Miao Jing wasn’t joking.

The fruit knife was an old possession, given to her by Chen Yi over a decade ago to keep under her pillow for self-defense. It had a silver handle, substantial weight, and was small but sharp—capable of cutting a finger at the slightest carelessness. And now, it worked particularly well against Chen Yi’s cheek; no matter how thick his skin was, with just a slight pressure from Miao Jing’s hand, blood slowly seeped from beneath the broken skin.

This minor pain meant nothing to Chen Yi. Even with his arm wrapped in bandages, his fingers could still deftly control her wrist. But seeing her serious expression, he felt a lazy mischievous urge and couldn’t help but smile—did this brat know who he was, what he had handled, what kind of life he had lived?

Damn, she had guts, pointing a knife at him in his hospital bed.

“Chen Yi!!”

Seeing his somewhat unrestrained smile, she raised her delicate eyebrows and applied slightly more pressure to her wrist. Chen Yi felt an icy, needle-like pain on his cheek. The blood droplet rolled down into a line, suddenly sliding across his cheek, penetrating the arrogant smile reflected in her eyes. His expression gradually subdued, finally settling into a cynical smile at the corners of his mouth. His dark eyes gleamed as he spoke in his usual casual manner.

“Want to kill me?”

She maintained her beautiful but stern face, chin slightly lifted, emanating the spirit of a cool, aloof girl: “Tell me!”

He tilted his face, avoiding the knife under his eyes: “Tell you what?”

“Everything.” The silver blade persisted against him as Miao Jing spoke coldly. “Why did the pool hall catch fire? Why does Officer Zhou keep coming to find you? He’s a detective—is this a criminal case?”

“How would I know? Go ask him. The city’s too peaceful lately, these cops must be bored.” He answered her lazily with amusement. “Take the knife away first, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you see I’m bleeding?”

She blinked her thick, curled lashes, her cherry lips pressed pale white. The bloodied blade lifted slightly, then steadily slid down, the knife tip moving with extreme precision along his cheek to his chin. The coldness and the severity of her expression forced Chen Yi to raise his eyebrows and lift his head as the threatening point pressed against his Adam’s apple.

Pure threat.

The prominently protruding Adam’s apple floated beneath thin skin, the sharpest point bobbing up and down, stained with a spot of crimson blood. Combined with the equally sharp and cool silver blade, the scene was both cold and sensual. Adrenaline instantly surged, and even Chen Yi mentally cursed “holy shit.”

“Why do you always try to drive me away?”

“Why did you stop contacting me when I went to university?”

“Where have you been these six years? What have you done? Why did you end up opening a pool hall?”

Miao Jing’s expression was cold yet dignified, her knife-wielding wrist extremely calm and steady—so steady that one wouldn’t doubt if the blade sliced through his throat the next moment.

“What’s there to ask? I’ve told you before.” Chen Yi’s eyes remained lazy as he sprawled carelessly on the bed, stretching, unconsciously turning his gaze to search for his cigarette pack. With the knife tip pressing against him and looking into her eyes, he couldn’t resist wanting a smoke. “Bring me my cigarettes.”

“Answer my questions first.” Her tone remained unwavering, cold as ice. “Chen Yi, look at me when I’m talking.”

He completely ignored the dagger, clicking his tongue impatiently, his tongue making a half-circle in his mouth as he put on a serious face, eyes half-closed, glancing at her sideways: “Miao Jing, I’m your old man. Who gave you the guts to treat me like this?”

She lowered her eyebrows, giving him a cold, enchanting glance. Before Chen Yi could recover from her bewitching gaze, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his neck—cold yet burning. Blood seemed to be slowly seeping out. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was wet enough to soak into his hospital gown collar. Realizing she had heartlessly cut him again, he frowned and drew in a sharp breath, his expression instantly souring: “You’re serious?!”

“What do you mean, serious or not?” Her round eyes stared directly at him, eyebrows raised, her expression hiding long-harbored resentment and unwillingness. The blood-tinted knife tip continued down along his throat like an ice pick clinging to bone. She stared at him coldly, her slender white hand weighing the knife as its edge lightly unfastened the first button of his hospital gown. The rose-colored blade stopped at his chest, her clear eyes containing frost as her lips seemed to curl upward slightly. “Want to guess if I dare do it? You’re so familiar with Officer Zhou, why not just report me… for armed murder…”

A broad expanse of honey-colored skin was exposed before her eyes. The man’s skin was warm and supple, with a delicate touch that contrasted sharply with the silver weapon. Chen Yi’s pitch-black eyes fixed on Miao Jing, observing the cold beauty and dazzling charm hidden within her graceful fragility and pristine purity—he wasn’t afraid at all, but rather found this version of Miao Jing to possess a kind of chilling yet stunning sensuality, like an icy rose with thorns and poison.

