“Hold still,” she instructed, her voice steady as she positioned herself beside him. She reached for the wound, her fingers brushing against his skin as she carefully maneuvered the forceps toward the bullet. He flinched at the contact but said nothing, his focus entirely on her movements.
Isabella’s breath was shallow, her concentration absolute as she worked. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body stiffened with every touch, every movement. It was clear that he was in immense pain, but he was doing his best to hide it, to remain stoic.
As she probed the wound with the forceps, searching for the bullet, she couldn’t help but think about the scars that covered his body. Each one told a story, a story of violence and survival, of battles fought and won. She wondered h
