"What do you really want?"
Wen Jiaren could no longer hold back her impatience and struggled, pushing against the man's lean and toned chest with her ample curves.
Her eyes were large, bright, clear, and stubborn. The unique scent of a woman invaded his nostrils, her body warm and soft. Mu Qian's hand tightened on her chin, and from between his slightly reddened lips, a voice slowly emerged, indifferent, "Let my son answer that question for you."
As he spoke, with no regard for tenderness, he yanked her arm, dragging her before Mu Xiao.
It hurt so much!
The pain came from her wrist—the same one that was dislocated. Whether he did it on purpose or not, the pain turned her face pale.
Mu Xiao had already stood up from the ground. His palm was scraped, and there was still vibrant blood on the corner of his mouth. His little face was void of color, and his lips quivered as he spoke with a sobbing tone, "Why did you hit me?"