“Report you?” He lay comfortably, and if his arm hadn’t been wrapped in bandages, he might have even placed both arms behind his head as a pillow. His thick eyebrows raised, completely at ease. “I raised you for so many years, what right do you have to kill me? I don’t remember owing you anything, you ungrateful brat. What have those years of education taught you? Besides, how do you plan to kill me? Tie me up, let me lie in bed, and stab me to death one knife at a time?”

His words reminded her. Miao Jing’s delicate eyebrows relaxed as her fingers gently caressed his entire arm, smiling slightly: “Of course not.”

She sat on the edge of the hospital bed, and kicked off her shoes—she was wearing a long dress, with soft, smooth legs beneath the hem. Looking up at him again, her gaze was shy yet meaningful. Her body moved closer to his chest, a subtle fragrance suddenly enveloping him. Chen Yi thought she was going to lie next to him and consciously moved aside, but unexpectedly, Miao Jing twisted her slender waist, lifted her dress, and in an instant was kneeling astride his legs.

Less like a murder scene, more like foreplay.

Chen Yi: …

Miao Jing playfully held up the small, blood-stained fruit knife, continuing to press it against his chest. Her thick lashes lowered as the sharp blade coldly traced downward along his chest—a bit cool, a bit sharply painful, with an additional kind of stimulation. Her expression remained cold yet alluring as she concentrated on unfastening the next button of the hospital gown. The loose blue and white striped garment fell open, revealing most of his chest, smooth and powerful pectorals, scattered shallow scars, and taut muscle groups.

…

Adrenaline continued to surge.

Chen Yi’s eyes were pitch black and intrigued, even containing excitement. She understood, giving him a clear glance before speaking methodically.

“Officer Zhou keeps looking for you—did you commit some crime? Are you a suspect in some case, waiting to be arrested?”

He blurted out: “Of course not.”

“Then are you two in cahoots—you committed a crime and he’s covering for you?”

The bastard answered firmly, his expression displeased: “No!”

Satisfied with the answer, Miao Jing swung the fruit knife downward. She didn’t control the force well, piercing the skin slightly—a needle-like pain that was somewhat darkly pleasurable.

The knife tip continued to unfasten the next button.

“In these past few years, have you done any bad things that haven’t been discovered? Theft, robbery, drugs, gambling, murder, arson, smuggling, fraud?”

Chen Yi’s gaze subtly shifted, but his tone was both amused and exasperated: “Didn’t you tell me not to?”

“Just because I told you not to, you didn’t?”

“I didn’t!”

A faint smile played at the corners of Miao Jing’s lips as she unfastened several buttons in succession, looking up to meet Chen Yi’s gaze—bright to the point of being startling, bright to the point of being bizarre.

“Have you been fooling around casually with women?”

“No.”

“Really not?”

He cursed: “No, you kept cursing me to get sick, and when you left you said tearfully for me to have proper relationships and live a decent life. What fooling around? In your mind, is that all I know how to do?”

“After I left, how many girlfriends have you had?”

Chen Yi frowned, seemingly dissatisfied with this question. The fruit knife’s tip suddenly applied more pressure, bringing another burning pain, making him draw in another sharp breath.

“Two!”

“Which two? Tu Li, and who else?”

“A woman I met gambling on soccer.”

“You’re lying.” Miao Jing’s gaze turned cold as she began twisting the knife tip again. “When I first started university, I called you, and you said you had other women! Told me to stop looking for you!”

“No.” His face darkened, eyebrows drooping. “I… didn’t have anyone then, was busy as hell every day… had no mood to find women.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“You weren’t focusing on your studies and classes, always thinking about finding me. Do you know how busy I was every day? Still had to deal with you.” He pouted. “Such a hassle.”

Miao Jing silently looked at him for a while, then unfastened the last button of his clothes. The hospital gown fell open, exposing his beautifully muscled chest and flat abdomen before her. Chen Yi also looked down, quite proudly glancing at himself—compared to the impetuous young man from six years ago, he was more muscular and robust, with more impressive assets.

The knife tip wandered down along his flat abdomen, pausing at the striped trousers. After hesitating for two seconds, it lightly lifted the white drawstring but didn’t proceed with the next action.

Chen Yi’s gaze turned pitch black, those small scattered wounds on his body now numb and senseless as more stimulating sensations spread through him.

Miao Jing asked him calmly: “Did you miss me?”

“Yes…”

“How much?”

His breathing became slightly rapid, the corners of his eyes tinged with faint red: “Very much…”

“How much is ‘very much’? For how long?”

The man’s voice was hoarse and deep, lingering like lit incense, whether driven by physiological teasing or buried heartfelt words: “For a very long time, day after day, year after year.”