Chapter 461 Coward
Emma suddenly laughed, a chilling, sinister laugh that sent shivers down the spine. But her smile didn't reach her eyes, which only highlighted the determination and coldness within them.
She quickly pulled a sharp fruit knife from the drawer, the blade glinting menacingly in the dim light, aimed directly at George's heart, as if ready to snatch his life away in an instant.
George didn't run. Instead, he slightly turned his body at the last critical moment. A flash of disdain crossed Emma's eyes, her gaze silently accusing: Coward.
"I'm not afraid of dying," George's voice was low, "I just don't want you to see the blood. The sight of blood would upset you, make you suffer more." Each word was laden with deep meaning, carrying a tender undertone that was heart-wrenching.
Emma sneered, "If that's the case, then I'll black silk scarf myself."
She pulled a black silk scarf from the bedside and quickly covered her eyes. The room fell into silence, broken only by their rapid breathing.
"Go ahead." She stood still, the knife in her hand unwavering, as if it had become an extension of her will.
George took a deep breath, as if making a significant decision. He slowly approached her, each step filled with conflict and hesitation. In a moment when Emma couldn't perceive it, he pressed the blade against his own skin.
The knife pierced George's body, and blood instantly seeped out, warm droplets falling onto Emma's exposed skin. She could clearly feel the sticky warmth, as if the blood's heat was penetrating her skin, reaching her heart.
She didn't remove the black silk scarf but heard George's slight gasp, knowing she had indeed hurt him.
A complex emotion she had never felt before spread through her heart—she should have felt pleasure from hurting George, but instead, there was an indescribable heartache. It felt like something invisible was gently tearing at her heart, causing both pain and conflict.
"I need to see your wound." Emma reached to remove the black silk scarf, her fingers trembling, her voice carrying a hint of barely noticeable concern.
"Forget it!" George's voice was firm, filled with resolve, "Don't look."
He didn't want her to see the blood.
Emma was stunned. George had been telling the truth; he wasn't afraid of dying, just of her seeing the blood.
And George would rather die than let her leave. This kind of obsessive determination frightened her, yet also inexplicably moved her. In that moment, she seemed to see the persistent yet fragile soul deep within George.
"Why?" she asked, her voice trembling, filled with complex emotions, "Why do you insist on keeping me here?" Each word seemed to burst from the depths of her heart, laden with endless questions and grievances.
"Because I love you, Emma."
Emma felt a soft warmth spreading uncontrollably in her heart.
She didn't want to admit it, but at that moment, she didn't want George to be hurt. That feeling of not wanting him to be hurt was so unfamiliar yet so real, like a long-dormant emotion suddenly awakening.
George looked at Emma with tear-filled eyes, like a lost puppy. He knew this was his last chance to keep her, so he pleaded with all the pitiful expression he could muster, his voice trembling, "Please don't go, okay?" Each word was filled with desperate pleading.
Emma, however, turned without hesitation, walking resolutely towards the door. Her back was cold and determined, unmoved by his pleas.
George stood there, watching her leave.
Suddenly, a vivid image unfolded in his mind—Emma and Michael standing in a sunny yard, with the lively and adorable Seraphine, who wore a white dress and bounced between them. Michael gently held Emma's hand, both of them smiling happily.
The scene was so clear it felt real, and George's tears flowed uncontrollably. His heart felt like it was being pierced by countless sharp knives, each breath accompanied by intense pain.
"Emma!" he cried out, his voice filled with despair.
Moments later, the door opened again. Emma returned with a first aid kit, her face still cold and expressionless. George blinked in shock, unable to believe his eyes.
"Is this a hallucination?" he murmured, his gaze dazed.
"Treat the wound," Emma said coldly.
George's emotions shifted from deep sorrow to a state of numbness and confusion. He shook his head, trembling, "No, I want to keep every mark you leave on me." His tone was filled with a sickly obsession.
Emma's eyes turned dangerous, "If you don't treat it, I'll take off the black silk scarf and do it myself."
George weakly replied, "I'll do it myself." He was still trying to discern if the earlier vision was real.
Emma secretly breathed a sigh of relief.
She couldn't see George's wound, didn't know how severe it was, but feeling the blood on her hands, she could tell it wasn't light.
She should remain indifferent, refraining from caring about him. But deep down, that soft emotion wouldn't let her truly ignore it. Such a wound, if not treated promptly, could lead to serious infection.
"Damn it," she cursed softly, her voice filled with helplessness and conflict.
Despite hating George to the core, she couldn't deceive her own heart. No, she absolutely didn't want him to be hurt. This conflicting emotion felt like needles pricking her, causing extreme discomfort.
George seemed to have already seen through Emma's inner struggle.
"Emma, do you still care about me?" His voice was gentle, cautiously probing.
Emma coldly responded, "No, I don't care."
However, George's heart was filled with joy. He became more certain that Emma still had feelings for him. To him, the more Emma denied it, the more it showed she had reservations. This subtle psychological shift made him even more excited and obsessed.
As long as he was persistent enough, humble enough, she would definitely come back to him.
"You still love me," George said with certainty, his eyes filled with a sickly obsession, "I believe you."
"Stop dreaming, George! I only hate you!"
But the more Emma denied it, the more George believed his judgment. If Emma truly hated him, she wouldn't care if he was hurt!
His heart was completely filled with this obsession, and in that moment, reason was entirely consumed by emotion.
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