I think I died and then came back to life.
Don’t ask how. Just know that when Vaughn was doing his theory shit with scissors, rummaging around in my goddamn insides and trying to get the bullet, I contemplated biting my tongue and going to be with the angels.
Or demons.
Probably demons.
Definitelydemons.
At any rate, he got the bullet out after a lot of fucking pain that made me nearly lose consciousness.
Actually, I did, because when I woke up, I found my head tilted back against the stone while he continued sitting in front of me, stitching up the wound.
That’s what woke me up—the feel of a fucking needle sewing my skin.
Let’s make one thing clear—judging by all the haphazard lines, this dude willnothave a career in fucking haute couture.
But the thing is, Vaughn was alsoshaking. I thought it was me who was having all of his insides turned upside downwith whatever kinky scissors shit he’s into, but his hands were visibly trembling as he put the bandage on my side.
He was breathing harshly, too, blowing out a large exhale every now and then to get himself under control again.
Guess no one signs up for seeing someone’s gory insides if they don’t dream of cutting people up a la butcher style.
That was a couple of hours ago.
Now, he’s much calmer and back to being a fucking delight—aka a boring little bitch—as he sits across from me with his knees bent.
The cave is too small—there’s so little distance between us that I can see the contours of his muscles beneath his shirt despite the relative lack of light. All for the best, really, because now that night has fallen, it’s cold as fuck in here.
What makes it worse is that we can’t start a fire, or it’ll give up our position.
Vaughn patrolled outside earlier and spotted a few men dressed in black searching the area, but there was no sign of our guards.
So he came back with some large evergreen boughs that he’s used to build a makeshift bed around me for support.
Since then, he’s been either pacing with his head bent low because the cave can’t contain him, or peeking outside, or sitting around and moping.
Oh, and checking on me.
I still feel like shit. My side burns like hell, I’m drenched with sweat one second, then trembling with cold the next, but the antibiotic shot he gave me helped. Definitely would’ve been much worse without it.
However, I’ve been keeping myself busy, because while Vaughn’s been doing his Vaughn shit—being a control freak—I’ve been watching him.
I don’t mean merelylookingat him, but full-blown creepilyobservinghim, noting every goddamn detail about him as if it’s an assignment.
Just kidding, I never work this hard on an assignment.
Studying Vaughn, though? My brain puts every ounce of its power behind it, recording every scrap of visible detail.
And I’m not talking about simple stuff like how his thigh muscles stretch against his shorts or how long his legs look or how his calves are full of small cuts from when we were running.
I don’t mean the enchanting color of his eyes that look darker now or the way he tends to frown when he’s stressed—more than usual.
No, it’s not that.
It’s how now that his hair is disheveled, it looks longer, more…wild and untamed and beautiful, framing his forehead and falling over his ears.
It’s how all that running and adrenaline has made his natural scent overwhelm the clean, sharp-smelling cologne he wears. Like cold metal warmed by skin and smoke, then trapped in silk.
