Chapter 92
Steven was very cautious, repeating not to lie to him.
I knew he hadn’t fully trusted me yet. He wouldn’t tell me now if I asked.
“Let’s go, time for bed.” I led Steven into his room, gave him his medicine, and changed the bandages. on his hands and feet.
As I unwrapped the gauze from his feet, the blood–soaked wounds were shocking.
I furrowed my brow, feeling tense. The sight of those wounds alone made me ache.
“How did
you get these?” I asked softly, carefully rinsing his wounds with saline solution, fearing they might worsen. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll be in a wheelchair and you’re not allowed to walk. Understand?”
Steven looked at me and nodded obediently. He behaved well when he wasn’t acting crazy, but when he did, I got scared.
“They wouldn’t let me escape. They intentionally made me step on burning coals…” Steven spoke softly, his voice hoarse, lacking much emotion.
He wasn’t afraid or terrified, but there was a sense of emotional emptiness about him.
I knew when he said “they,” he meant James and Ignatius. They would stop at nothing to prevent Steven from escaping, to ensure that Steven stayed and carried on the Lincoln family’s bloodline. It was truly despicable.
“How cruel,” I muttered, unable to find words to describe James‘ cruelty and dark heart.
1
“Does it hurt?” I gently washed the wounds, looking up to ask Steven.
He seemed to have no nerve sensation. Even in this state, did it really not hurt?
Steven shook his head. He wasn’t devoid of sensation. He was just numb.
After dealing with the wounds on his feet, I tended to the wounds on his hands.
The people of the Lincoln family thought they could trap him by immobilizing his hands and feet.
But in doing so, they completely destroyed a genius.
“Stephie…” Steven looked at me and called my name.
“What is it?” I tidied up the first aid kit, and looked up at him.
“Do you want him dead?” He looked at me very seriously.
“Huh? Who?” I was a little confused.
It
“Michael Ford.” Steven replied.
Chapter 92
I looked at Steven in shock, It took me a long time to regain my composure.
Did I want him dead? 1 remembered this wasn’t the first time Steven had asked me.
Last time, I thought he was joking. But this time, I felt a strong sense of murderous intent.
“I don’t want him dead. I want him to live, to live every day in pain, self–blame, guilt, and torment.” shook my head, looking at Steven. “Go to sleep. You still have a fever.
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