That night, Shen Qingwu came to understand something.

No one, it turned out, was truly innocent. Everyone carried some private ugliness, some hidden filth they kept from the world.

Even Zhang Xingjian.

A young lord who looked so refined could still lower that proud head of his for the sake of desire.

Sitting in Zhang Xingjian’s arms, looking down at his handsome face, she felt relief — and a faint contempt for his desire.

So that was all it was.

She had once thought him so difficult to handle, thought she could never make him yield. It turned out that a single word — lust — was enough to capture him.

As for whatever love might grow from it, she wouldn’t waste more thought on it. That tangled mess she’d never wanted with him in the first place — what use was there dwelling on it? Besides, hadn’t Zhang Xingjian already given his answer: desire?

True or false, she was satisfied with that answer. She would believe it, for now.

After all, no one who crossed paths with Zhang Xingjian should expect sincerity from him. A man like him — what sincerity could he possibly have?

So be it. Might as well enjoy the game.

Under the night sky, lanterns glowed and the crowd around the acrobats’ troupe had thinned by seven or eight parts. Atop the high pavilion’s eaves, Shen Qingwu held Zhang Xingjian close, kissing him lingeringly until his limbs went weak and his arms tightened around her waist.

Zhang Xingjian asked her, “Shall we go back?”

There was a rasp in his voice, like a spark suddenly catching in a still river, burning hot in the heart.

The corner of Shen Qingwu’s mouth curved up.

She knew exactly what he meant by going back.

Languid, thoroughly entertained, she said, “Sure.”

Zhang Xingjian looked into her dark, indifferent eyes.

He understood exactly what she was thinking.

Shen Qingwu was not a woman easily tamed.

He had known from the start — if he could tame her, she would give up everything for him, care for no one but him, love no one but him.

Shen Qingwu did not bend to the ordinary rules of the world. Bo Rong had forced certain lessons on her, and she had gone through the motions of learning them. But if she wished, nothing could hold her. Zhang Xingjian wanted that rare thing — something that belonged only to him.

He had cast a great net, trying to catch her. At first, whatever the reason — desire, or something less easily named — he needed to lure her into the trap, needed her to stay by his side willingly.

She might scorn the excuse of “desire” she herself had given him. She might think him no more than that, might think him even lower than she’d imagined. None of it mattered.

As long as Shen Qingwu let down her guard — stopped treating him as an enemy day after day, stopped distrusting everything he did, stopped suspecting him first the moment something went wrong around her.

He had spent so long weaving the net that made Shen Qingwu lose her trust in him.

Now he would spend even longer tearing that old net apart.

Would Shen Qingwu leave him once she’d had her fill?

No.

He would not let that happen. He would make her unable to do without him.

It was no easy task — trying to catch a hawk in still air, with no wind to help him.

On the way back to their quarters, every servant they passed stared, stunned by the sight of Shen Qingwu’s disheveled state that night.

Just before Shen Qingwu followed Zhang Xingjian through the door, she caught sight of Chang Lin approaching with a stack of documents. She shot him a provoking look and slammed the door shut.

Behind her, Zhang Xingjian asked, “Who’s outside?”

She turned at once, pressing her back to the door. She had no wish to let Chang Lin spoil the mood. “No one,” she said.

Zhang Xingjian didn’t press the matter. He simply sat on the couch, watching her with a gentle gaze.

Shen Qingwu said, “So — I’m here now?”

The line came out sounding for all the world like something a bandit queen would say.

She didn’t notice it herself, but Zhang Xingjian blinked, then let out a soft laugh.

His palms were damp with sweat, uncertain about the decision he’d made, a little flustered. He forced the feelings down, kept his composure — and watching Shen Qingwu’s bandit-queen bravado actually put him more at ease.

Zhang Xingjian looked away. “Go wash up first.”

“I already bathed this evening, before I came,” Shen Qingwu said.

At that, they both froze for a moment.

Shen Qingwu’s gaze flickered; Zhang Xingjian glanced at her in surprise — did she mean that when she came this evening, she had already intended…

Well. He’d gone the long way around, it seemed.

