His voice was not loud, but his tone was full of amusement. His face seemed to be smiling, yet his brows clearly carried a rare edge of cold menace that was seldom seen on him. A Li Xuandu like this felt deeply unfamiliar to Pu Zhu — even frightening. But the hand gripping her waist was very hot, burning like a flame cupped in his palm.

Even through several layers of fabric, Pu Zhu could feel that searing warmth against her skin.

Her heart leapt faster, and her head seemed to spin even more dizzily — yet in her mind, a dim and hazy understanding began to take shape.

Based on her experience, she was certain: this was without question the sort of oblique signal that came from a man.

In other words, the Prince Qin who had rejected and even humiliated her on several previous occasions was, at this moment, asking her to fulfill her wifely duties.

She was genuinely surprised by this sudden shift, and could not quite understand why. And his manner of speaking put her somewhat out of countenance.

But as for the thing itself — she held no aversion to it. She had always planned this; it was only that he had repeatedly pushed her away, leaving things in suspension. Now that he was willing, she could not have wished for better.

Without intimate closeness, without physical union, how was she to accomplish anything alone?

Having come to this conclusion, she felt considerably calmer. After all, this was only a man seeking intimacy — Li Xuandu was simply not so direct about it, but the substance was the same.

Her mind recovered, and her first thought was to calculate the days. She also took a quick glance at the position of the bed.

She had read the health and cultivation section in the secret manual, which said that in daily life a man should conserve his essence while a woman should nourish her yin energy, and that the act of conjugal union was best performed during those few days each month, when yin and yang would be in perfect harmony and the effort would yield twice the result.

She had always had an excellent memory — she could not claim to remember everything at a single glance, but whatever she learned, she grasped quickly. That manual had not been thick — just a slim little booklet — and she had read through it once and retained it clearly.

As it happened, today fell precisely within those auspicious days of the month. She made a swift mental calculation: this was the third-to-last of that narrow window of a few days.

Which meant today, tomorrow, and the day after were all suitable.

Very good. But the bed’s position was something of a problem.

The manual, in addition to timing, also contained guidance on the most auspicious orientation for conjugal union. It claimed this was derived from the movements of the sun and moon and the calculations of the Five Elements and Eight Trigrams, and stipulated that the best position was in the “kan-water” direction, with the head toward the north and the feet toward the south — that is, lying against the northern wall and facing south. If the sleeping position could be arranged thus, the resulting children would be many times more intelligent.

She did not know whether this was truly accurate, but since the manual made such a claim, it was naturally best to follow it — there was nothing to lose.

The tent interior was like a single room, and the bed was not positioned against the northern “kan-water” wall — a writing table stood there instead.

Of course, the sharper the children the better.

Should she find some excuse to have him move the writing table and shift the bed to a different position?

In the midst of this hesitation, she looked up and met his gaze — still looking down at her, the dark depths of his eyes steadily darkening. Pu Zhu sharpened her focus and immediately decided to set the manual aside for now and simply follow his lead.

Though she still could not quite understand why he had suddenly developed this desire for her, since he had made it plain, if she played coy and made it difficult, dragging things out until he grew displeased again, was she not only asking for trouble?

She remembered all too well how merciless he could be when he turned cold.

She met his gaze wide-eyed, and quickly said in a soft voice: “There is no need for anyone else to teach me — I know what I should do. It was only that Your Highness never gave me the opportunity before.”

Li Xuandu said nothing more. No other expression came to his face. He simply — slowly — released the hand he had been gripping at her waist, and stood there watching her, as if waiting for something.

Pu Zhu felt slightly anxious, her mind growing more muddled, her heart beating quickly.

She knew what he was waiting for.

Though she was not unfamiliar with what was about to happen, the man before her was someone with whom she had not yet been fully intimate, and especially given the circumstances, she could not help but feel somewhat awkward — even a flash of humiliation.

But then her thoughts pivoted to the grand plans of the future, and she felt that this small humiliation counted for nothing at all.

It was only the most ordinary thing between a man and a woman — it was not as though she did not know what it was.

Her soft pink tongue darted out unconsciously to wet lips that had gone dry from nerves. She steadied herself, and there beneath the direct gaze of his two eyes, she slowly raised her hands and began to untie the front fastenings of the long embroidered cape he had just draped over her shoulders — the one worked with silver thread on a violet ground. She slid it off and let it fall, revealing the silk robe beneath. In the lamplight, the robe was gossamer-thin, all but transparent, faintly showing through the shadow of the inner garment she wore beneath and the narrow, delicate span of her waist.

The dark depths of Li Xuandu’s eyes grew darker still. He watched as she came to stand before him and lowered her gaze. Then, two slender, pale hands reached toward him, beginning to undo his sash and robes.

He stood perfectly still.

Pu Zhu removed his jade belt in silence, helped him out of his sapphire brocade robe, and then began to remove his middle robe. When her fingertips came to rest against the front of his white garment, her hands stopped.

