Chapter 515: She Cried

Olive glared fiercely. “Elvis, don’t you dare!” He slowly narrowed his eyes. Her threats were futile. He tugged, then ripped open the buttons of her little black dress. The buttons scattered, and a chill ran through Olive. She instinctively covered her chest. Elvis stared at her neck. The OneLove jewelry wasn't there. The pain of three years ago remained vivid in his mind; she hadn't offered any amends.

“Elvis, you’ve seen it! The OneLove isn’t on me!” she pleaded. He had lowered his head and bit her neck, his teeth sinking into her skin. The sharp pain made her gasp. Her hands clenched his shoulders.

Elvis stood, effortlessly lifting her. He carried her to the desk, seated her, and positioned himself between her legs. He touched the bite mark on her neck; tiny beads of blood welled. He leaned down, kissed the wound, and swallowed the blood. Olive's head was forced back; she was trapped.

“It hurts, Elvis,” she murmured. He released her, his narrowed eyes filled with gloom, his expression sinister and bloodthirsty. Olive sensed his abnormality. “Elvis, what’s wrong?”

He stared at her with red eyes, his voice hoarse. “Olive, do you know how much I want to kill you now?” His cruel eyes burned with hatred. She forced her eyes open. “Elvis, you’ve searched me. Let me go. I want to leave.” She didn't want to stay with him another second.

He released her, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. “I’ve almost searched everywhere, but there’s one place left,” he said. Her eyelashes trembled. She was only wearing a skirt. His gaze fell on her skirt. He grasped her legs, intending to pull it down. “Show me what you’re hiding.”

Olive held her legs tightly. He had humiliated her. Her clothes were disheveled, yet his remained immaculate. He was going to search her skirt—she wasn't a prostitute! She tried to push him away, but he grabbed her wrist, pinning her arms behind her back, and used his fingers to lift her skirt. A cold fear gripped her. The humiliation was almost unbearable. He wanted to search her thoroughly, to degrade her.

A cold light flickered in Olive's eyes. She produced a small knife hidden in her hair, aiming it at his chest. This time, Elvis didn’t move. He had anticipated her actions. He offered his chest. “Olive, stab here. You did three years ago. My chest is only millimeters away. This time, stab accurately, don’t let me live!”

Olive froze. “What? You can’t do it anymore?” He patted her pale face. “Olive, this isn’t like you. Three years ago, you were so cruel. Come on, I’ll help you stab me.” He ripped open his shirt, revealing a scar from her previous attack. He guided her hand toward his chest. “Stab here!”

The knife fell from her hand. “If you can’t stab me, then be obedient, or I’ll really kill you!” He lowered his head and kissed her lips—their first kiss in three years. It wasn't tender; it was rough, almost biting. He pushed up her skirt, his red eyes darker than before, and yanked off his belt. He'd longed for this.

Olive didn't resist. She wrapped her arms around his neck, closing her eyes. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. They couldn't go back. He kissed her fiercely, then stopped. He saw her tears, silent and sad. It was as if a bucket of cold water had quenched his passion.