Chapter 618

Please have some self-respect! How embarrassing! Could those aunties stop talking? Olive bowed her head, pretending to be indifferent, and tried to get past him. However, she sprained her ankle.

“Ah!” Olive let out a small groan, falling to the side.

“Be careful!” At that moment, a strong arm wrapped around her slim waist. Elvis pulled her into his lap. Their faces were suddenly close, his sculpted features magnified in her vision. Their breaths mingled. He was tall and commanding; she was delicate and graceful—a striking picture. Olive looked at him, her lashes fluttering. She was speechless.

“Ha ha ha,” an aunt behind them laughed loudly. “Miss, we caught you! Don't you even admit this is your husband?”

Amid the aunts' laughter, Olive wanted to disappear. She quickly stepped back, handing him the basin.

“I’ve washed the clothes; you hang them,” she said, returning to the wooden house to wash vegetables. Last night's heavy rain had forced them to stay a day or two, requiring them to fend for themselves.

Elvis set down the basin, his slender fingers extracting her panties—pink cartoon ones, undeniably girlish. He looked at her, asking, “How do I hang these?”

Olive’s head shot up; her panties were in his hand. He clearly didn't know how. He’d never done this before. No one would believe he was drying a woman’s underwear here. Her face flushed crimson. She snatched them. “I’ll do it myself.”

Elvis frowned. “Are you sure you want to hang them here?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you hang them here, everyone will know what color underwear you’re wearing.” The clothesline was right outside the door, and the aunties lived nearby. Olive hadn't considered that, but he had.

She quickly turned and went inside, intending to hang them in the back. Footsteps approached, a quick intake of breath audible behind her. It was Elvis. He followed her.

“Am I your husband or your brother?” His deep voice, magnetic and seductive, came from above. Olive was stunned. Why the question?

He moved closer, their bodies brushing, sparks flying. He'd been watching her tiptoe to hang clothes, her blouse riding up, revealing her waist. His palm moved slightly, the memory of holding her waist last night flooding his mind.

“Can you and your brother sleep together? Or can you ride him?” He whispered in her ear, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Olive whirled around, glaring. “Elvis, that’s enough. Please have some self-respect!”

He seized her chin. “Self-respect? Last night you were all over me, why no mention of self-respect then?”

Her eyes widened; she quickly covered his lips. He was outrageous! His dark eyes shone; the allure of a mature man was undeniable. Beautiful women are said to be a nation's downfall, but a handsome man doesn't necessarily have a bad effect on a woman.

He gently kissed her palm. She recoiled, as if shocked, and moved away. He leaned against the wall, blocking her path.

“What are you doing? Get out of the way!” She hadn't expected him to be so bold.

He smiled softly, his touch lingering on her rose-flushed face. "Don't touch me…" she hit his palm. Trapped in the small space, shrouded in shadow, he was like a bully, she a frightened deer. She shivered, unable to bear his teasing. She pushed him away and fled.

Watching her go, he shoved his hands in his pockets, his head lightly against the wall—a lazy, yet pleased look on his face.

Olive pondered the strange formation in the royal ancestral hall and her fall. Their current location was primitive, near the river. The residents were simple and friendly, posing no threat. Her men and Elvis's men would soon arrive, but the heavy rain had damaged the roads, delaying their journey by a few days. This time, she hadn’t found the Ambassador's sword in the worship hall, but she was prepared. This wouldn't be easy; she needed another opportunity to enter.

An old woman’s voice called from outside: “Miss Hart, are you there?”

Olive went out to see Aunt Davina and her daughter, Tiffany, arriving with meat and vegetables.

“Miss Hart, this is for you. Make nourishing broth for your brother.” Aunt Davina handed over a basket.

Olive protested, but Aunt Davina insisted. Tiffany, peering inside, asked, “Miss Hart, where’s your brother?”

Olive understood Aunt Davina’s enthusiasm—perhaps her daughter liked Elvis. Tiffany was slender and elegant, beautiful, and her admiration for Elvis was evident. Olive felt a strange sense of familiarity with Tiffany, yet her face was unfamiliar. A sharp glint flashed in Olive's eyes.

“Olive, why aren’t you cooking?” Elvis’ deep voice cut through the air. He appeared, his gaze quickly moving from Aunt Davina and Tiffany to Olive. “What are you doing here?”

Aunt Davina smiled at Elvis. “Mr. Hart, may I ask where your house is? How old are you? Are you married?”