Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love novel Chapter 147

Punch after punch, with no finesse, just raw, brutal moves straight out of a primal male brawl.

Rosemary's voice was shaky with nerves, "Maxwell..."

Her shout did nothing to stop the man, who was so ticked off and beyond control; if anything, it made him hit even harder.

Martin wasn't one to fight often, and it was clear as day that he was getting the worst of it. Rosemary tried to grab Maxwell, but the man was so enraged he wasn't thinking straight and nearly threw her across the room.

But Rosemary was ready. When he tried to shake her off, she clung onto his arm like a lifeline, throwing all her weight on him.

Maxwell was strong, but not strong enough to shake off her grip.

The scuffle cooled off for a moment, and Maxwell's brain started to kick in again. But the rage and destructiveness inside him didn't dial down a notch. His face was stone-cold as his eyes bore into her, "Rosemary, you're protecting him?"

He remembered that time he fought Hogan. Rosemary had just walked away. The building security had to stop her from leaving, and even then, she just stood by like a casual spectator, as if she couldn't wait for them to finish so she could go to sleep.

But now, she was risking her neck jumping in front of him.

Guess there's a difference between caring and not giving a damn.

Rosemary glanced at Martin, who was a bloody mess. His face and clothes were covered in blood, and you couldn't tell where it was all coming from. Even though he was still on his feet, he looked like he was about to collapse any second.

Feeling her gaze, Martin looked up and flashed a half-grin, "I'm fine, don't worry."

Rosemary was drowning in guilt.

She just wanted to shake Maxwell off. He kept saying she was into Martin, so she might as well own up, but who knew this nutjob would lose it and go full-on berserker mode like he wanted to beat the guy to death.

You could tell Martin wasn't a fighter. If she hadn't stepped in, the morgue attendants would probably be clocking in for overtime.

Maxwell scoffed when he heard her, muscles tensing on his arm. Rosemary was still holding it, feeling every twitch.

She let go and stepped in front of Martin, "Enough!"

Maxwell's face was all twisted with mockery, "And what are you gonna do if I'm not done? Think standing in front of him makes him safe?"

Looking at the smug man in front of her, Rosemary's palms itched. Man, she really wanted to slap him again.

What a jerk!

Outside, a mess of footsteps approached. The scuffle had stirred up the nurses, and now security was on the scene. They opened the door to find two bloody messes and a room trashed.

The first few on the scene froze, looked at each other, wondering whether to call the cops.

Seeing people arrive, Rosemary turned to help Martin up, "Doctor, please check him out."

Martin looked rough, and though the doctor was intimidated by Maxwell's presence, his duty to help won out, especially since Maxwell didn't look like he was gonna make a move.

He helped Rosemary support Martin and shouted outside, "Get a stretcher, rush him to surgery upstairs."

He was an ENT doctor, after all; this wasn't his turf.

After Rosemary and Martin left, Maxwell slumped down like he was out of juice, half-closing his eyes without a peep.

His shirt collar had lost a few buttons in the fight, now hanging loose. His trousers were wrinkled, and there was a long cut on the back of his hand, dripping blood.

The nurse approached tentatively, "Sir, you need to get that wound dressed. Let me help you to the door."

She would've wheeled in the stretcher, but the room was such a mess there was no way to even step through, let alone push a bed.

Maxwell didn't even open his eyes, just spat out a word, "Scram."