Zhang Xingjian said gently, “Go wash again.”

Shen Qingwu knew how particular he was about cleanliness. Though it irritated her, she didn’t feel like making an issue of it over something so trivial. She gave a short “mn” and turned toward the washroom next door, moving with practiced familiarity.

Zhang Xingjian sat lost in thought for a moment on the couch, and was about to rise to wash himself when he saw a flower-adorned head peek out from behind the screen.

Shen Qingwu called out an invitation.

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

He was tempted, but he had other plans in mind. He shook his head, smiling. “No need.”

Shen Qingwu’s eyes glinted. “Offer expires soon. Think it over.”

Zhang Xingjian said, “If Second Miss Shen doesn’t hurry, the water will go cold.”

Shen Qingwu scoffed. She never understood why one room, one washroom, still needed a screen between them, each washing separately. In the army camp, being the only woman, she’d had to keep her distance out of necessity — but with Zhang Xingjian, why bother with such formality?

She came out quickly, her outer robe loosely wrapped around her, and settled cross-legged on Zhang Xingjian’s couch. Listening to the splash of water from the washroom, her mind wandered, full of anticipation for what was to come.

The strategies of the bedchamber — endlessly interesting.

Zhang Xingjian was, by nature, made to be hers.

However cold their dealings might otherwise be, once on the bed, however much he refused to admit it, he always succumbed to her. It was intoxicating, addictive. Every time she touched him, a shiver ran through her bones straight to the crown of her head.

Was it like this for everyone, or did she feel this way only with Zhang Xingjian?

So when Zhang Xingjian said he’d been conquered by desire, Shen Qingwu had believed it almost without hesitation — a feeling this good, who wouldn’t be conquered by it?

It was only a pity that she would eventually have to leave him behind.

As she thought about making the most of this stretch of time, she also found herself wondering whether, once back at camp, she ought to consider marriage, find herself a partner. Not that she needed marriage — she simply liked this feeling.

Zhang Xingjian stepped out from behind the screen.

The candle flame beside Shen Qingwu flickered, and a drop of water fell straight from her lashes into her eye. Through the sudden blur, she saw a figure emerge.

Shen Qingwu sat perfectly still.

She endured the sting of the water in her eye, and through that sting saw the world break into scattered color, saw the handsome young lord grow gradually clearer.

Shen Qingwu could barely find words anymore for how good-looking Zhang Xingjian was — striking in his disarray, striking in his melancholy, striking in his fragility, striking in his flawless cleanliness. He walked toward her step by unhurried step, utterly out of rhythm with her racing heart, and yet her face had already gone hot.

Her fingers, resting on her knees, twitched. She held herself back from rising.

Zhang Xingjian said, “Have you been waiting long?”

He stopped by the couch, leaned down to look at her, a clean cloth still in hand.

As he bent to speak with her, Shen Qingwu tilted her face up. His loose hair fell softly against her, his lashes curved, his eyes clear as silver fish, the scent of soap overpowering his usual fragrance.

Shen Qingwu said nothing.

She reached for his hand, pulling him toward the bed.

He evaded her, crouching down in front of her instead. He hesitated, glanced up at her once, then gently loosened the sash of her already-untied robe.

He saw what lay beneath and frowned slightly, a touch of helplessness in his expression. “You really didn’t dry off properly.”

Just from the sight of her half-damp hair, he’d already guessed as much; the damp traces on her clothes only confirmed it. He could already picture exactly how carelessly she must have bathed, then sat on the bed waiting idly for him.

Shen Qingwu said coolly, “You’re the one who wants this. Don’t fuss like an old woman.”

Zhang Xingjian said unhurriedly, “I am not fussing.”

Shen Qingwu said impatiently, “Then what are you crouching there for? Get up here!”

She’d held back from hurting him this whole time, endured him crouching there with his cloth, chatting with her instead of coming to bed.

As if she had anything to say to him.

