"Camilla..."
Sinclair's heart ached in resonance with Camilla's distress, a dull throb tightening his chest.
His dark eyes brimmed with restrained emotion and tenderness.
"I knew what I was doing," he murmured, his voice softening to a velvety whisper as he gently wiped the tears from her delicate cheeks.
"The wounds look worse than they are—none of them are deep."
"Don't cry, alright?"
To him, her tears were more devastating than any weapon.
"I'm the doctor here," Camilla countered, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on him, tears cascading like scattered pearls.
"I decide how serious your injuries are—not you."
Her gaze dropped to his wounds, tender yet firm, her voice laced with quiet authority.
"Tell me the truth—did you do this to yourself while I was unconscious?"
Her tone left no room for evasion, sharp with command.
In all of San Francisco, she was likely the only one who could speak to Sinclair this way.
And of course, she was.
