Nicole’s eyes stung with unshed tears at the sight.
As Roscoe noticed her gaze, he hastily covered up and tried to rise.
“Stay seated,” Nicole insisted, her voice thick with emotion. She reached out, touching his shoulder gingerly.
Roscoe sank back down, attempting to downplay his injuries. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just now that I’ve seen it…”
Nicole, her tone laden with disbelief, pressed, “Do you take me for a fool?”
In the midst of a heavy silence, Nicole’s voice trembled slightly.
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“Is this from the parking lot incident?”
Her mind flashed back to the guards, their hands wielding sinister, blade-Like weapons, which she had first mistaken for whips.
Those very weapons were intended for her, but Roscoe had intercepted the blow, taking the hit in her stead.
When Nicole broached the subject, Roscoe dismissed it with a stoic front. “It’s nothing. I’ve weathered worse.”
Nicole, driven by concern, unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the grim reality of his injuries. It confirmed Jarrod’s words. Roscoe’s existence within the Watts dynasty was fraught with hardship.
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As she reached out, Roscoe caught her hand in a tender grasp, stopping her. “Careful, you’ll soil your hands,” he cautioned.
Nicole bowed her head, noting the crimson that had already transferred to her skin.
With quiet care, Roscoe wiped her hand clean, ensuring no trace of the ordeal remained on her.
Suddenly, Nicole felt a constriction around her heart, and a peculiar sensation pricked at her nose.
She had thought she lost the ability to connect with others emotionally, assuming she had hardened herself into someone unfeeling and callous under Jarrod’s influence.
Yet, amidst her inner turmoil, she yearned to understand his motives.
Doubt gripped her. She feared the answer might reveal a lack of any real purpose behind his actions.
Tears spilled from Nicole’s eyes, landing on Roscoe’s skin. In a hushed tone, she whispered, “It’s not worth it, Roscoe…”
Roscoe’s composure faltered. The once skilled surgeon was momentarily at a loss, his hands fumbling as he tried to comfort her. “Nicole,” he uttered softly, a plea in his voice.
Brushing away her tears, Nicole mustered a smile and took charge.
“Turn around. Let me see to those wounds,” she insisted.
Roscoe’s protest was faint. “There’s no need for that.”
“Don’t argue. Just turn around,” Nicole persisted, not willing to take no for an answer.