"Aakkhh..."
A sharp, strained groan cut through the dim silence of the small bedroom, followed instantly by the heavy rustle of linen.
"I'm sorry, My Lord," Valen murmured quietly.
His voice was barely louder than a breath, flat and low, but his hand holding the silver forceps stayed completely steady. A thick drop of blood trickled down the side of Philia's pale ribs, pooling over the clean cloth Valen had pressed against his waist.
Philia leaned his head back against the wooden bedpost, his jaw clenched so tight the bone stood out pale against his skin. His breath came in shallow, ragged hitches, his fingers digging into the edge of the mattress until his knuckles turned white.
"It's fine," Philia forced out through gritted teeth, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "Just... clean it, okay?"