The sleeve on his left arm was stained with blood. The blood had soaked through the fine white gauze fabric, deep red and still glistening — it must have only just seeped through; it had simply been hidden earlier beneath the outer robe.

Pu Zhu helped him undo the front of his middle robe and carefully removed his garment. Only when his injured arm was exposed did she realize the wound must be long indeed.

The bandaging linen ran from his shoulder all the way down to his elbow, and the area of blood that had soaked through was extensive and stark — a disturbing, alarming sight.

She paused for a single beat, then immediately turned away — but he caught her by the hand.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of displeasure.

“To send for an imperial physician.”

“There’s no need —”

“There is. Your wound needs to be properly wrapped. There is blood — if I look at it I will be frightened.”

He paused, then released her hand.

Pu Zhu hurriedly pulled the cape back over herself to cover her body, went to the entrance of the tent, opened it, called Luo Bao, and gave him instructions. Luo Bao went off and quickly returned with an imperial physician.

It was Physician Ding, the same one who had treated Li Xuandu’s hand injury during the wedding. He had accompanied the imperial party on this trip as well. When he examined the wound, Pu Zhu glanced over and saw several long, deep gashes running along the side of his arm, the flesh raw and mangled.

One could easily imagine how excruciating it must be.

The sight made her scalp go numb; she could not bear to look long. She waited until the physician had finished redressing the wound and had given his instructions and taken his leave. She looked once more — now properly bandaged and wrapped — and at last exhaled, then said carefully: “Perhaps it would be best if I help Your Highness rest? The physician said you need to sleep.”

He still held the posture he had been sitting in while the physician attended to him — seated in a chair — and said nothing.

Pu Zhu thought it over and decided this was a good moment to delay things a little.

There were still two more days, after all. If she moved the bed into the right position tomorrow and then lay with him, it would not be too late.

And besides, this would also be for his own good. With his arm in this state, he was not fit to do anything either. It would hurt him, and it would hurt her too.

Tonight, it would be better to coax him into resting.

She went to the bed, turned down the bedding, then came back to him. She tentatively reached out and gently took hold of one of his hands. Seeing him look toward her, she met his eyes with a smile — her gaze glimmering and shifting, her beauty without equal. What man in this world could withstand such loveliness?

She held the pause for just a moment, then said softly: “Your body is what matters most, Your Highness. There will be time — let us rest first.”

With no great effort, she drew him up from the chair and guided him toward the bed, her voice growing gentler still: “Tonight I won’t go back. I’ll sleep here and attend to Your Highness. May I bring you some tea?”

He watched her without any particular response, but Pu Zhu sensed that the cold edge he had carried when she first arrived had already faded. Emboldened, she simply extended both hands and gave him a firm push, toppling him directly onto the bed.

He did not resist — he simply let himself be pushed, and lay back.

Pu Zhu did what Luo Bao would normally do: she removed his boots, drew the blanket over him, and under his quietly watching gaze, undid her own cape once more, went and blew out the lamp, and finally climbed into bed and lay down beside him.

The tent’s bed was not very large. The two of them lay side by side with their heads close together, shoulder against shoulder, very near to each other.

He did not touch her. He lay there quietly.

In the darkness, Pu Zhu breathed in the faint mingled scent drifting from the man beside her — medicine and a light, clean sandalwood — and gradually she began to relax. The remnants of the wine’s warmth drifted back over her.

She yawned. Just as sleep was beginning to pull her under, she heard a sound from outside the tent — Huaiwei had found his way here again.

All drowsiness vanished at once. She immediately opened her eyes and was about to sit up when her back sank — Li Xuandu had extended his arm and pressed her firmly back down with his palm.

The meaning was unmistakable: she was not to get up.

“Let me go and tell him to go back to the Western Court to sleep,” Pu Zhu said quietly.

“Ye Xiao will take him back. It’s none of your concern.”

His tone was calm, leaving no room for argument.

Pu Zhu could not get up. She could only resign herself to curling up beside him, ears pricked, listening to the sounds from outside.

Luo Bao had personally seen Prince Qin lead the Princess Consort into the tent, and then an imperial physician had arrived and departed, and still the Princess Consort had not come out. Then the lamp inside the tent went dark.

At this moment, even given ten times more courage, he would not have dared let the little prince in. He stood squarely in front of the tent door and told Huaiwei that Prince Qin had taken the Princess Consort somewhere else and had not yet returned, and asked the little prince to please go back to the palace first.

Huaiwei didn’t believe him, and called out toward the tent: “Sister-in-law!” twice.

Pu Zhu moved again — and again was pressed back down.

This time his arm wrapped fully around her waist, pulling her entire body close against his chest.

“Don’t make a sound,” he said.

At the same moment, in the darkness, two warm lips brushed lightly across her cheek and finally pressed against her ear, where they issued a low, quiet command.

