Zoriana could not hold back her tears, the salt stinging the small cuts on her cheeks.“Doll, it is not so easy to kill me. Stop weeping like I am dying,” he joked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the quiet room. He brushed her tears away, his calloused fingertips grazing her skin with a sandpaper heat that made her shiver.“I was so afraid to lose you. That we would be too late…” she sobbed, the sound muffled against the stiff, over-bleached fabric of his hospital gown.“Thanks to you, my savior, I am alive and well,” Tristan said, pulling her into a warm embrace. She breathed him in—underneath the sharp, biting scent of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol, there was still the underlying musk of rain and cedar that was uniquely his.“I need to call a doctor,” Zoriana whispered against his neck, but Tristan did not lose his grip. He pulled her closer, the friction of his chest hair against her cheek sparking a different kind of urgency.
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