"How are you feeling, pup?"
"The morphine is working well."
Emiliano sat next to my bed for the entire week I've been in the hospital.
Tom, Claus and Killian went in and out, but he never left. It was eerily comforting to have him by my side.
It might be the fact that we spent the last months together, playing house that gave him this softness in my eyes.
Or his plan of manipulating me into loving him was finally getting results.
The room smelled overly clean-
Bleach.
Sanitary alcohol.
Fresh air.
But while passing out on the chair next to me from exhaustion, holding my hand for its dear life, Emiliano had a trace of his pheromones on the loose.
The mix of vanilla and black pepper was not a home-y smell in the slightest, but for me-
It was peaceful. Reassuring.
It could be from his pure pheromones injected into my blood. It could be Stockholm Syndrome.
