“Hey!”

Pinned beneath her on the couch, Zhang Xingjian turned his face aside, the corner of his mouth curling upward. He was smiling again.

His robes were in disarray, a faint bitterness of medicine clinging to him. Having stayed in his room handling business all day without going out, he’d simply pinned his hair back with a wooden hairpin. With her sudden pounce, that thick dark hair had come loose across the couch, fine and cascading like a waterfall.

Stark black against pale skin, clean and clear.

And with that smile, a faint flush across his face, he looked all the more striking.

Shen Qingwu had never been one for restraint.

He felt her warm breath fall against him, a light sniff at the curve of his throat. That wild, feral little sniff, so warm, sent a startling shiver rippling up from his adam’s apple.

His blood seemed to boil along with his pulse.

Sweat broke out across his back; he felt suddenly, unbearably warm.

His fingers curled against the cushion beneath him, tensing, then releasing. Afraid of startling her, he held himself perfectly still, breath held.

She asked, close to his throat, “Did you take your medicine?”

He gave the faintest “Mm.”

He kept his head turned aside the entire time, staring at the wooden table to his right, the ornaments on it, the folding screen behind it. The landscape painting on the screen seemed unusually fine just then, drawing his full attention—anything to keep from being distracted by the wild little beast looming above him.

Only the faint blue vein swelling on the back of his hand, hidden in his sleeve, betrayed what was really going on in his mind.

She kept sniffing, then remarked, “Smells like the same medicine I take.”

He smiled. “Naturally. We fell into the water together, fell ill together—of course we’d take the same medicine.”

“Is that so?”

Her distrust was so blunt that he paused, lashes lowering slowly. “What else would it be? Do you think I’d poison you? With the Heartbound Gu between us, I can’t touch you without harming myself—you should have that much confidence.”

She said nothing.

“If you don’t believe me,” he said, “why not taste it yourself?”

Taste it how?

Her gaze dropped to his lips.

His mouth was relaxed, curved in that familiar, pleasing shape. His lips were well-formed, soft and moist, a vivid color redder than many women’s—she’d once assumed he used some kind of cosmetic, the way certain young nobles of Great Zhou did.

How else could lips look so damp, so lightly colored, so inviting?

Later… of course, she’d realized she’d been wrong about that.

Nothing at all like that killer’s lips—dark, almost black…

The candlelight flickered. Zhang Xingjian waited a long while, but no affection came from her.

He felt a flicker of unease, of frustration, and no small amount of helplessness.

In the past, he’d done nothing at all, and she’d still pounced on him, nipping and grabbing. Now that he was actually trying something, he couldn’t seem to hold her attention at all.

Wasn’t she supposed to be lusting after him?

Why wasn’t she in any hurry now?

He gave a light cough, startling her out of her wandering thoughts. Her gaze landed on his face, still faintly flushed, and then he began coughing again. She understood at once. “Caught a chill?”

She pulled back immediately. “Don’t give it to me.”

She rolled to get up and leave, but he caught her wrist and yanked her firmly back.

She frowned, pulled back down, tumbling against him. He grunted softly but kept his grip on her wrist.

He sat up, and while she was busy glaring at him, slipped one hand unnoticed to her waist, drawing her gently toward himself.

“Wutong is in such fine health,” he said. “Surely you’re not afraid of catching my chill?”

“Of course not.”

His eyes curved with amusement. “Then shall we continue?”

“Continue what?”

Something stirred in her.

“…Using me as the measuring stick for that culprit you couldn’t draw.”

She laughed.

He said nothing further, and she had no idea what lay behind that faint dejection in his voice. But she understood it, vaguely, in her own muddled way—seeing him flustered always made her a little pleased.

Probably she just liked watching him squirm.

She was free, unrestrained, doing exactly as she pleased. Cheered by the thought, she surged forward again, throwing herself back into his arms, wrapping around him.

She ordered, “Lie down. Let me measure you properly.”

“Here?”

“Hm?”

“The night wind’s too cold, the forest lets the draft through, and the jade couch by the window is easy to catch a chill on…”

She thought: so many complaints.

