The fever sapped all the strength from her body; she couldn't even walk, yet the hand clutching Maxwell Saxon's sleeve held on with surprising force.
Maxwell looked down at her bloodless, pale face, jealousy and anger simultaneously surging within him, burning away his remaining sense of reason.
A cruel smirk formed on his lips, his gaze heavy with rage stabbing coldly into her pale face, like someone possessed by the Devil's Realm, his expression menacingly grim: "There's no point hiding it from you any longer. On the day you left, I dealt with him. Considering our brotherly bond, his passing wasn't too painful."
Matthew Saxon is dead?
Is Matthew Saxon really dead?
In an instant, it felt like a knife had been viciously thrust into her chest, making it impossible for her to breathe.
"Maxwell Saxon, how could you be so ruthless? He was your own brother." A metallic taste surged up to her throat. Scarlett Yates' hand loosened, and her pale face fell back onto the bed.
