Feng Jiu’er tried a bite of every appetizer before remembering the person behind her, and turned around.

“Ninth Imperial Uncle, what are you looking at?”

She saw Di Wu Ya’s gaze fixed on the side room’s door and tilted her head slightly.

Di Wu Ya said nothing and withdrew his gaze.

“Ninth Imperial Uncle, you’re not worried your cooking skills aren’t as good as Long Shi’er’s, and that I’d look down on you, are you?”

Feng Jiu’er blinked, thinking it unlikely, yet feeling that the look in her man’s eyes right now was exactly that.

“From now on, I’ll work harder.”

Di Wu Ya bent down and picked up his chopsticks.

He picked up a small piece of food, examined it seriously, then put it in his mouth.

Watching his solemn expression, Feng Jiu’er couldn’t help covering her mouth and laughing.

“Ninth Imperial Uncle, you can’t be serious, can you?

You’re already perfect in my heart—do you need to be even more perfect?”

Di Wu Ya said nothing and continued trying the so-called appetizers Long Shi’er had made.

Feng Jiu’er withdrew her gaze with a smile, picked up a small cucumber, put it in her mouth, and chewed slowly.

Thinking of the image of her own man cooking, the smile on her face grew even wider.

“Ninth Imperial Uncle, if everyone saw you cooking, what do you think their reaction would be?”

Feng Jiu’er raised her eyes to look at Di Wu Ya.

She hadn’t forgotten—earlier today, he’d only casually pushed the millstone a few times, and it had already drawn countless eyes.

The War God Prince cooking—such a sight would be extraordinary indeed.

Feng Jiu’er met the man’s gaze and burst out laughing.

“Sorry! I don’t know why, but I have a feeling you can’t cook anything tasty.”

“Ow!”

Feng Jiu’er covered her head, which had just been rapped, her rosy lips pouting slightly.

“That really hurt! You never know your own strength—what if you knock me silly? Would you take care of me then?”

Di Wu Ya set down his chopsticks, his large palm covering the hand Feng Jiu’er had placed on her head, rubbing it gently.

“Doubting this prince’s abilities?”

Feng Jiu’er pushed his palm away, turned, and went back to picking up food.

“If you can’t, you can’t—no need to doubt it. Tell me honestly, have you ever set foot in a kitchen in your whole life?”

Knock.

Feng Jiu’er’s head was rapped again.

Before she could turn around, Di Wu Ya said softly, “If you get knocked silly, this prince will take care of you.”

Feng Jiu’er glared at him, dropped her chopsticks, stood up, and forcefully rapped Di Wu Ya’s head.

When Long Shi’er entered, he saw their lofty prince being bullied.

He gave a light cough and knocked on the door again.

Had His Highness and Miss Jiu’er really not heard his earlier knock?

Long Shi’er lowered his head and stepped forward quietly.

Your Highness, just pretend I never came in. Don’t look at me! Pretend I don’t exist.

Long Shi’er held his breath and finally made it to the low table.

He knelt down, had just set down two dishes, and was about to stand when Feng Jiu’er’s voice rang out.

“Long Shi’er, just have the other brothers bring the rest over. You hurry up and cook—I’m hungry.”

“Alright.”

Long Shi’er had just raised his eyes, but lowered his head again. “This subordinate will go right away, it’ll be quick.”

Sure enough—he’d interrupted His Highness and Miss Jiu’er’s good time.

Before Long Shi’er could step out, Feng Jiu’er rapped Di Wu Ya’s head once more.

This time, even harder than before.

“Ninth Imperial Uncle, does it hurt?”

She asked in a low voice.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

Di Wu Ya caught her small hand as she raised it again. “Sit down. This prince isn’t angry anymore.”

Feng Jiu’er frowned, shook off his palm, and the hand that had been about to rap his head suddenly dropped and pinched hard at the man’s handsome face.

“You’re not angry, but I still am!”

Bang—the sound of the door closing rang out as Long Shi’er fled for his life.