The antiseptic sting of the infirmary clung to the air, sharp and cold, like the fear gnawing at Scarlett’s insides. She stood motionless, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if sheer force could keep her heart from splintering apart. Her eyes never left the table where Ethan lay, his body unnaturally still, his shirt cut open to expose the angry wound seeping crimson against pale skin.
The doctor moved with practised urgency, hands steady as he worked to staunch the bleeding. Scarlett tried to focus on that—the precision, the control—but all she saw was the blood. Ethan’s blood. Spilling because of her. Because of this twisted world they both belonged to now.
Her throat constricted. She bit down hard, willing the tears not to fall. Not here. Not in front of Daniel, who lingered a
