CHAPTER 30
I slip inside without a sound, like an animal returning to its den after a silent hunt. The house smells of jasmine, of clean fabric… of weary woman, and it takes me only two steps to find her.
She's curled on the couch, asleep—legs tucked, neck tilted, wrapped in a gray blanket that pools at her waist. Her pale nightgown has ridden up her thigh; a strap slips down her shoulder. The book she'd been holding lies splayed on the floor, split at the spine, as if sleep ambushed her mid-wait.
I freeze in the doorway's shadow. Unmoving. Unbreathing.
Her lips are parted, her chest rising and falling with a slowness that burns my throat. But it's not tenderness I feel. It's rage. Because she kept living without me. Because she slept unaware that another man approached her, watched her, touched her—even if only as a patient, even if she never knew. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now.
I stride toward her, past the coffee table, shrugging off my coat and letting it drop carelessly to the floor, my pulse hammering against my sternum. Silent, but she senses it—her body knows before her eyes do. She stirs under the blanket, as if instinct warns her the storm has crossed the threshold.
I kneel before her. Breathe her in. Her scent is untouched. She's here. Mine.
"Shi…" she murmurs, eyes still heavy with sleep.
I don't answer. Can't. Won't.
Instead, I slide my hand beneath the blanket, tracing her ankle, then her calf, climbing slowly up her bare leg until I find the soft fabric of her nightgown. She doesn't move—only breathes deeper, faster.
I bend to kiss her shin, a dry graze. Possessive, not loving.
She whimpers. Not with pleasure yet, but relief—that sound that escapes when something that ached… finally returns.
My fingers climb higher, her nightgown riding up with them. Her skin is warm. Soft.
"I'm back," I whisper.
Her body ignites under my hands, her breath hitching. She won't ask where I've been, why I never reached out, won't even scold me for appearing like this. Just moans as my fingers hike up the nightgown, welcoming me with warmth, trembling, wet—as if she'd waited for me every night, as if she needed no words, only this, only the roar of my body devouring her.
And I… won't give her rest.
I lean in, push the blanket aside, sink my teeth into the thin fabric of her underwear, and tear it away. She shudders. There's no gentleness in my movements. I don't want it. I want to ruin her. To stay inside her until the world dissolves, until I've scraped every trace of another from her skin.
"Spread your legs wider," I growl against her thigh.
She obeys without words, without thought. Her body begs for me, offers itself. Slick. Desperate. My tongue moves on its own—hungry, relentless—and when I taste her, when I hear her first ragged moan, something splits in my chest. Not compassion. Power. Absolute. The kind that comes from knowing I own her, that she'll come on my tongue while I snarl like an animal starved for living flesh.
I suck hard, bury myself in her with lips, tongue, everything. Every flick against her clit wrings a filthy cry from her throat.
"Shi… please…" she gasps, gripping the couch. "You're going to—I'm gonna—"
"Do it," I whisper, and lick her harder. Faster. Deeper.
She convulses. Clenches. Crushes my head between her thighs as she comes—not sweetly, not romantically, but violently, screaming, drenching me. An orgasm without measure, staining my mouth, scalding my face.
And I've only just begun.
I rise. Wipe my face with my hand, eyes locked on her trembling body. She stares back. For a second, I think she'll speak, but she doesn't.
"Turn around," I order, voice rough. "Knees on the couch. Hands on the backrest."
Her body obeys before her mind can. Lets the nightgown slither down her hips. Turns and positions herself as commanded, as if this pose were carved into her flesh: knees sinking into cushions, palms splayed on the backrest, hair cascading down her back.
Ready. Open. Mine.
I strip with fury—shirt ripped off, belt undone in one yank—no patience for anything but this, but her, but the brutal need to be inside, now, to fuck her raw, as if I could brand her from within, as if every thrust could scour Liu Jian's face from her memory.
I step behind her, undressing in haste. Then my hand drags down her spine, grips her hip, and I yank her against me with a force that aches in my teeth.
I thrust into her all at once.
She shrieks—not from pain, but shock, from the depth, from the sheer wildness of it, from the tremor that rips through her body, spine to knees. I have her entirely: hot, tight, surrendered. Mine.
