'Does it hurt?" Aria asked as she cleaned his wounds with cotton wool and methylated spirit.

Oliver nodded gently with his eyes locked on hers. 'You should have just given him what he wants," he said softly.

'Yeah, you are right, I don't know what I was thinking," she replied and sighed.

Oliver was laying on his bed and Aria was sitting on it, right beside him, helping to dress his wounds.

It turns out that the bullet from the gun had grazed his arm, it didn't ...