A spark suddenly ignited in Henry Dales' eyes.
He seemed angry, his hand still extended in mid-air, refusing to retract, "Is it because you're afraid of getting it dirty, or do you disdain to use it?"
Scarlett Yates looked shocked, "Senior."
Henry Dales, contrary to his usual gentle politeness, suddenly stood up and held her chin before she could react.
His cold fingers fixed her jaw, preventing her from moving.
The faintly scented handkerchief touched her lips, gently and slowly wiping.
"Senior, you..." Scarlett Yates was stunned.
"Don't move." Henry Dales bent over, focusing intently on wiping the corners of her lips.
His movements were gentle, meticulous, and cautious, as if she were a porcelain doll that might shatter with a slight touch.
The handkerchief was imbued with his body fragrance.
Scarlett Yates couldn't describe exactly what kind of scent it was, but the delicate fragrance, like a poison, made her somewhat dazed.