"Don't move," I repeat, gripping her throat with one hand—firm, not choking, just enough to make her know: While I'm inside you, every inch of you belongs to me.
Then I start fucking her. Not gently. Not sweetly. With rage. With that filthy, undissolved anger, with the storm gnawing at my chest, as if driving into her like this could anchor me—not in this house, but in her, buried deep, eternal.
Each thrust is harder. Faster. More brutal. The room reeks of sex, sweat, panting, shattered souls. Yiran melts, screams my name, claws at the headboard, back arched, body begging—not with words, but spasms.
"Shi… you're… fucking wrecking me—"
I don't let her finish. Spit into my palm, spread her cheeks, drag my thumb down to her ass. Touch her there. Tease. She doesn't pull away. Trembles, but stays.
"You're mine. You know that?"
"Yes—"
"All of you."
"All, Shi… all."
Her moan is so broken it sends a shiver down my spine. She collapses slightly against the headboard, arms limp, shoulders yielding—but I don't stop. I fuck her from behind as she gasps, as her body becomes an irrepeatable offering, as every part of me that's nothing dissolves in her whimpers.
And just when I know she's about to break again—I pull out.
"I want you here," I order, nodding at my cock.
She turns—lips wet, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed—but obeys. Takes me into her mouth, all of me, no hesitation, no delicacy. Her lips wrap around me with a devotion that shouldn't exist in this world. She swallows me down, unblinking, intensity wringing a growl from my throat. Her hands grip my hips like she wants to keep me there, like her mouth is both punishment… and absolution.
"Like this," I rasp. "Just like this. Don't stop."
Yiran looks up. From this angle, I see her—eyes wet, hair stuck to her face, expression so filthy and beautiful it hurts. No innocence in her mouth. Only desire. Only fire.
She licks me with devotion, with starved intent. Like every flick of her tongue trying to convince me I deserve heaven. And it makes me. Because I don't. Because everything I've ever touched has died. Because only she… stays alive under my hands.
"You know what you do to me?" I snarl, fisting her hair, forcing her to meet my gaze without releasing me. "You drive me insane, Yiran. Ruin my mind and soul."
No reply. Just her taking me deeper. Harder. And I—
I'm gone. No longer man or beast. No longer caring if I make her come again or sob from pleasure until her voice gives out.
The wet sound of her mouth sucking me in strikes like lightning. A slick pop, then another, her tongue setting the rhythm of my damnation. Every time she hollows her cheeks, it's audible—dirty, obscene. And it destroys me. Because it's real. Because it's her.
"Fuck—" My jaw locks.
Her tongue swirls, licks the tip with her lips parted, then swallows me again. All at once. No fear. No pause. Her throat works like she knows me, like she's measured exactly how much she can take before pulling back to suck, lick, twist her tongue—then take me whole again.
My body shakes. The sound of her saliva coating me is obscene, perfect.
I look down. Her mouth devours me, lips stretched, red, glistening. Drool drips down her chin, mixed with want, with heat, with everything unspoken. And her eyes stare up—full of need, full of me.
My hands drop to her head. Guide her. Push her. Slow at first, then more. More. Until her nose brushes my skin and her moans vibrate against my stomach.
The gagging noise she makes as I hit her throat is so raw it wrings a ragged groan from me. She hears it, feels it… and gives more. Takes me with hunger, with skill, with cruelty.
"Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop—"
I thrust into her mouth. Again. Again. Each movement is a wet, rhythmic slap. The room fills with our sounds: her ragged breaths, my stifled growls, the slick smack of her lips, her tongue moving like a filthy, desperate oath.
"You'll swallow every drop. Not because you want to. Because I ordered it. Because this mouth is mine. Understood?"
A whimper. No retreat. She takes me deeper.
Then—it happens. The inevitable. The explosion tearing through me, spine to throat.
I come.
My release hits her throat with a force I didn't know I had, a roar ripped from my gut, vision blurring, legs trembling, muscles locked like I'm being split apart—like the storm I've held back for years is finally pouring into her.
"Yiran… fuck—" My voice is a broken snarl, almost pleading.
But she doesn't pull away. Doesn't stop. She swallows everything. Every fucking pulse, every drop. Her lips stay sealed, sucking slow, controlled, like she revels in feeling me unraveled like she's savoring each drop as a secret, wild prize.
