He reeked of Stefanie's perfume; she could practically see the woman's shadow clinging to him. Yet he saw none of the blood that had soaked through Venice's clothes—none of the pain from her reopened wounds.
[I didn't follow you.]
[Miss Cervantes asked me to come. But since it's handled, I'll be leaving now.]
She shook his hand off and walked away.
Kevin stood there, watching her limp down the corridor, her steps uneven and weak. Tiny droplets of blood trailed behind her on the white tiles.
He hesitated, and was about to call after her but Stefanie's fragile voice floated from behind.
"Kevin..."
All traces of hesitation vanished from his eyes. He turned and went back into the ward.
...
That night, Venice returned to her own hospital room alone. She called a nurse to redress her wounds.
By midnight, the wounds had become inflamed. Fever swept through her body, burning her skin and clouding her thoughts. However, there was no one by her bedside and she had to get up and pour water herself.
She lay in bed for two days before her body finally recovered a little.
Kevin never came.
On the day of her discharge, Venice had just finished changing when Kevin appeared at her door.