"Why didn't you let the doctor do this?" Ren asked, his voice low.
He began to dab at the wound with a wet cloth, his fingers trembling despite his best efforts to stay calm.
"Because they're so clinical," Cilian mused, letting out a soft, airy chuckle that ended in a sharp hiss of breath. He reached up with his good hand, his fingers grazing the back of Ren's neck, just above the leather collar. "You, on the other hand... You look at me like you want to finish what the sniper started. It's much more refreshing."
Ren didn't respond. He poured antiseptic over the wound, and Cilian's body lurched, his muscles cording under his skin, and his heart rate spiked—Ren could see the pulse jumping in Cilian's throat. But even as he gasped for air, Cilian kept smiling, his pupils blown wide with a terrifying, dazed delight. He wasn't just enduring the pain; he was feeding on the fact that Ren was the one causing it.
"The bullet is still in there," Ren said, his voice flat.