My hips are uncontrollable. I'm shattered, oversensitive, sweating, undone—and she's still there, loyal, surrendered, beautiful.
When she finally releases me with a wet pop, she looks up.
That fucking look—dark, slow, depraved. Pure temptation.
She tilts her head, licks her lips, catches a stray drop with her finger, and brings it to her mouth. Savors it. Like she's in no rush. Like she's just devoured sin and wants to taste it to the end.
And I—fuck me—I'm hard again.
No rest. No softening. No end. My cock is still there: thick, throbbing, demanding more.
I grip her waist. Not gently, but with the brutality of a man who's lived too long in the dark, too afraid to touch what he loves. I lift her as if her body weighs nothing, as if urgency could erase all reason. She doesn't speak. Doesn't protest. Her hands clutch my shoulders, her cheek presses against my neck as I carry her through the living room—every step a slow burn.
My feet aim for the bedroom. That was the plan. To claim her on the sheets, to the rhythm of a night that refuses to sleep. But just as I turn toward the hallway, she kisses me.
Not sweetly. Not softly.
It's a bite. A scratch of teeth and tongue. She traps my lower lip, slow, deliberate, like she wants to split me open—then licks, then descends. Her mouth finds my throat, smells it, sinks into it. A raw, claiming gesture. As if, for once, she's the one marking me. As if the beast inside me has finally met its reflection.
And there—right there—I lose myself.
I spin and slam her against the white hallway wall. Her back hits the plaster with a dull, visceral thud. Her legs are already around my waist, her hands in my hair, her lips parted… and I drown in her.
No preamble. No pause. Just the hunger that's devoured me since I first saw another man look at her, the rage that sears me knowing she's still light… while darkness circles.
She screams, bites me again, clings, wraps around me like her body knows it's the only place I can breathe.
"Shi… Shi, you'll kill me…" she gasps, forehead pressed to my shoulder.
"No," I grind out through clenched teeth. "I'm saving you. I fuck you to save you."
I drive into her against the wall—once, twice, ten times—each thrust a silent confession, a forgiveness no one dares ask for. She comes again, I know she does, from the way she shudders, arches, lets out a moan too loud for these walls, a scream that cracks my bones like she's the one fucking me from the inside.
And I don't stop. Can't. I stay buried in her body, her wetness, her soul—fucking her with rage, hunger, that toxic mix of love and hate that eats me alive, poisons my fingers, my tongue, my spine.
"You're mine," I snarl in her ear, biting each word like it hurts to say. "All. Mine. Even if the world breaks. Even if you never say it. You belong to me now."
Yiran nods—not with words, but with her body, her lips, that silent surrender that cuts deeper than any oath. She bites me again, claws my back, leaves marks that burn.
And just as I feel myself fracturing, pulse roaring in my skull, barely holding on—I plunge into her one last time and come with a low, feral roar, one that doesn't come from my throat but from somewhere darker, deeper, truer.
I don't let go. Don't drop her. I stay locked against her, muscles taut, mouth slack, heart pounding like I've survived the most intimate war in the world.
Then I walk.
Still inside her. Carrying her like she's part of me now, like separation is impossible. She clings to my shoulders, my neck, her forehead damp against my skin as we cross the house in silence—as if no universe exists beyond this hallway where every step aches, where every inch forward binds us tighter.
At the bed, I lower her slowly, her legs still wrapped around me, her chest rising against mine like she's trying to carve me into her skin. She doesn't let go. Doesn't need to look. Doesn't need to ask. She knows I'll hold her. That I'd never let her fall.
And that undoes me more than anything else.
I lay her down gently. Only then do I slip from her body with a groan that's does not pleasure but loss, like leaving her means being trapped in my own skin again.
I cover her with the sheet. With my hand, my gaze, my breath. Stretch out beside her. Her breathing doesn't tremble or race now—it flows. Slow, tired, serene. As if she's finally found a refuge where surrender is safe.
And me? I stay. Watching her breathe.
"If anyone else dares touch you, Yiran…" My voice is quiet and lethal. "They won't live to regret it. Because you're not just mine in this bed. You're mine when you breathe."