Zhang Xingjian’s cloth pressed against Shen Qingwu’s stomach, drying her. She stiffened, looking down rigidly as he held her waist with one hand and wiped with the other, his eyes lowered, expression composed and harmless — except the cloth kept drifting lower.

Time stretched out, unbearably slow.

The cloth moved from her waist down to her legs, covering her thigh again and again, until her muscles drew taut bit by bit, her elbows bracing against the couch, her fingers curling.

She didn’t understand what he was doing.

Zhang Xingjian, eyes lowered, said softly, “Wutong.”

Shen Qingwu, eyes half-closed with languid pleasure, tilted her head back and breathed out. “Mn?”

Zhang Xingjian asked, “Are you sure you’re clean?”

“Of course, I—”

She cut herself off abruptly, her hips jerking upward, her eyes flying open in shock as she looked down.

[The scene that follows has been left undescribed.]

Sometime later, Shen Qingwu lay flat on the couch, fingers clenched white around the bedding, her breath uneven, a fine sheen of sweat covering her.

Zhang Xingjian, breathing unsteadily, coughed as his throat worked.

He lifted his head to meet her gaze from above, his lashes and lips damp.

Shen Qingwu grabbed his wrist and hauled him up onto the bed, rolling to pin him beneath her, catching his chin to kiss him.

Zhang Xingjian turned his face aside. “I haven’t rinsed my mouth yet…”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

“I mind—”

“Then deal with it yourself.”

The unreasonable, thoroughly worked-up Second Miss Shen had no more patience for his slow games — and how much longer could Zhang Xingjian’s restraint have lasted anyway?

[The night continued; the details are left to the reader’s imagination.]

By the time the candle had long since burned down to nothing, three full rounds had passed. Whatever fire Shen Qingwu had built up around Zhang Xingjian had, at last, found some release.

She looked at him with newfound appreciation, and Zhang Xingjian, wanting to prove himself, seemed ready to try for more — enough to make even Shen Qingwu blanch.

Though looking at him, she doubted he actually had the strength left.

“Do you have anything left in you?” she asked.

Zhang Xingjian leaned over her, pressing gentle kisses to her cheek, his dark hair damp at the temples, his face pale as jade. His clothes were long since gone, his long, elegant limbs laid bare before her — like some sprawling, magnificent stretch of mountains and rivers, impossible to look away from.

Reluctantly, she reached out to touch him, wrapping an arm around his slender waist, unwilling to let go.

Such a beautiful body, always hidden away — she genuinely wanted to drag him off to the army camp and keep him all to herself.

Zhang Xingjian had no idea what the very satisfied woman in his arms was thinking.

He curved his eyes, honest. “I don’t know.”

He kissed her eyes and said, “But I still want to.”

The desire in his gaze burned, carrying that same unhurried, faintly amused quality that was so essentially him. He seemed content to let the fire burn slow, and Shen Qingwu didn’t object — she let him have his way.

The two of them fell to talking again.

She asked, “Do you really want it that much?”

“Mn,” said Zhang Xingjian.

“Are all men like you?”

He considered. “More or less, I’d think. Once you’ve had a taste, you can’t bear to stop. ‘Better to die beneath the peony than live without it, and be a ghost still touched by romance.'”

“I’m no peony,” she said.

He laughed softly. “Am I a ghost, then?”

But with that look of utter absorption on his face, how was he any different from a lecherous ghost? No — perhaps the world simply had no other lecher as beautiful as this one. He had a fine face and an elegant bearing, and even in a moment like this he remained lovely, none of the ugliness desire usually carried showing on him at all.

Shen Qingwu stroked his face, entranced. “Zhang Yuelu, you really are good-looking.”

Zhang Xingjian went quiet.

The naked admiration in her eyes was almost too plain, and it always made him think, unwillingly, of Bo Rong. But of course he had no wish to bring Bo Rong up now.

He said instead, “In your eyes, do I have any virtue besides my face?”

Shen Qingwu misunderstood him.

She looked startled. “Isn’t one enough? You shouldn’t be so greedy. With looks like yours, any other flaw can be overlooked.”

His eyes filled with amusement.

