Li Qiao was held in his embrace, her nostrils filled not only with his crisp scent but also with a faint medicinal odor.
Human emotions are sometimes like this—when stretched to a certain extent, they lose all urge to vent.
She listened to the man's voice, laced with a light smile but tinged with helplessness. Her features showed no change; she simply hung her head low in his arms and slowly closed her eyes.
It could have been a long while, or perhaps just a few seconds.
Li Qiao reined in all her outward emotions and asked with composure, "What kind of injury?"
Shang Yu, sensing the girl's suppressed displeasure, was now responsive, "A gunshot wound."
Li Qiao still kept her head bowed, said nothing more, then lifted her gaze, her clear eyes falling upon his left shoulder, "When was the bullet removed?"
"This morning," the man replied in a deep and husky voice. Li Qiao's eyes shimmered lightly as she pursed her lips into silence once again.