CHAPTER 31
Yiran rests on top of me. She's still warm, still trembling. We haven't said a word. There's no need. Her breath stays pressed against my chest, with that false calm of someone who hasn't fully landed yet. My arms wrap tightly around her, not to protect her, but as a silent warning to the world: she's mine, even when she shouldn't be.
I rest my chin on the top of her head. She smells like satisfied desire, like that part of me I don't recognize and don't want to face. And it's a damn curse. Because instead of calming me, it drives me crazier. Leaves my throat tight and my chest full of anxiety I can't control. I don't want her to move. I don't want this moment to end. Because deep down, I know I can't stop what's coming.
My fingers trace her back slowly, down the line of her spine, brushing the curve of her shoulders, caressing the exact hollow where her body fits into mine like it's always belonged there. And yet, I feel rage. Not toward her. Toward myself. Because for a second, when I saw her open for me, when I felt her break, scream, surrender... I believed it was enough. That possessing her was enough. That by marking her, sealing her, soaking her in me… she'd be safe.
But she's not.
The shadow of Liu Jian is still there. She can't see it, can't smell it, doesn't recognize it—but I do. I feel it. I know how it moves. I know how it thinks. And above all, I know what it wants: what I touch. That bastard got close to her. Let her treat him. Let her touch him. Maybe he heard her laugh. Maybe he heard her breathe. And that alone is enough to set my whole world on fire.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," I whisper in her ear, my voice hoarse with the instinct to break something.
She snuggles closer, without answering, without flinching, without pulling away. Her hand rises to rest on my side and stays there, silent and honest, like everything about her.
I kiss her. Then I bite her lips—barely. Just to remind myself that I have her. That she's not a fantasy. That this woman who sleeps beside me without fear... is alive. And in my world, that's a miracle.
"Yiran," I say her name with a weight that rises from deep in my chest.
She looks up. Her eyes are still veiled with pleasure, but alert, soft, watching me as if she can read what I don't say. As if she knows something's going to break tonight.
"I have to leave the city for a few days," I murmur.
She doesn't react. No questions. No reproach. She's so used to my comings and goings that the announcement doesn't shake her. And that's what kills me. That she's gotten used to it. That her heart has trained itself not to expect anything from me... and yet expects everything.
"But I want to take you with me," I add, and I feel the world crumble slightly under my ribs.
That's when she blinks. Not in disbelief, but in surprise at hearing something she never expected from me.
"What did you say?" she whispers, tearing something from my chest.
"A trip," I reply. "You and me. No one else."
Her eyes widen just slightly. She doesn't smile. She doesn't run. She just watches me. As if trying to convince herself it's not a trap. That I'm not wrapping her up only to let her go.
"Why?"
She doesn't say it as a demand. She says it like a crack. A crack where I could slide the truth in. But not all of it. Because if she knew what I know… she'd never sleep peacefully again. She'd never look at me without fear.
"Because I want to get you out of here."
She doesn't answer right away. She watches me. With those eyes that understand more than they should. As if she could hear what I don't dare say: that this isn't a whim, it's a strategy. A way to protect her without staining her. A refuge before Liu Jian crosses the line.
"It's not a honeymoon," I warn her in a low voice. "It's not a romantic getaway. I'm not going to write you songs or wake you with flowers. I'm not interested in that."
She smiles. Her lips form a subtle curve, almost invisible, that cuts through me like a fine blade.
"Then what is it?"
"It's silence. A pause from your world and mine. It's fucking in a different bed. It's sleeping without hearing footsteps behind the door. It's waking up without thinking of death or blood. It's pretending that, for a few days… it's just us."
She blinks twice. As if measuring the idea with that heart of hers that never asks me for anything. And something inside me loosens. Something I've kept tied up for years.
"Say it," I ask her, my lips brushing hers, and this time there's no command, no threat—just a bare plea, born from the most fragile part of me.
"Yes," she answers, just like that.
And for the first time in years, I feel on the edge of something that isn't war, or vengeance, or possession. It's something else. Something fucked up. Something that feels too much like the need to live… with someone.
I kiss her. Without rage, without teeth, without a tongue that demands. I just kiss her with tenderness. She doesn't move away. She stays there. Pressed against my chest. Not knowing that the world outside is burning. That men are reviewing footage, cameras scanning faces, orders whispered in dark corridors. That if I don't get her out of Beijing now, I might never get another chance to protect her.
