Hysteria coupled with blood loss and the last lingering vestiges of a panic attack is a terrible cocktail, one Adele truly never wishes to try again. Because this was just her luck, really. The one physician she knows nothing of, cannot think to trust beyond Willock's word, and is friendly with the tall, meddling ass. Were it not for the situation she might think to request a different surgeon. But. Begging, choosing, she can't.

Even warned, she's tense at the grip- an unfamiliar man with unfamiliar intentions, alliances, but she does not have time to speak or flinch away before she's swung up into his arms. The moment he recognizes her isn't that hard to pick out- for a moment she feels as though he's about to drop her. Considering how they met? She wouldn't blame him.

Actually she would. For a long, long while. But that's beside the point- he's moving and she's trying to keep the shirt bunched up against the cut in place to staunch the flow of blood. It's as successful as it had been earlier- which is to say. Not terribly successful at all.

"Merde."