Pu Zhu bit her lip and fell silent.

Huaiwei was eventually taken back by Ye Xiao, who appeared nearby at the commotion.

Outside grew quiet; inside the tent there was silence as well. The two still lay with their heads side by side, his arm still not moving, always wrapped around her waist.

The season had passed the middle of autumn. The bedding in his tent was on the thin side for her, but within his arms, Pu Zhu found it warm. She had no desire to move away. Breathing in the faint scent of medicine mingled with that pleasant sandalwood coming from the man beside her, drowsiness gradually returned. Just like that, she drifted into sleep.

She didn’t know how long had passed — it must have been the second half of the night. She felt as though she had begun to dream. In the dream, hazy and indistinct, she saw the hawk terrace back at the prince’s residence, where Li Xuandu and she were being intimate — his hands moving over her, slowly caressing.

His touch was gentle, and in the dream it felt pleasant. She let out a few unconscious, soft murmurs. Then gradually she felt something was off — it seemed real, not a dream. It seemed as though there was truly a hand touching her.

Pu Zhu struggled to wake herself but she was a deep sleeper at the best of times, and last night she had also drunk wine. She was effectively sleeping like the dead. She struggled for a moment, then simply gave up and let herself be swept under.

And so, suspended between waking and dreaming, between the real and the illusory, she rose and fell, fireflies flickering in and out, submerged and lost. Then she felt a weight settle over her — as though a small mountain had pressed down.

She felt she could not breathe and could barely draw air. At last she struggled up out of the dream, and she realized with a start that what had pressed her down was no small mountain — it was Li Xuandu.

And then she understood everything in a sudden rush.

“Your Highness, your injury…”

She struggled feebly, trying to stop him, but weakly and without strength.

“I know my own limits!”

His voice came close at her ear — low and urgent — carrying what seemed like a note of extreme, tightly restrained feeling. As his last syllables fell, those hot lips found her and kissed her mouth.

He was kissing her!

For some reason, Pu Zhu had always felt that the press of lips to lips, tongue meeting tongue — that was the truly intimate act between a man and a woman.

In her previous life she had not liked to kiss her husband. She had not cared when Li Chengyu gave his favor to other women, but the thought of him kissing her with the same mouth that had kissed those other women left her with a feeling of deep discomfort.

Yet Li Xuandu was now doing exactly this most intimate thing with her! She remembered that on the night of the hawk terrace, he had not touched her lips. That time was different.

Pu Zhu was stunned for a moment. When she came back to herself, on instinct she tried to twist her face away and avoid his kiss — but she was too late. He had already prized her lips apart; he claimed her mouth with fierce possession, and she could not escape.

Pu Zhu gave up resistance. At least she felt no revulsion. She bore his deep kiss, and before long she, too, began to feel somewhat dizzy and light-headed.

She closed her eyes. In a vague, half-conscious haze, when she felt him beginning to press closer, her mind suddenly went back to that matter.

It had become too much of a fixation to shake off. She brought her lips to his ear and told him she wanted to go to the writing table.

She said it and felt him pause — clearly bewildered by her request. She twisted her body and began to plead with him.

“Your Highness, I want to go over there. I don’t want to stay on the bed…” she said in a coaxing, soft voice.

Li Xuandu would never know what she was truly thinking at that moment. He could only take it as some peculiar preference of hers — an eccentric fancy, harmless enough, and evidently one that would assist rather than hinder his mood. He seemed quite taken with this side of her, and complied. He stopped himself, got up from the bed, and stood at its edge. His voice came low and commanding: “Hold onto me.”

Pu Zhu hurriedly extended both arms and wrapped them around his neck.

He bent down, bundled her together with the bedding, and lifted her with his right arm alone — his uninjured arm — in a single-armed embrace, carried her by feel across the tent to the writing table, swept the brushes and ink stones and paper aside with one motion, clearing the surface, and set her down on top of it.

The surface beneath her was hard — nowhere near as comfortable as the bed — but this was where she had asked to be, and she could only endure it.

What followed came naturally. Pu Zhu was no stranger to it.

The remnants of wine still working through her and the surrender she had fallen into in her dream had left her body completely pliant, and so when that moment came, there was not much pain — and she was quickly enveloped in pleasure. But what she didn’t know was that her husband, earlier that same evening, had already found some release in a dream, and the deer blood he had drunk still lingered in his blood. Added to this was his deliberate restraint — what she was experiencing was not only forceful beyond what she had imagined, but endured for a remarkably long time, until this body, new to such things, could barely withstand it any longer.

At first Pu Zhu had been quite content. Gradually it became endurance. By the very end she was nearly weeping — she clung to his neck and pleaded at his ear before it finally, mercifully, ended.

He seemed utterly spent as well. He carried her back to the bed, wrapped his arms around her — her eyes still glistening at the corners with unshed tears — and fell into sleep almost immediately. Not long after, the sky began to lighten. The night passed.