She waved a hand. “To the bed, then.”

—

At the bedside, she stood, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Zhang Sanlang, shall I move the brazier closer, pile a few more layers of bedding under you? Wouldn’t want you to suffer.”

It was the first time she’d called him “Third Young Master Zhang,” and his eyes curved with amusement, finding it rather charming.

He said politely, “No need.”

She threw herself back into his arms.

He tilted his head back slightly, arms opening to wrap around her waist. As his neck arched, he felt a light peck against his adam’s apple.

He paused but pretended not to notice.

She, too, kept a straight face, insisting to herself she wasn’t the type to take advantage of someone in a weakened state—she’d genuinely come here on business.

She silently repeated “Bo Rong” to herself, three times, before she felt somewhat calmer.

Leaning against him, she quietly measured his waist, his chest. Her hands moved erratically, and she felt a flicker of guilt at herself. His heart was racing wildly beneath her palm, and yet he stayed perfectly silent, even his breathing carefully controlled.

Her eyes lowered.

She fidgeted lightly with the jade-white sash at his waist.

“Have you got it memorized?” he asked.

“…Some of it. Not all.”

“Should I take off my robe?”

He asked it so calmly that she looked up sharply from his chest, her damp, dark eyes landing on his face.

Fighting to control the heat rising in him, he said, “Or was the measurement not accurate enough?”

She stared at him blankly.

She’d been nestled against him a good while now, hair a mess, the scar on her neck no longer so visible against her flushed skin. Everything was bathed in warm, golden light—only her eyes remained clear and cool, black and nearly luminous.

He wondered whether this fool had simply missed his meaning entirely.

Snapping suddenly out of her scattered thoughts, she looked straight at him and said, “No need. I’ve got it clear now.”

He gazed at her, certain now: the fool truly hadn’t understood him at all.

He furrowed his brow, faintly troubled, rubbing at his temple, his smile turning helpless.

Zhang Yuelu had no idea why communicating with her was always this exhausting.

But what could he do—throw himself at her like some desperate, starved wolf?

He wanted her, wanted to be with her, in every sense… Days ago, in that little inn, she hadn’t understood. Even now, she still didn’t.

But then she leaned in close. “Take off your robe.”

Caught mid-complaint in his own thoughts, he startled, looking up at her, his gaze flickering with a faint golden light.

“I want to check how your injuries are healing,” she said.

“You want to apply medicine for me?”

She paused, then accepted readily. “Sure.”

—

She knelt with unusual solemnity, watching as he slowly, unhurriedly untied his sash, shed his outer robe, then the many layered, finely made garments beneath.

She watched him without looking away, her gaze not particularly restrained.

Harboring some vague thoughts of taking advantage, and made uneasy by his lack of resistance, her heart raced, her fingers growing damp with nerves. She was beginning to understand her own confusion:

There really was a difference between a beauty who took initiative and a beauty who simply let things happen.

She should have agreed to let him have his way and be toyed with by her, back then…

“The ointment’s in the third compartment by the bed, on your left,” he said.

She said nothing, silently going to fetch it.

This, at least, was something she was good at—she wasn’t one for tending to people, but she knew how to treat wounds. Years of scuffles in the army camp had made her skilled at it.

Watching him lower his eyes as he finished undressing, she paused, then asked, “Do you want me to unwrap the bandages myself?”

She said nothing.

But she leaned in from behind him, silently pressing her hand against the bandages wrapped around him.

The room was unusually quiet. She unwrapped the strips of cloth carefully, without a word, glancing briefly at his injuries.

A mess of bruises, purple and green, old wounds crossing new. Not just the old knife scars, but arrow wounds from months back, and now on top of it all, the fresh injuries from the ice that had battered him not long ago…

Knowing her, apparently, was rather unlucky for him.

She thought this quietly, reining in her scattered attention. She spread the ointment with a touch of internal energy, working it evenly into her palm, then pressed her hand against his skin.

The moment she touched him, he shivered faintly, flinching.

“Hurts?”

He closed his eyes. “No.”

“Then bear with it,” she said flatly.

