"Will it hurt a bit? You don't mind, right?"
"Go ahead!"
Heating a silver needle red-hot over an alcohol lamp, Lynch disinfected Avery's wounds with iodine before beginning the meticulous work of stitching them up.
"Sizzle..."
The red-hot silver needle pierced the girl's alabaster skin, emitting a sizzling sound. White smoke rose where the skin was touched, filling the air with the acrid stench of burnt flesh.
Her already pale complexion turned even paler on the spot. Cold sweat poured uncontrollably from her forehead, and her body involuntarily flinched.
Lynch frowned. "Don't move!"
Stitching a wound was an exceedingly delicate task. Her movement was seriously interfering with his precision.
This was merely Lynch's instinctive professional response, but what he didn't know was that his curt remark dealt a significant psychological blow to Avery.
As the purest direct descendant of the Tavendish bloodline, Avery had been born into an immensely exalted station.
