“I know how to change bandages, and I’ve also got medicine.” Bryant stood
up and walked over, each step pressing down on my heart like a weight. “I’ll
teach you how to change it.”
“Well, you might as well do it yourself.” With that, I turned to leave.
“Jane.” He suddenly grasped mine, his voice gravelly with emotion, “It hurts.”
Those two words alone were enough to shatter my defenses. After all, it was
a gunshot wound. I couldn’t take it lightly.
I eyed him suspiciously. “Bryant, when did I ever miss that you’re such a
drama king?”
He looked down casually. “So, are you falling for this act?”
“No.” I dropped the word and turned to leave, only for him to pull me back
forcefully. He lowered his proud head for the first time, his voice softening, “It
hurts.”
At that moment, I wanted to kick myself. ‘Jane, you’re such a pushover.’
But thinking of his wound, I couldn’t bring myself to be harsh. It was true that
feeling sorry for a man would make a woman’s life a terrible mess.
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“Where’s the medicine?” I capitulated.
“On the sofa,” his voice was gentle.
When I picked up the bag from the sofa and returned, he was already sitting
by the bed, his gaze following my every move.
Opening the bag, I found everything there, including the gauze, iodine, and
clotting agents. It was as if everything was ready except for the nurse who
would help him.
I looked at him, puzzled. “Were you waiting for Margaret to play nurse?”
‘That’s unlikely. Margaret’s with your father.’ I added silently to myself.
Bryant frowned. “Jane, Jane, what use is your brain anyway? Is your head
simply there to add a few inches to your height?”
I was no stranger to his sarcasm and didn’t bother to argue, stating, “Take off
your shirt.”
Without an answer, I could only carefully treat his wound. He taught me how
to change the dressing but not utter unnecessary words. But sweat beaded
on his forehead.
After wrapping the wound, I couldn’t help but ask, “Does it hurt a lot?”
“Do you care?” he asked, his eyes gloomy as midnight, attempting to peer
into my soul, seemingly hopeful.
Caught off guard, I averted my gaze, denying, “No.”
“Liar.” Bryant scrutinized me knowingly, “Every time you lie, you can’t meet
someone’s eyes.”
In the end, I almost ran for the hills.
Unexpectedly, I ran smack into Bryant just as I stepped out of my room.
He was in a meticulously tailored black suit, tall and imposing, with an aura of
aloofness and dignity about him. However, his gunshot wound seemed to
have worsened, and his back hunched.
I wondered, “Why haven’t you left yet?”
He sneered, “Are you that afraid of me?”
Suddenly, a servant hurried upstairs, approaching quickly. “Mr. and Mrs.
Ferguson, good morning. Lady Teresa and Miss Margaret have returned.”
I frowned at Bryant incredulously. “You allowed this?”