Neither spoke.

Only their breathing filled the silence.

Heads bowed, then lifted, her palm pressing lightly against him. He watched her from beneath lowered lids as she stared down at the ugly scar across his chest. She glanced up without meaning to, and their eyes met.

She paused, faintly startled.

She asked again, “Hurts?”

His eyes were dark as night water. “No.”

She pressed her lips together, a flicker of stirred-up violence passing through her gaze.

She held it back.

Time passed—how much, neither could say. Their breaths tangled together, the heat rising, the room thick with the faint scent of osmanthus in the ointment. Not just on him—her palms were coated in it too.

When her fingers pressed against his chest, she felt his heart pounding fast.

Yet he said nothing.

Neither did she.

In the silence, the tension thickened, grew heavier and heavier. He kept his eyes closed, a faint sweat beading on his brow.

Her massaging was precise, deliberate—pressing on a wound really did hurt. But what unsettled him more was the breath drifting near, then far; the medicinal scent on her that matched his own; the dark strands of her hair that brushed, unnoticed, against his shoulder.

It was her silence.

It was the warmth of her palm.

And it was the way both their breaths grew careful, restrained, with every press of her hand.

A single drop of sweat fell onto his lashes.

He let out a soft breath, turning his head aside.

She looked up abruptly.

The violence in her eyes, the coldness, went unconcealed as she shoved him down, pinning him against the pillows and quilt. The curtain flared up at one corner from the sudden motion, and his freshly treated back struck the bedding hard—painful, and cold.

And beneath the pain, some strange, unnamed pleasure.

She gripped his throat, leaning down. “Hurts?”

His gaze had gone hazy, eyes glistening. He repeated, as before, “No… mm.”

She lowered her head and kissed him.

He tilted his head back to meet her, breath catching, throat working, arms rising to wrap around her waist.

This chaos, half calculated and half unthinking, was hard to predict, hard to settle.

It had been a long time since she’d let herself go like this.

At the barest touch, both of them found themselves drawn back in, memories surfacing unbidden from countless times before. In the haze of it, neither of them was particularly virtuous—both moved by desire, both harboring their own hidden motives… perhaps it wasn’t so strange that things had come to this.

His hand slipped inside her collar, reaching to remove the jade pendant.

She suddenly came back to herself, pushing up, regaining her senses. “No.”

The air went tense.

His warm fingers still rested in her hair, his other hand still caught inside her collar.

His voice turned faintly cold. “Why not?”

—Was Bo Rong so important to her that even here, in bed, she couldn’t bear to remove a pendant?

Was she going to keep wearing another man’s gift while sharing this with him?

Was he not… not good enough to sleep with?

His expression had gone flat, though the flush still lingered. She didn’t notice the shift in his mood at all; after a moment, unable to help herself, she leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Then pulled carefully away.

Startled by the kiss, his brows lifted, momentarily dazed, unsure what she meant by it.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

“Why not?”

He nearly asked whether it had something to do with Bo Rong, but then she said, “I’m injured. I can’t do this.”

He froze.

He released his tight grip on the pendant, his gaze shifting. “Injured…”

She looked at him, baffled. “Aren’t you injured too? Don’t you know? Didn’t the physician tell you?”

A faint flush crept across his face.

He said, composed, “I… forgot.”

Before she could question him, he quickly found an excuse. “General Shen always seems so unyielding, moving so freely—I’d nearly forgotten you were injured at all. Your injuries must be fairly serious.”

She nodded gravely.

Shameless as she could be, her mind was clear enough right now—she wasn’t so far gone as to let this matter push her injuries further, forcing her to see a physician again.

Then how would she ever leave Mianzhou, how would she help Bo Rong?

—

The night wind pressed at the windows, the curtains hanging high.

The two of them sat in silence, long and wordless.

He was disheveled; she was little better.

But inside, she itched terribly.

She rarely restrained her own desires like this.

And with him sitting there like that, robe half-open, eyes hazy as mist over rain, gaze distant…

She placed her hand over his.

He looked at her.

She hesitated a long while.

