He suddenly took off the apron and walked over. "Miss, do you want to hear the truth or a lie?"
She stared at him blankly, thinking, what does it matter if it's the truth? What does it matter if it's a lie?
Because she was sick, she looked a bit haggard, her lips dry, her eyes desolate. Every time she fell ill it was like this—no matter how tough and invincible she usually was, once she got sick and thought about how, in this world, there was only herself left—she didn't even know why, but she just couldn't be strong anymore.
It was precisely that desolate look that made Wan Donglin's heart go wild.
His throat couldn't help but feel dry, wave after wave.
Every man is like this, loving most the way a woman looks weak and helpless—especially after she's put on a tough act for so long and suddenly reveals that innocent, small-animal look. It just further stirs up the beast buried in his body.
She was frightened by the look in his eyes.
