Rog tenderly cut away the bandages on Kyra’s hands. Neither said a word but the cuts ran deeper and were more disturbing than either had thought. Her wounds, as Trev stated, were still open.

“Rog, you can let go of my wrists now,” said Kyra.

“Um, right,” hesitated Rog. He couldn’t help but wonder if the same base emotions that had cause these cuts were not also clouding her judgment.

“What’s on your mind Rog?”

“You know I don’t give a rat’s arse for Trev, but–”

“You’re wondering if he’s right, if Kieran is a lost cause and if I’m foolishly throwing away my life by walking into the ward with these hands. Is that it?”

The sheepish look on Rog’s face confirmed her query. Placing her forearms on Rog’s shoulders, Kyra leaned in close to Rog, their eyes just a few inches apart. “If that was Yul in the ward and you had the ability to save her, even if it meant you were putting your own life at risk, would you do it?”

“Are you sure you have that ability?” responded Rog, tipping his forehead ever so slightly forward as his eyes rolled upward.

Kyra leaned her forehead against Rog’s, her eyes matching his. “I’m sure of only one thing,” she whispered. “If we continue to stand here and debate, the point will soon be moot. I’ve never asked you this before but I’m asking now. Trust me.”

Rog stared back for a second before taking Kyra in his arms. “Rog, hon, is that a yes?”

“Let’s go do this thing,” answered Rog, “whatever this thing might be.”

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