Then, with reckless nerve, she came up with an idea that solved nothing and only made things worse. “Do you want to see mine?”

He stared at her blankly.

“See your what?”

Her eyes lit up. “My injuries. Come treat them.”

He gazed at her, startled, his eyes darting away for a moment.

She crawled closer, playing the part of an obedient little pup, tilting her face up beneath his lowered one, letting him see her disheveled self. “Do you want to look?”

She was blunt about it. “My figure’s probably quite good.”

Clumsy but sincere, she recommended herself enthusiastically. “There’s not an ounce of extra flesh on my waist, feels nice to the touch. My legs are long, well-proportioned, jade bones and icy skin, delicate and soft…”

He glanced around, bewildered: who, exactly, was delicate and soft?

“Hey!”

She lunged to hit him, sprawling across him, and caught sight of the pale skin beneath his loosened collar—her hand faltered. This little wolf’s eyes practically glowed with anticipation. He masked his nerves and embarrassment with a smile, saying calmly, “All right. Let me treat your wounds.”

She immediately twisted around, eager, reaching for the bed curtains, pulling the pale blue drapes closed.

“…What are you doing?”

“I have to undress,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t want to catch cold.”

He teased her. “So considerate of your own health now. But back on the cliff…”

She turned, eyes cold as winter stars. “What about on the cliff?”

He let the topic drop, smiling. “Nothing.”

—Back on the cliff, covered in blood, threatening to send him to hell, she hadn’t seemed to care much about her own body then—

In truth, he had no particular intentions.

He genuinely wanted to check how her injuries were healing.

Back on the mountain, he’d given her his own clothes and, with no medicine on hand, had only hastily bandaged her wounds. After she woke, she’d been fiercely resistant, refusing to let him near, and he’d never known how her injuries had actually progressed.

Now, seeing them properly, it was startling: her shoulders and back were crisscrossed with wounds large and small, old scars torn open, fresh injuries carelessly bandaged, the discarded cloth strips soaked with blood.

If not for her strong constitution, this many injuries would have killed her.

His heart filled with a confused rush of feeling, of regret—he no longer knew whether it had been right to support her joining the army.

In the capital, she’d been a troublemaker, but at least she hadn’t carried this much damage on her body. Now there were so many wounds he couldn’t even count them, couldn’t tell them apart…

She pulled him down to lie facing her, watching as he tended to her wounds.

She never had much to say, only watching him with her eyes. He calmly brushed her hair aside, tilting her chin up—

The cold ointment touched her face, spreading down her cheek to her neck.

“I’ll have the physician change the medicine tomorrow,” he said. “This one stings a bit.”

“Don’t you use the same kind? Something wrong with it?”

He said evenly, “No. It’s just that your face and neck are injured—without a good scar-healing ointment, I’m afraid it might leave marks.”

“Meaning I’ll turn ugly?”

He hummed in acknowledgment, long lashes fluttering, curious about her thoughts. “Does Wutong want to stay pretty, or not mind the scars at all?”

She ignored his “Wutong.”

She mulled it over for a while.

She’d never been as pretty as her sister Shen Qingye to begin with, but she was still a girl—of course she didn’t want to become even less so.

But… “I don’t have the money for whatever fancy medicine you’re talking about.”

His fingertips, resting against her face, paused briefly.

After a breath, he looked up at her, voice gentle. “Didn’t the girl from the Miao borderlands give you some money back?”

“Money’s for important things. Not for something like this.”

He considered this.

“Then… I have some old ointment I’ve used before. If the physician says tomorrow it’s suitable, would you be willing to use mine?”

She blinked, startled.

She said, wondering, “Your family really is wealthy.”

He said nothing. The Shen family wasn’t poor either—it was just that none of that money ever reached her.

A young woman, still in the bloom of youth, who surely loved beauty as much as anyone, who would have liked to arrange flowers, look in mirrors… yet forced to wear whatever mismatched clothes came to hand, a single wooden hairpin worn to the end of its life, not a single ornament on her person.

A young woman, brought to this state by him, and by the Shen family.

