Jasmine Yale's breath was faint, often absent.
Sylvan Cheney's pupils suddenly shrunk, and his cold and firgid eyes reflected an endless depth of anxiety.
"Prepare the car." Sylvan Cheney ordered in a low voice.
"Mr. Cheney, is Miss Yale seriously injured?"
"Mm."
"Mr. Cheney, at this time, we must not let Miss Yale lose her will to live. I will prepare the car now."
After finishing his words, Charles Mcintosh went out.
Sylvan Cheney skillfully treated Jasmine's wound and cleaned up the blood.
Only he knew that, at this moment, he was covered in a cold sweat.
This feeling of being unable to grasp or even hold tightly... It was very uncomfortable.
"Jasmine Yale, you must hold on. Even if you hate or blame me, you must survive. Do you hear me?" Sylvan Cheney's voice was lowered.
He squeezed Jasmine's palm firmly, afraid that she would fall into unconsciousness.
However, Jasmine didn't show any reactions.
