There is indeed blood dripping onto the rose petals, bright red blood condensing into beads on the petals.
"Young Master, your hand..." Uncle Thompson looked at Maxwell Saxon's palm, cut by the porcelain shard, in astonishment.
The porcelain shard cut rather deeply, creating a long gash from the forefinger to the little finger.
His palm was covered in blood.
Blood seeped through his fingers like beads on a broken string, falling one by one.
Maxwell Saxon's emotions, long suppressed, finally erupted.
His eyes showed a fierce glint, a terrifying storm brewed in his gaze, and the moment his expression turned grim, his facial expression was terrifyingly predatory.
Bloody hand gripping Uncle Thompson's collar, he said murderously, "Where is she? I'm asking for the last time, where is she?"
The sound of grinding teeth had just fallen, when Uncle Thompson felt something very cold pressing against his forehead.
Uncle Thompson looked up in disbelief.
