On her right wrist, there were two shallow bite marks, faintly black, but not bleeding, as if bitten twice by a mosquito.
Fiona Schmidt frowned, her eyes shifted to the man's large hand, seeing him gently open his palm and his slender, strong fingers caressing the wound in the palm.
The wound was not deep; it was scraped when she fell from the stairs last night. She had done some simple treatment, applied some antiseptic, and didn't pay it further attention. Now, upon closer inspection, she found the wound was somewhat infected, with traces of yellow liquid oozing out.
If not looked at carefully, it's really easy to overlook.
"..." Fiona looked up, seeing the man lower his eyes, his gaze fixed on her wound. She didn't move either.
However, as time passed, she became quite uncomfortable, feeling the atmosphere oppressive and even awkward.
So, she struggled to pull away, but it was in vain; on the contrary, the more she moved, the tighter the man's grip became.
