Mathilda
It's late evening the following day when Cahill barges into my room without knocking, and I look up at him from where Sally is styling my hair into a girlish braid.
He looks at me for some time, with his mouth slightly apart like he's having several thoughts of me in his head.
"It's time," he breathes out, voice hoarse and he clears his throat.
I give him a firm nod, feeling grateful he saved me last night. Cahill has made himself my savior, always showing up during the time I needed saving.
Right now, he is so handsome that it hurts to look at him. Clad in his usual black shirt and denim trousers. Hair slicked back, bringing outward his sharp features, eyes so blue like they can literally pierce through my soul. And a hard unforgiving mouth that I want to run my fingers over.
