ station; a glazed partitioned area that housed a utilitarian wooden desk with a lamp sitting upon it. The glowing gas mantle cast a yellow glow upwards over the ceiling with more enthusiasm than onto the shadowed surface of the cream-colored blotting paper and abandoned ink pen.

Following logic, Connor walked slowly from the ward and scanned the empty corridor. Maybe the night shift has yet to arrive. He shot his cuff and glanced at his watch. It looks as though I have no choice. Reluctant to add to her burden because he admired Matron Hartnell, he turned slowly, rehearsing an apologetic tone inside his head. The sudden swell of a muffled groan stopped him in his tracks as he cocked his head and listened, rotating slowly on his heel to hone in on the direction from which it came. Silence had descended but he knew he had heard it.

Someone is hurt. Without hesitation, before the thoughts had even solidified inside his head, he was moving with a stealthy long stride, and straining his ears for the groan that he knew would follow. He was not disappointed. A dull thud accompanied by a panicked whimper fractured the stillness, and Connor was driving forward fast now. He broke into a short sprint and skidded to an untidy halt outside the door to the linen storage.

Cold nervous sweat dampened his brow as his hand closed on the brass door handle. He yanked the door open, and for a moment the tangle of limbs wrestling on the floor froze every muscle in his body.

It took a nanosecond for Connor’s brain to catch up with his eyes as the musk of male sweat filled his nose. The back of the man’s neck flushed dark red, and the grating groan rasping through his anger-tightened lips scraped over Connor’s eardrums. The young nurse pinned beneath his bulk was terrified. The stillness of her body filled Connor’s mouth with bile as he recognised it as immobilizing fear. Her glazed eyes stared at the ceiling as a helpless keening noise of panic escaped between the fingers of the large meaty hand moulded to her white face.

The man’s body rocked with jerking urgency as he scrabbled on his knees, fumbling with the buttons of his pants. His fingers dug into the girl’s thigh as he shoved it roughly aside and the sound of cotton fabric tearing cut through the air.

The renting sound galvanised Connor into action and he roared as every sinew tightened in rage. He surged forward and grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his loosened pants. Adrenalin fed Connor’s hard, toned musculature as he yanked the man up into the air, lifting and pulling him back sharply.

The man’s reddened features exploded with yelp of rage as he staggered awkwardly, his heels scrabbling for purchase on the slick waxed floor and his hand reaching for the support of a wall. He bellowed in surprise as Connor violently spun him around and glared into his face.

He registered the lust smothered expression of Rufus Clare in the fraction of a second before his fist landed a blow dead centre of the tense features and Rufus' nose collapsed with a satisfying crunch.

“You sickening runt.” The words burst from Connor as he yanked Rufus sideways and rammed him up against the wall. Closing his grip to frame Rufus’ jaw and lift his chin, Connor pushed his own face in close as he spat, “You slimy, little toad.”

Satisfaction spiked inside him as Connor buried a vicious uppercut into Rufus’ abdomen, driving the air from his lungs in an anguished grunt. He stepped back as his victim doubled over clutching his stomach, coughing and gasping as he fell to his knees. Connor’s cold glance took in the gaping button fly of his trousers and the wet stain on the fabric, and disgust curled his lip. Acid-bile scoured a fiery trail up into the back of his throat as he growled quietly, “Go...before I kill you!”

Ignoring the staggering footsteps as Rufus launched his crouched body from the wall and ran, Connor stepped past the swinging door of the linen closet and paused on the threshold. His shadow sliced across the nurse's shocked features, and, turning her face away, she snatched in a petrifying breath. The silence in the linen closet was chilling.

The fight with Rufus had happened so quickly that now, suddenly faced with being gentle, it felt as though his limbs were leaden, and his concern forced him into moving only in slow motion.

He carefully pulled a linen sheet around the young nurse’s trembling shoulders to cover her torn bodice. He eased her skirts down over her thighs, trying not to notice the red welts decorated with oozing beaded droplets of blood. Presumably where Rufus’ nails dug in...

“Mary. It’s okay. It’s Doctor Sanderson,” he said gently as he lifted her and folded her slight frame into his chest.

Her stiff body, locked tight with shock, was cold. Her hip grated over his muscled torso and as her elbow dug into his ribcage with every forceful stride he took he welcomed the jabbing pain as a distraction which prevented him tracking Rufus down and beating him to a pulp.

Anger burned a hole in his chest as he took off down the hallway to the infirmary, collecting the matron in charge of the pastoral care of the younger, more vulnerable student nurses along the way.

That had been three weeks ago, and the cap on the well of Connor's anger was threatening to blow like an oil geyser as he stared into Rufus’ face once more.

Connor’s knuckles had healed, but glaring at Rufus as the memories drained away to swill as revulsion in his stomach, Connor was happy to focus again on the ruptured purple vein that ran across the bridge of his nose, following the fracture line perfectly. “Not so pretty now.”

Rufus Clare bared his teeth in a smile, and almost lost his life.

Connor froze as he battled with the surging desire to rip Rufus’ head off and taste his blood. A storm of electrical impulses scattered through Connor’s cerebral cortex, clenching his gut with a gnawing hunger that he instinctively knew...was not for food.

Glancing at Lester, Rufus’ perennial side-kick, Connor said, “You’d want to be this maggot’s second? Defend this scum?” His gaze darted back to bore contempt into Rufus’ brain. “But then, Marquess of Queensberry rules are not really your style. You’re more of an ambush kind of guy.” Connor smiled as the pulse stroking over his knuckles pounded harder. “If you think you can take me, Rufus, feel free to try. I promise you, things will never be the same again...for either of us.”

Connor watched closely, primed on a hair-trigger of control, and waited for Rufus to decide their fate.
To be continued...