And that… that shatters my soul.
"Don't pack much," I murmur against her mouth, "because I don't plan on letting you wear anything."
She nods against my neck. Her fingers struck the back of my neck with a softness that disarms me. She doesn't know this isn't just a trip. It's a truce, a barricade. A territory I need to seal with her name before someone else claims it.
Because Liu Jian has already breathed her name—and that's something I cannot allow. Not again.
CHAPTER 32
The road vanishes behind the last stretch of asphalt, and silence begins to spread like fog. From here on, there are no signs, no posts, no stray footsteps—just a rough dirt path winding between tall, ancient trees, as if they meant to hide whatever lies beyond. I drive slowly, not out of caution, but out of necessity—because every meter we live behind weighs on me, because I know exactly what I'm doing and why. This isn't a romantic getaway. It's not a break. It's a covert retreat. A kidnapping disguised as an escape.
She sits beside me, hands folded on her lap, eyes fixed on the shifting landscape through the windshield. Her eyes—usually lit with judgment or tenderness—are calm now, as if this dusty road were a bomb. She says nothing. She asks no questions. Maybe because she's learned I don't give answers, or maybe because, just this once, she's decided not to need them. I glance at her. The sun filtering through the trees brushes her skin in golden stripes, and I think that if I were another man, this scene might seem beautiful to me. Like a painting of something good.
But I'm not that man.
I take the turn, a nameless curve that opens onto a clearing between willows and brush. The vegetation thickens, and the tires crunch over gravel like a warning. Ahead of us, finally, the house.
It's discreet. Dark wood and polished stone, with a sturdy, unadorned structure, surrounded by a low fence, and the path closes behind us like a wolf trap. No one sees it from the main road. No one arrives by mistake. No one leaves without meaning to. I stop the car and cut the engine. The silence that follows isn't peaceful—it's dense, the kind that could swallow a gunshot without an echo.
"Is this it?" Yiran asks, with a hint of wonder I can't decipher.
I nod. I don't answer. I get out and walk around. She steps out carefully, stretching her legs. The sound of dry leaves beneath her feet is the only thing breaking the stillness. She lifts her gaze toward the house, and then she smiles.
"I wasn't expecting something like this," she says, as if that means something.
"Something like this?"
"So… hidden. So, yours."
I don't know if that phrase softens me or alarms me. Because yes, this house is mine. Mine in the most literal and darkest sense of the word. I bought it under a false name, with money I never declared. No official record bears my signature. None of my men know the exact location—except for Mao and Zhang. There are no security cameras at the entrance, but there are buried sensors. No visible alarms, but weapons are hidden in every corner: under the beds, inside the closets, behind the sugar jar. This house isn't a refuge—it's a bunker. And now, Yiran is inside it.
I offer her my hand, and she takes it without hesitation, without fear. We climb the porch steps. I pull out the key and open the door. The air greets us with the scent of old wood and dust. My woman enters slowly, her eyes scanning every object, every line. Her steps are soft. She stops in front of the living room window, where the lake is barely visible through the trees. Her fingers touch the glass, caressing it, as if that gesture could make her feelings tangible.
"It's beautiful," she murmurs. "I didn't know you had a place like this."
"No one does," I reply without thinking.
Yiran turns her face toward me. There's a spark in her expression I can't tell if it's curiosity or tenderness. She approaches the couch, touches the backrest with the tip of her fingers, glances at the books stacked on the low table, scans the shelf beside the fireplace, the jade plant by the window, the lamp with a linen shade. All of it seems casual… but it's not. Every object was arranged to look unplanned, to fake a life I don't live, to hide the life I actually have.
"It doesn't feel like yours," she says quietly.
"And what does that mean?"
"That it feels… peaceful."
I don't know whether to laugh or let the phrase bore into me. Because she's right. None of this fits what she knows of me. There's no trace of blood on the walls. No fists imprinted on the doors. No cigarette butts, no weapons in plain sight, no screams trapped in the furniture. It's a lie. A beautiful, dangerous lie.
I move closer from behind. Wrap my arm around her waist. Rest my chin on her shoulder. She leans back slightly into me, as if her whole body accepts that surrender without resistance.
