Isolde sat on the hotel room sofa, her eyes fixed on Severin's back while a doctor stitched up the gunshot wound in his shoulder. She could tell the doctor was nervous. His hands were shaking as he worked.
Before treating Severin, the doctor had been ordered to check on Isolde first. Even though she insisted she wasn't hurt, just a minor scratch from the shattered wine glass, Severin didn't care what she said. He told the doctor to check her anyway. He didn't trust her.
Of course, he didn't trust her. Severin probably thought she'd lie on purpose, hide any injury, any pain, just to make sure the fetus inside her fucking died after what happened at the restaurant.
And when the doctor finally said Isolde was fine, she only raised a brow—no point arguing with Severin when the bastard was still bleeding.
