Sure enough, she couldn't bear it anymore. She pressed her hands against his chest.
"Don't touch me..."
"Alright." His voice still carried mockery and sarcasm. "Then answer my question. You said you're always at my beck and call, and then what?"
At that moment, this man, two years younger than her, seemed like a demon. Even his every smile and frown exuded wickedness.
Joan Harry shrank her shoulders fearfully. This feeling—unable to get angry, unable to cry, unable to vent—was... unbearable.
She was terrified of looking at his face, especially that smirk that wasn't really a smile.
"Not willing to speak?" He pressed harder with his hand. "Be good, tell me, Joan."
"Jesse Rowan, I beg you, let me go?"
Let her go... In the depths of Jesse Rowan's eyes was a trace of gloom and malice.
"Let you go, and then what?" Jesse Rowan sneered.
