Chapter 155: Chapter 155: Ann Vaughn, How Dare You Order Me?
She almost laughed in frustration; she should have expected this. How could this man possibly yield to mere illness?
He’s probably deliberately going against his old ailments!
Just as Ann Vaughn’s head started to throb with these thoughts, the bathroom door suddenly opened, and a cold draft blew in.
Cyrus Hawthorne stepped out with his tall, imposing figure wrapped in a bathrobe, his eyelids half-closed in weariness, not even glancing at Ann Vaughn as he walked straight to the bed.
The sickly state on his face was already quite evident.
Ann Vaughn felt a stabbing pain in her heart, holding back a breath in her throat—
"Taking a cold shower while you’re sick—are you afraid you’re not sick enough?" she fumed, striding over to the bed, grabbing Cyrus Hawthorne’s cold wrist without ceremony, and checking his pulse.
Cyrus Hawthorne said nothing, narrowing his eyes at her with a clear sense of impatience.
Ann Vaughn, however, was rare in her lack of fear of him, confirming that his fever was just from exhaustion and that his old illness hadn’t acted up yet, easing a bit of her worry.
She took out a bottle of restorative elixir, opened it, and brought it to his lips, "Drink this, you’ll feel a bit better."
Seeing Cyrus Hawthorne’s lack of response, Ann Vaughn gently pushed him a bit, speaking kindly, "Cyrus, drink the medicine."
"Ann Vaughn," Cyrus Hawthorne slowly opened his dark eyes, his voice low and raspy like sandpaper, "do you dare order me?"
"It’s not an order, it’s a suggestion. I’m not one to twist words, don’t distort my meaning, drink the medicine."
"..."
There was a moment of silent confrontation, with Ann Vaughn unusually resolute, unwilling to retreat even a step.
Cyrus Hawthorne typically didn’t bother with minor ailments like this; medication would make his mind lose sharpness temporarily.
But under the vast management of Hawthorne Corp., any lapse on his part, even for a second, would be his responsibility to bear for any ensuing loss.
After a few seconds of locking eyes with Ann Vaughn’s insistent gaze, Cyrus Hawthorne moved his long fingers, took the bottle of pale blue liquid, and drank it down in one go.
"Satisfied?"
"You should rest well." Ann Vaughn was, of course, satisfied. With this elixir, he would fully recover in less than half a day.
The restorative contained calming herb elements, with the intensity tailored to the severity of the illness.
Ann Vaughn looked at Cyrus Hawthorne’s sharply defined features in sleep, like a carved sculpture, and sighed in her heart.
He must have been so exhausted these past few days to fall asleep immediately after taking the elixir.
Earlier, during the pulse check, not only had his old ailment not improved, but it also showed signs of worsening. He likely hadn’t even maintained the basic medicinal baths, otherwise a simple fever wouldn’t be this serious.
But his exterior was much too calm, and Ann Vaughn wouldn’t notice anything without checking his pulse.
His internal old ailment, it had to be fully cured.
There was only one method to completely heal it at once.
Ann Vaughn suddenly clenched her fingers, lowering her gaze to look at Cyrus Hawthorne’s face.
Grandfather had advised her countless times not to use the acupuncture technique, and last time when she and Cyrus Hawthorne were trapped in the forest, she had already used it once.
At that time, she had held back, so that acupuncture had not done much harm to her, and conditioning afterwards quickly healed her.
But to completely cure Cyrus Hawthorne’s old ailment, she would need to give it her all without reservation to achieve it.
This acupuncture method, known for its unique ability to transfer some of the patient’s pain onto the practitioner, had long been lost.
Grandfather didn’t want such a unique technique to vanish, so he taught her, but also warned her repeatedly never to use it lightly.
Ann Vaughn wasn’t afraid of pain or hardship; her only worry was whether it would affect the child.
If... with the Fetal Protection Needle to safeguard, it should be worth a try.
What if she could pull it off?
Half an hour later, Ann Vaughn returned to the guest room with the tools.
Cyrus Hawthorne was deeply asleep and wouldn’t wake easily, so Ann Vaughn boldly started to loosen the bathrobe on him.
Although this act indeed made her seem like she was taking advantage of someone in a vulnerable state, the "desire is illusion" continuously screaming in her mind was almost overwhelming.
Ann Vaughn only slipped the robe down to his waist, while silently praying and pouring a vial of liquid onto his chest.
Once it was adequately absorbed, she inserted the Golden Needles into several major acupuncture points on his body with precision and without a hint of hesitation.
In truth, from the first time she used this acupuncture technique on Cyrus Hawthorne, she had thought countless times that she had to completely cure his old illness for him.
But she dared not act rashly, waiting until she had practiced this technique hundreds of times, able to visualize the acupuncture diagrams even with her eyes closed, before she truly dared to undertake the task.
Time ticked by, the sun set, and the moon hung high in the sky.
The guest room was silent, except for the occasional sound of breathing and exhaling.
Ann Vaughn’s forehead was dotted with beads of sweat, with no time to wipe them away, her bright eyes intensely focused, running the Golden Needles 21 cycles through Cyrus Hawthorne’s acupoints, afraid of making the slightest mistake.
The final Golden Needle withdrawn from Cyrus Hawthorne’s body was followed by Ann Vaughn pricking his fingertip, allowing black, murky blood to slowly drip into a glass of water.
After changing four or five glasses of water, the blood from Cyrus Hawthorne’s fingertip finally returned to a bright red color.
Ann Vaughn’s heart immediately felt an immense relief, her pale lips lifting into a continuous smile, her bright eyes curving, filled with a radiant satisfaction.
She did it.
How wonderful.
Ann Vaughn placed the glass aside, pulled Cyrus Hawthorne’s robe back over him, fastening the waist tie, gazing at his still sharply handsome face even in sleep.
Suddenly, she lowered her head, gently planting a light, tender kiss on the corner of his lips.
Along with the soft murmur by her lips, it was swallowed up in this gentle kiss.
Then, Ann Vaughn, without even the strength to tidy up, dragged her exhausted, aching body out of the guest room, returning to her own room.
The duration of the acupuncture determined the pain her body endured.
Cyrus Hawthorne’s pain was more than five times what she felt.
Clinging to these bleary thoughts, Ann Vaughn gradually fell asleep.
Unbeknownst to her, not long after she left the guest room, a figure that had been hidden in the shadows finally emerged.
Early the next morning.
Ann Vaughn awoke with a start.
The daylight outside was bright, and the sun shone warmly.
Remembering Cyrus Hawthorne in the adjacent room, she quickly threw off the covers to wash up and hurriedly ran out.
As soon as she opened the room door and stepped out, Ann Vaughn saw Cyrus Hawthorne bent over, cradling a figure collapsed at the guest room entrance. Her heart skipped a beat, and she rushed over.
"What happene..." Ann Vaughn caught sight of the obvious bloodstains on the floor, and then Cyrus Hawthorne’s dark eyes, cold and terrifying like a murderous tide, looked at her as though—
She had done something utterly unforgivable.
"Ann Vaughn, if anything happens to Cynthia, your worthless life won’t be enough to compensate for hers!" His voice was icy, with an undeniable anger that was utterly genuine.
Ann Vaughn’s heart raced wildly, her mind blank as she looked at the blood-covered person in Cyrus Hawthorne’s arms.