He asked suddenly, “Can a handsome face keep you for a lifetime?”

“Sure,” she said simply.

“You’re not actually asking whether your face can hold my affection for a lifetime, are you?” she added.

His gaze rippled like flowing water, and he smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t presume so. I’ll grow old and lose my looks one day too — I can’t hope for General Shen’s fondness to last that long.”

She tried to reassure him. “You don’t need to put yourself down like that. Look at your older brother, Bo Rong — he’s ten-odd years older than you and still handsome, not the least bit unsightly, still so striking. When we’re not at war, plenty of young women linger outside the camp making up all sorts of excuses just to see him.

“Yang Su says every one of them wants to marry him.”

Zhang Xingjian let out a small sound and arched up suddenly.

She caught his hand at once. “Why’d you move like that all of a sudden?”

He only smiled. “I couldn’t help myself, Wutong. Forgive me.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

“I think you’ve rested enough,” she said flatly. “Got your strength back, have you?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

He knew, even as he thought it, that it was too late — before he could protest, she’d already caught his shoulders and flipped him beneath her.

He closed his eyes. “Is this the only way you know?”

“I’m not as learned in these matters as your family clearly is,” she said. “But this works well enough. Why bother with more variety than that?”

[The rest of the night is left undescribed.]

At some point, worn out beyond telling, Shen Qingwu finally collapsed against his chest, drenched in sweat, and fell fast asleep.

It had taken everything out of her — even a woman general who’d known battlefields could be exhausted by this. Zhang Xingjian, unable to move at all, simply held her as best he could, pulled the blanket over them both, and drifted off as well.

Tired as he was, his heart was glad.

In the haze of sleep, Zhang Xingjian dreamed.

He dreamed he had returned to his childhood.

Evening light fading, the Zhang estate silent. The ten-year-old boy, left alone in the great house, had just been scolded by his tutors, who had confiscated every toy his maids had secretly brought him. Heartbroken, they lectured him earnestly, asking why he wouldn’t apply himself more, why he couldn’t be more like Zhang Rong.

Zhang Wenbi said, “Do you know that at your age, your eldest brother never once played with the children outside? Why do you long to go out every day?”

The tutors said, “At your age, Feiguang” — Zhang Rong’s childhood name — “had already memorized these books by heart. Zhang Yuelu, you are the Zhang family’s hope. Your second sister took you in for your own good. Surely you don’t wish to be sent back to the side branch, to be mocked again?”

Glory always came at some cost.

Even at ten, young Zhang Yuelu understood this. And yet, understanding it, he still longed for certain things.

He sat on the steps of the house reciting his lessons as the moon rose to its zenith, the lights of the Zhang estate going dark one by one, until his was the only lamp still lit. Hungry, exhausted in body and spirit, his head aching from the memorization, he still didn’t dare go to sleep.

He feared disappointing his second sister, feared the tutors’ sighs, feared his elders shaking their heads, murmuring to his sister that “perhaps he isn’t the moon we were hoping for.”

Just then, young Zhang Yuelu heard the creak of tree branches.

He looked up and saw apricot blossoms drifting down, the low wall lined with trees, and atop the wall stood a small, grubby girl.

Her hair was a mess, her ill-fitting clothes patched all over, a jumble of small knives and daggers tucked at her waist. She swung her legs and sat down, watching the little moon of the Zhang family in his misery.

In the dream, Zhang Yuelu knew it was Shen Qingwu.

But dream-Shen Qingwu didn’t care for talking either.

She looked at him for a while, then grinned at him. When the night watch sounded in the distance, she leapt up with practiced ease, bounded unsteadily along the top of the wall, and vanished in an instant.

The young boy trapped within the Zhang estate ran after her a few steps. “Don’t go…

“Wutong…”

The child murmured, “Take me with you…”

The little girl turned her head atop the wall, made a face at him, as arrogant and impossible as she would grow up to be. “Keep dreaming.”

Zhang Xingjian woke with a start from the dream. Through the bed curtains, he saw daylight brightening outside.

He gazed up at the curtains in a daze, unable to guess the hour. This feeling of losing control so rarely happened to him.

