ZAYLA

Archer had gotten the kit. He dropped it beside him and tore Ziven's shirt open, exposing his rigid, beautiful and inked torso. But his skin was messy with blood.

Archer picked the forceps from the kit, and placed a towel beneath Ziven, his movements urgent and skilled, like he'd done this a million times.

I sat. Watching him, I still haven't moved an inch from my initial position.

"Fuck!" Ziven hissed, gritting his teeth as Archer dug in with the forceps. The metallic clink and muffled groan sent shivers down my arms. Blood ran to his side, soaking up the towel beneath him.

"Hold still, fratello." He muttered, his...