Chapter 206: Chapter 206: She Belongs to Him
It seemed somewhat familiar.
But the old butler had seen Ann Vaughn over four years ago, and his memory had long faded. Plus, he knew of Ann Vaughn’s death, so he didn’t think of her at all.
"Uncle Dexter, have someone prepare the room next to the master bedroom as soon as possible," Cyrus Hawthorne calmly instructed as he carried Ann Vaughn up to the second floor.
"Okay, okay, Uncle Dexter will have someone prepare it right away." Uncle Dexter imagined something, and his aged face instantly smiled like a chrysanthemum.
Ann Vaughn also saw Uncle Dexter, except when she infiltrated the villa by pretending to be a gardener, Uncle Dexter was away visiting relatives and wasn’t there, so they didn’t meet.
Her impression of this old man remained from four years ago—a kind and approachable elder, akin to Grandpa Hawthorne.
Just moments later, Cyrus Hawthorne forcefully turned Ann Vaughn’s face with one hand, "You are not allowed to look."
"Cyrus Hawthorne, have you taken your medicine?" Ann Vaughn laughed angrily and slapped his hand away.
Cyrus Hawthorne’s eyes stayed on her for a few seconds, his gaze suddenly becoming much darker, "I haven’t taken it."
Ann Vaughn: "..."
As soon as she entered the master bedroom, Ann Vaughn smelled that familiar faint fragrance; although subtle, she could tell it was her own incense.
"Why do you have my incense?" Ann Vaughn asked with some caution, her pretty face turning cold.
She had cleared this room of everything that day. She found the incense Cyrus Hawthorne had placed in the drawer and took it away.
But why did this scent remain?
Cyrus Hawthorne didn’t answer her as he placed her on the large bed and used a pillow to support her back to make her more comfortable, only then did he explain softly.
"I concocted it."
That scent had helped alleviate his insomnia—that was the conclusion Cyrus Hawthorne reached during the three nights Ann Vaughn was around.
So based on the memory of that scent, he concocted the same incense to replace the previous one prescribed by the doctor.
Strangely, it had no effect whatsoever.
He thought perhaps there was an error in the concoction, but later, when Uncle Dexter stepped into the room and fell asleep immediately, it showed the incense was effective.
The ineffective one was him.
The incense couldn’t alleviate his insomnia.
"You... concocted it?" Ann Vaughn widened her eyes in shock. If the incense formula wasn’t in her mind but on paper, she’d suspect it had been stolen.
How could he concoct an almost identical scent just from the fragrance alone?
"Yes, though the sleeping effect isn’t significant," Cyrus Hawthorne’s eyes held a shadow, his tone somewhat indifferent.
"Although the incense you concocted seemed to perfectly replicate mine, yours lack Qiluo. To achieve the same effect, it’s impossible."
Qiluo is a type of drug that can cause nerve paralysis, requiring careful dosage; otherwise, it can damage a person’s brain when used in incense.
Ann Vaughn had experimented twice before determining a perfect dosage that is completely harmless to humans.
Moreover, Qiluo is absent in S Country and only found on Isle of Flora.
...Hold on.
Why was she wasting words on him?
Ann Vaughn’s eyes showed a trace of frustration, glaring coldly at Cyrus Hawthorne, "Why did you bring me to your house? What do you want?"
"What, do you want to live apart?" Cyrus Hawthorne’s thin lips curled into a mocking smile, "In your dreams."
"..."
Why hadn’t she noticed this man’s shamelessness before?
Ann Vaughn didn’t bother wasting energy on him anymore and turned her back toward him.
Cyrus Hawthorne’s dark eyes dimmed for a moment, then quickly reignited, turning into a more intense flame.
Four years ago had ultimately created a huge chasm between them.
But letting go was impossible.
She was his, and could only be his.
After Cyrus Hawthorne left the room, Ann Vaughn immediately opened her eyes, sat up, and inserted the Golden Needle into several major points on her leg, temporarily restoring mobility before getting out of bed.
She went to the desk where she’d seen the virus research documents and searched for a while but didn’t find anything related.
In the last drawer, Ann Vaughn saw a black box inside, containing a row of glass bottles with deep blue liquid.
Coincidentally, the N3H5 virus was deep blue in color.
Ann Vaughn’s pretty face turned solemn; to avoid alerting anyone, she returned the black box to its original place and searched elsewhere, but found nothing else, so she returned to bed.
She removed the Golden Needle, and her leg hurt even more because of the activities she just performed.
Ann Vaughn lightly frowned as she looked at her phone screen, feeling something wasn’t right.
If this virus truly leaked from Cyrus Hawthorne’s lab, she must go to the lab herself to confirm.
With just these speculations, she couldn’t do anything and would be very passive.
Otherwise, she wouldn’t have taken such a big risk to pretend to follow Cyrus Hawthorne.
But how could she get inside the research lab to see? That was also a problem.
Lost in thought, Ann Vaughn unknowingly fell asleep, her head resting on the pillow, small and charming.
When Cyrus Hawthorne silently entered the room from outside, he saw this scene.
Those usually restrained dark eyes gazed intently at her sleeping face, even the act of reaching out to touch became extremely cautious.
As if the person before him was like a flower in the mirror or the moon in the water—once touched, it would vanish.
If Ann Vaughn were awake at this moment, she would certainly notice the bed beside her sink, Cyrus Hawthorne lying next to her, his arm slipping under her neck, gently holding her in his arms.
A low, contented sigh involuntarily escaped his throat, his dark eyes squinting, but not daring to hold her too closely for fear of waking her.
Once, only in dreams did he have this privilege.
Now, it was vividly present in his embrace, skin against skin, as if it happened only yesterday.
After a moment, Cyrus Hawthorne, embracing her, fell into a deep sleep.
The room was quiet. Outside the window, a gentle breeze blew, stirring fine ripples in the drapes—a semblance of peace.
Ann Vaughn felt as if a giant furnace was holding her, the intense heat making her uncomfortably want to turn over but unable to move.
Instead, the furnace pressed even closer to her body, heating her until her brow furrowed deeply.
Even when she woke up the next morning, Ann Vaughn was still dazed.
She turned her head to look around, finding only herself, no furnace, the room temperature just right.
Could it be she was held by a nightmare last night?
"Young Madam, are you awake?" A female voice called from outside the door.
Young Madam? Who?
Ann Vaughn’s pretty face darkened. She hadn’t planned on responding, but the person outside opened the door themselves—a middle-aged woman who looked about thirty-four or thirty-five.
Coincidentally, it was the gardener Ann Vaughn had previously impersonated.
Ann Vaughn immediately pressed her lips together, blinking nervously.