LISA
Kellan sleeps like he does everything else—with his whole body committed to the action. One arm flung wide, the other tucked under his pillow, face softened in a way I never get to see when he's conscious and on guard. The hospital sheet barely covers him, twisted around his hips, revealing the muscled plane of his stomach and the bandages still wrapped around his chest.
His gown was ditched long ago, so he's basically half-naked, though he does have boxers—and sweats—on under the blanket. Thanks to a well-timed delivery from one of the pack wolves.
Kellan hasn't specifically said so, but I think he's keeping his chest on display in hopes for round two.
Anyway. I should be asleep, too. My body feels liquid and warm, like I've melted into this tiny hospital bed, which is definitely not made for two people. But I can't shut my brain off.
Instead, I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the rhythm of his breath.
