The wall lamp in the bedroom cast a soft glow, gently illuminating the bed.
Jasmine Yale's large eyes were glistening—had she suffered a heatstroke?
With her little paws clutching the blanket, her large eyes darted around her surroundings.
Her gaze fell on Sylvan Cheney, who was by the bed, and she huffed, "Annoying pest!!!"
If it weren't for him, how could she have gotten a heatstroke, been poked with needles, and received IV fluids?
She might even have gotten a tan.
The only concern was whether he had torn up her test paper; she still cared about that. If it was destroyed, she'd never forgive him!
The quiet night held everything in silence.
Jasmine Yale gazed at the sleeping Sylvan Cheney, ripples of emotion in her eyes.
This man had a face that could bring about the downfall of a nation, his brow slightly furrowed, lips tightly sealed, his complexion weary.
Jasmine stared at him, her heart pounding non-stop.
