The air in the room reeked of blood.
Lucy Bennett had dug her palm so hard it was torn open, skin and flesh a mess. On her thigh, a long gash about seven or eight centimeters kept bleeding out.
The sharp, biting pain kept her barely conscious, the burning heat inside her forcibly suppressed for now.
She pointed the razor at her neck, eyes wild: “Get out!”
Sophie Carter didn’t expect her to be this ruthless, but she wasn’t ready to walk away just like that. She shoved the man beside her. “Don’t you want her? Go ahead.”
The man was clearly spooked by Lucy’s crazed state. He gulped. “Yeah, I do. But hey, I’m not looking to mess with a corpse—bad luck, man.”
He left.
Sophie gritted her teeth. “Lucy, don’t fool yourself into thinking any man out there actually gives a damn about you. If you dare show up in front of Edward again, I swear I’ll ruin your damn life.”
“Get out!” Lucy had never hated anyone as much. If possible, she’d drag Sophie down to hell with her.
With the plan failed, Sophie stormed off, furious.
Completely drained, Lucy dragged herself out from the room, leaving a thick, bloody trail across the carpet.
Heavy, disordered footsteps approached. A pair of sleek black shoes stopped in front of her.
“Help… me…” She clutched the man’s pant leg.
The heat surged back, threatening to swallow her whole. Pain radiated everywhere; her ribs might even be broken. Lucy thought this could be it. She might really die.
But she couldn’t. She had to live.
“Please… help me…”
The man scooped her up with care, as if afraid of hurting her further. His movements had an odd tenderness to them.
Lucy lost control completely, clinging to him like a snake, kissing his face without rhyme or reason.
She had no clue who he was, no idea what she was doing—just following pure instinct.
Henry Carter's face was stone-cold, his body tense with rage. He carried Lucy into a clean room.
Blood still trickled down her thigh, staining the stark white sheets.
He yanked the blanket over her curves, his gaze sharp and deadly.
“Don’t go… please…”
Pulled away from his embrace, Lucy writhed like crazy.
Her hair was soaked in sweat, her pale skin now flushed in an unnatural red.
Soon, she kicked off the blanket again.
The skimpy dress did little to cover her. She tore at it herself, it barely hanging on.
Henry nearly lost it. He wrapped her up roughly in the blanket, voice like ice: “Why the hell are you all just standing there?”
Someone came in, stepping carefully, and quickly injected her with the antidote.
Lucy thrashed, soft moans slipping from her lips.
“So hot…”
“Shut up!” Henry snapped.
She flinched. Her little face scrunched up in fear. Tears silently slid down her cheeks, mixing into her sweat-soaked hair.
Henry: “…”
Lucy finally calmed down. Henry opened her hand, jaw clenched, his whole expression colder than ice.
“Mr. Henry, the wound on Miss Lucy’s leg is too deep—it needs stitching. Should we…”
Before she could finish, he pulled the blanket up again to cover Lucy’s bruised thigh.
Only the faint sound of her breathing remained in the room. Her face looked deathly pale.
“Damn it, how could you let yourself end up like this?!”