Ye Yiheng's cold gaze swept over her knuckles; the second joint of her index finger was indeed unusually red.
He instantly couldn't bring himself to be angry, as his slender fingers clasped her wrist while the other hand gently rubbed her delicate index finger.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Mm," Leng Yu Yan nodded.
Afraid of angering him, her voice carried a nasal tone.
To Ye Yiheng, it seemed his attitude had frightened her, and so he softened his tone, "For such tasks, it's alright to have others do them, why must you do it yourself?"
"Cooking for my husband myself, to be personally involved is my way of showing my heart," Leng Yu Yan looked up at him, her long, fan-like lashes trembling slightly. "Does Your Highness not accept my sentiment?"
Hearing this explanation, Ye Yiheng completely lost his anger, but since his earlier presence had been so formidable, it couldn't be retracted instantly, and his face remained as impassive as ever.