Something sharp stabbed at his chest, the pain catching in his breath.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Naturally, he had no wish to explain.

Slowly, he realized what road he was walking down—the more he loved her, the more he would have to pay for having once overlooked her. He was willing to bear some cost for it. But he found, unexpectedly, that he feared her disdain.

Would she come to despise him?

Or would things go the way he hoped—would she come to love him?

He wrapped his arms lightly around her, and under her startled, wide-eyed gaze, held her shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to the side of it.

She shoved him away violently, sitting up.

Furious, she demanded, “What are you doing?!”

—

He leaned against the bedpost, his eyes dark and glistening, watching her with a faint bewilderment.

She pressed a hand to her own racing heart, glaring at him.

Something felt wrong—about him, and about herself too. Her heart was pounding hard, but not in the way it had before, not from desire.

The uneven, racing rhythm of it, the sudden tremor she’d felt the instant his lips touched her shoulder… all of it left her shaken.

She almost wondered if he’d poisoned her somehow.

But her reason told her that was impossible. She wouldn’t ask something so foolish.

He watched her, slowly reaching out to pull her back. “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

…Was she allowed to kiss him, but not the other way around?

She opened her mouth.

And found herself with nothing to say.

She didn’t know how to explain it…

Jaw set, she leapt off the bed, snatching up all the ointment from his arms. Hair loose and disheveled, she headed for the door, saying coldly, “You know exactly what you did!”

“…?”

He genuinely had no idea—

The next day, birds chirped outside.

At breakfast, Chang Lin came to ask discreetly how things had gone between his young master and Shen Qingwu the night before.

Knowing his young master as he did, and knowing Shen Qingwu, he assumed the two of them must have finally consummated something wonderful the night before.

But at breakfast, the mood between them was distinctly odd.

His young master remained composed and gentle as always, but Shen Qingwu sat with a dark expression, not sparing him a single glance.

Zhang Xingjian quietly peeled an egg and set it gently in a bowl, sliding it toward her. She clearly avoided looking at it, yet with unerring precision, pushed the bowl straight over to Chang Lin instead.

Zhang Xingjian’s gaze settled on Chang Lin, and on the egg now sitting in his bowl.

Chang Lin: “…”

She stood. “I’m done eating. I’m going out.”

He rose as well. “Weren’t we going to wait for the physician today—”

She turned to look at him, a mix of guilt, anger, and reproach in her expression—a clear warning not to bring up the confusing mess of last night, or she’d hit him.

He smiled faintly, tactfully changing his approach. “Weren’t you going to have me draw the culprit’s portrait? Where are you off to now? If you don’t tell me his features, how am I supposed to draw him?”

“I have important business to attend to. Where I go is none of your concern. If you want to draw the portrait… you can wait until I’m back.”

But in truth, she found herself somewhat reluctant to stay near him.

She wanted to resist that strange, inexplicable stirring from the night before.

Things she couldn’t make sense of felt dangerous to her, and she recoiled from them instinctively.

He said gently, “I carry the Heartbound Gu—I can’t stray far from… from Second Young Lady Shen. Please have some mercy and let me accompany you.”

Chang Lin buried his face in his bowl, stirring his water with great concentration.

Her expression softened.

She did, in truth, quite like the look of him—refined, elegant, handsome.

Her mood improved slightly. “Let’s go, then.”

—

Zhang Xingjian followed her, hoping to figure out what had upset her, why she’d suddenly pulled away from him.

But she was straightforward by nature, blunt to a fault, and gave him no opening to ask.

Still, it wasn’t long before he found an opportunity to comfort her, when someone else managed to make her angry instead—

At the tailor’s shop, Shen Qingwu went to pick out some clothes. She’d been wearing his men’s clothing this whole time, and however reluctant she was to spend money, she couldn’t keep doing that forever.

The two of them entered the shop.

The proprietress greeted them warmly. “Young master, and this… guard of yours? What would the young master like to—”

Shen Qingwu raised an eyebrow.

“Guard?”

She said flatly, “What, do I look like his servant?”

Zhang Xingjian could only turn slightly aside, trying to make himself less noticeable.