The strange unfamiliarity faded quickly — Zhang Xingjian found he couldn’t quite breathe, and looking down slowly, saw Shen Qingwu’s long limbs wound around him.

She clung to him like a frog, pinning him in place, utterly unconcerned that she might crush him.

He stared at her, thinking of the dream, catching the scent of the room, remembering the madness of the night before. His gaze flickered.

Suddenly Shen Qingwu lifted her head from his chest and opened her eyes, startling him.

Her sharpness, even half-asleep, was unsettling.

She looked at him and muttered, “Glaring at me — good, means you’re alive.”

Satisfied, she mumbled, “Mine.”

Having confirmed her prize was still there, Shen Qingwu tilted her head, wrapped herself around Zhang Xingjian again, and fell contentedly back to sleep.

Only then did Zhang Xingjian notice the way she’d positioned herself while sleeping — her ear pressed right against his heart. In other words, she had been listening to his heartbeat the entire time to make sure it stayed steady.

No wonder she’d noticed the instant he so much as twitched.

Zhang Xingjian’s gaze softened.

Adorable Shen Qingwu, afraid he might die. Infuriating Shen Qingwu, who wouldn’t even let him go in her dreams.

He lowered his head, caught hold of her arm, and bit down — not too hard — on her wrist.

Outside the door, the maids holding basins of water, still hesitating over whether to knock, heard a heavy thud from within.

They exchanged bewildered looks.

After a long moment, they heard Second Miss Shen’s voice, panicked and mortified: “Zhang Yuelu, what’s wrong? Are you all right? I didn’t kill you, did I? Why— why would you touch me while I was asleep…”

The maids traded another glance.

Half an hour later, Zhang Xingjian sat pressing a handkerchief to his nose to stop the bleeding, his expression composed.

Beside him, Shen Qingwu fumbled to get dressed, glancing repeatedly at the clean, handsome young lord.

She tried to reason with him. “Why don’t you take your clothes off, let me check you over, press on anything that hurts. If I broke something on you, that’s no good at all…”

Zhang Xingjian said nothing.

Earlier, he’d only meant to bite her wrist — and had been instantly seized and thrown by a still-sleeping Shen Qingwu. Before her eyes had even opened, she’d flipped him clean over her shoulder, and he’d only just managed to block in time.

His martial skill wasn’t bad, and after a few exchanged moves, he’d escaped with his life still intact.

Once fully awake, Shen Qingwu realized that on the very first day of her newly struck arrangement with her teacher, she had apparently just assaulted him.

Without waiting for Zhang Xingjian to say anything, she declared she’d handle it herself and headed for the door. “I’ll go get you some medicine.”

Shen Qingwu was determined to make good use of what remained of her precious leave — catching the culprit to help Bo Rong, and enjoying herself along the way.

She knew the entire household answered to Zhang Xingjian. If the servants learned she’d beaten him half senseless, it would cost him standing in front of his own people.

Rarely one to think of such social niceties, Shen Qingwu had a flash of consideration this time. She left the estate to fetch medicine for him.

She only meant to pick up something for bruises and scrapes at the pharmacy, but on her way out, she spotted a few grown men standing there with awkward expressions, consulting the physician about something unspeakable.

Shen Qingwu considered — should she perhaps get Zhang Xingjian something more… invigorating?

She glanced down at her purse, then turned and walked away.

Why should she spend extra money on him.

As if.

Zhang Xingjian rested in his room for half the day. He was just about to ask where she’d gone when the ever-unpredictable Shen Qingwu returned.

She came back with medicine for bruises, which brought him some comfort.

But after crouching beside him and studying him for a while, she suddenly asked, “Do you want to sleep with me again tonight?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

His wrist was bruised, his nose had bled from her blow, and his lower back, from hitting the bed frame, was likely scraped raw as well. She’d left him in such a state that very morning — and this was what she was thinking about?

He said quietly, “Shen Qingwu, are you even human?”

Shen Qingwu answered, entirely unbothered, “I was only asking.”