The President's Accidental Wife novel Chapter 386

The blood type of both of them was type-A. The nurse planned to draw 400ml, but Mark wanted the nurse to draw 1,000ml from him.

The nurse refused, saying that the maximum permissible amount of blood a person could donate was 800 ml.

Mark narrowed his eyes and said sternly, "Don't make me repeat myself. If anything happens to them, I will hold you responsible.”

The nurse trembled and was too afraid to say otherwise. She lowered her head and drew 1,000ml of blood from Mark.

There was little change in Mark's expression. He rolled down the sleeve of his black shirt and looked at the nurse. "Save Dean. Let me know if you need anything. Inform me if anything happens."

Mark never liked owing someone else's favors.

Especially when it was from Dean, who was injured from saving Charlotte. He would do his best to save him.

When Mark came out, Summer stood up by using the seat as support. She appeared pale but calm. "Do they need another blood transfusion? I am type-A blood,

too.”

"It is unnecessary for now. We will inform you when there is a need,” the doctor said.

The doors of the operating theater were pushed open a s teams of doctors and nurses went in with serious-looking faces.

Silence returned to the corridor outside the operating theater. They could hear each other’s breathing.

Summer slumped back down on the bench, burying her face between her legs again. Her sleek shoulders trembled involuntarily.

She stopped arguing with him but just quietly waited i n her current posture, occasionally glancing over at the doors of the operating theater.

Two hours had passed since then, and the doors of the operating theater had not opened yet.

She tightened the clench of her hands on her sides, sinking her fingernails into the tender skin of her palms. But she did not feel the slightest pain.

As time went by, Mark’s body stiffened like a stone. H e could never ease up for a moment. Anxiety and gloom, and more worries, shrouded his brows.

He reached to undo a few buttons on his shirt. Otherwise, he could suffocate himself.

Time was passing quietly, and every minute was a torment, the worst kind of mental torture.