“Don’t… Your Highness, please don’t! This skin is so hard to make, don’t tear it, Your Highness…”

Feng Jiu’er was nearly going out of her mind. The man pressing down on her was as heavy as a mountain, and she couldn’t push him off at all—worse, he truly meant to tear her false skin to shreds.

Frantic, not knowing what else to do, just as his fingertips landed on the disguise and he was about to rip it away, she called out: “Ninth Imperial Uncle.”

Ninth Imperial Uncle, her Ninth Imperial Uncle…

Zhan Qingcheng’s fingers paused. He looked down at her for a long moment, then suddenly said, “Let me see you.”

…

After bathing, Feng Jiu’er didn’t dare put the disguise back on this time, afraid Zhan Qingcheng really would tear it apart.

She also didn’t put back on those height-boosting boots, choosing comfortable shoes instead. Though she was still dressed as a man, at least her feet no longer suffered for it as she walked.

Most importantly, there was her face. Once washed clean with the special solution, her true features were revealed—fair, flawless, unmistakably Feng Jiu’er.

Zhan Qingcheng pulled her into his arms, lowered his head onto her soft lips, and kissed her fiercely.

“Mm…” Feng Jiu’er gripped the front of his robe, originally meaning to push him away, but she had missed his scent, his taste, his lips, his embrace—missed everything about him—too much.

Their breathing grew heavier and heavier. Some things, once set in motion, were like thunder striking the earth—nothing could stop them.

The instant she was laid on the bed, his presence swept over her like an overwhelming tide. She knew she ought to stop this, knew full well some things absolutely must not happen.

But she had no strength to stop it, and no wish to either. She had missed her Ninth Imperial Uncle—missed him so very much.

She wanted nothing more than to curl up in his arms, with no quarrels, no suspicion, no estrangement, no distance between them.

Just like this, belonging to him completely, becoming his woman, merging into one with him.

Just like this, recklessly, willingly, letting body and soul tangle together completely…

Heat—so much heat that the two of them felt they might melt away entirely.

Jiu’er closed her eyes, clinging tightly to her Ninth Imperial Uncle’s neck, even lifting herself up toward him.

Two lines of hot tears slid down her cheeks, though she couldn’t say if it was from sorrow, or happiness, or perhaps… being moved…

A passion like an erupting volcano—and just as she was certain she was about to belong to him completely, it came to an abrupt halt.

Like a wild storm vanishing in an instant. Even Feng Jiu’er herself didn’t know why he’d stopped.

But he truly had ceased every encroaching motion, only lowering his head to look at her, his long fingers brushing along the corner of her eye.

There, a single clear tear still lingered, falling onto his fingertip, which he then brought to his lips.

“I’ve wronged you,” he said, cupping her face. The two of them had been so caught up in passion, and yet he had somehow managed to calm himself.

Should she feel that her charms had failed, or should she be grateful for his unmatched, formidable restraint? In truth, the moment he stopped, Feng Jiu felt a wave of relief.

She had nearly made an irreversible mistake.

“Don’t move!” Zhan Qingcheng’s large palm came down on her shoulder, pressing her back down as she tried to sit up. “Don’t move. Just… wait a moment.”

Feng Jiu’er blinked, and as she lifted her head, she caught a flicker of suffering in her Ninth Imperial Uncle’s eyes.

So he really had been enduring something so unbearable…

Jiu’er felt a belated flush of awareness—shouldn’t she be feeling shy right about now? After all, the two of them were currently in such disarray… no, what disarray—there was hardly any clothing to speak of at all.

“Ninth Imperial Uncle, let me up.” Since they’d already stopped, was there any point in pretending to be oblivious any longer?

No—what came before hadn’t been pretense. She really had lost herself in the moment.

She pushed at him gently again, but—Ninth Imperial Uncle, why aren’t you wearing any clothes? With him like this, how was she supposed to push him away? Wherever she touched, she only brushed against his sturdy body… how mortifying.

No woman could stay composed once her Ninth Imperial Uncle had taken off his clothes. Feng Jiu’er had thought herself plenty calm since becoming Feng Jiu—but the instant her Ninth Imperial Uncle undressed, that composure shattered completely.

Hurry and get dressed, and stop wreaking havoc on the world, won’t you?

Zhan Qingcheng finally rose from atop her, and with a casual flick of his hand, his robes were somehow back on his body in an instant—as quick as a conjurer’s trick.

Feng Jiu’er wrapped the blanket around herself, about to get up to find her own clothes, but he had already returned to the bedside, looking down at her from above.

“Don’t say anything to me right now,” she said, her face flushing red.

“Why not?” Zhan Qingcheng arched a brow—not only did he speak, he leaned even closer.

Feng Jiu’er hastily scooted further toward the inside of the bed, displeased. “You’re already fully dressed, and I’m… it isn’t fair.”

It was a clear sense of being at a disadvantage—whatever the two of them needed to discuss, now was simply not the time, by her reckoning.

Zhan Qingcheng said nothing. Instead, he picked up her male disguise from where it lay and reached to tug at the blanket she had wrapped around herself.

“Your Highness…”

“Hm?” His five fingers tightened, a touch of displeasure crossing his brow—did he mean to tear her blanket apart too?

“…Ninth Imperial Uncle.” When necessary, there was no harm in softening before him, so long as it wasn’t a matter of principle.

“Let me do it myself.” She reached her hand out.

At the sight of her pale shoulder and arm, Zhan Qingcheng’s eyes darkened, the tips of his ears growing faintly warm. Before she knew it, he had caught her arm in his grip.

“Ninth Imperial Uncle!” Feng Jiu’er startled and hastily pulled her arm back.

That arm was so smooth, so soft, that he failed to hold onto it and let it slip away.

She really was too soft, too delicate… he suddenly recalled how supple her skin had felt everywhere, as if a single pinch might bruise her.

His gaze grew darker still.

“Ninth Imperial Uncle, you were the one holding back just now!” Feng Jiu’er reminded him at once.

Zhan Qingcheng pressed his lips together, finally calming himself once more. He picked up the disguise and looked at her. “Let me.”

For the first time before her, he referred to himself as “I,” rather than “this prince.”

It was only a form of address, but somehow it left Feng Jiu’er strangely moved—moved enough that her chest ached with it.

No more anger, then? No more distance between them?

The blanket was pulled away from her, and the sudden chill of exposure snapped her back to her senses. She wanted to stop him, but it was already too late.

She found herself held in her Ninth Imperial Uncle’s arms as he studied the male disguise for a moment, then began dressing her in it.

His movements were so gentle, as though he feared that even the slightest extra force might hurt her.

Faint marks remained on her body from where his long fingers had gripped her earlier—marks that stirred both tenderness and a wild kind of longing.

Zhan Qingcheng found himself doubting whether he truly had been the one to stop things just now. Faced with a body so wonderful, how had he managed not to claim it entirely?