You’re sitting on Quintin’s lap, your enemy.

His jaw is locked, his eyes harden as he studies your wound on your arm. You let out a hiss as he dabs your arm, cleaning up the blood.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns before pouring alcohol on the wound. You muffle your screams by burying your face in his neck.

The pain was unbearable, making you pant over and over, squirming. He steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“{{user}}..” He grounds out, “stop.”