"What do you usually do when you come here?" she asks, almost in a whisper.
"Stay alone," I answer.
She says nothing, but her body responds, as if that confession were more intimate than a touch.
We light the fireplace with old wood that still smells of dry forest. The crackle of the fire breaks the silence without destroying it. She smiles when the first embers spark. That smile is everything that is saving me now. And also, everything that could kill me.
We prepare a simple dinner with what we brought. She slices tomatoes with surgical precision; I handle the fish—just like the first time we shared a kitchen. But everything here feels different: slower, quieter, and at the same time, more dangerous. Every time her arm brushes mine, every time she leans in to grab something, every time her fingers get salty and she licks them clean, something in me twists. Not from desire—but from fear.
Because this place isn't safe. It's only invisible.
We dine by the window, with the lake in the background. She laughs at something I barely catch, I fake a laugh, pour her more water, cut her a piece of bread, treat her as if this dinner could repeat a thousand times—as if this weren't a countdown.
"This place has..." she says, eyes on the reflection in the water. "Something I can't explain. Like there's no noise here. No fear."
I don't answer. I swallow the urge to tell her that fear doesn't vanish—it only sleeps. That while she walks barefoot through the house, I've already checked the hidden compartment beneath the main wardrobe floor three times, moved the gun from the desk drawer to the hollow base of the hallway vase, and in the kitchen, behind the sugar jar, there's a small, sharp knife that could slice through flesh without a sound.
She doesn't know that. And she never will.
After dinner, she insists on washing the dishes and makes me sit down.
"You're not the boss tonight," she says, half joking.
And I obey—not because she orders me, but because seeing her there, under that warm light, carefully drying each glass, gives me a breath I don't know how long I'll get to keep. I fold my arms. I watch her. I imprint her into memory; in case this all breaks later.
When she's done, she curls up on the couch and beckons me. She's wearing an oversized T-shirt, barefoot, loose hair, and legs tucked under a blanket. She looks like a stolen photograph from another life. One where I'm not a criminal. One where Liu Jian doesn't exist, nor vengeance, nor blood.
I sit beside her. She rests her head on my shoulder.
"You know what I thought the first time I saw you?" she asks very softly.
"What?"
"That I was looking at a ghost."
I close my eyes. Press my lips together. Her voice, so soft, touches me deeper than any caress. She doesn't know what she's saying. Or maybe she does. And says it anyway.
"Now you seem like a normal person," she adds.
I'm not—and I never will be.
I let her stay there a while, glancing around as if searching for signs I've brought another woman here. I haven't. I hold her a little tighter, shielding her even from the air. My thoughts aren't on enjoying the moment with her, but on figuring out how to eliminate Liu Jian as soon as possible. But the bastard disappeared again. Mao's last message said so. That means only one thing: he's planning something. And I've got Yiran right in the center of the target.
"I'm going to check the exterior lights," I lie.
I get up. Pass by her. Her fingers slide briefly along my arm, as if afraid I won't return. I say nothing. Just kiss her forehead.
I cross the hallway to the secondary room. Kneel down, move the rug, and lift the loose floorboard. The gun is intact, the ammo sealed, the knife in its leather sheath. I check everything—because we may be far from Beijing, but no one escapes ghosts.
CHAPTER 33
I can't find her in the living room, where I left her just a while ago. The blanket is still crumpled on the sofa. I glance around in silence, and a strange, irrational tension begins to settle deep in my chest. Then, a soft noise—domestic, nearly imperceptible—makes me stop. It's coming from the end of the hallway. I relax as I recognize it. I walk toward the bedroom unhurriedly. I stop at the threshold, and the scene before me hits me without warning.
The bedside lamp is on. Its warm light casts golden reflections that gently caress the walls with a new kind of warmth. The room looks different. More intimate. More hers. She's taken a few things out of her suitcase: her clothes, perfectly folded inside the wardrobe; a pair of slippers placed beside the chair; hand cream on the nightstand, as if she'd been here for weeks instead of just a few hours. And I just stand there, motionless. Because I never believed someone could step into the most sacred space of my life and transform it without breaking it, without invading it. Just by inhabiting it. And with that simple act, make my heart want to stay forever.
She hasn't noticed I'm here. Her back is turned to me, focused on the simple act of pulling the sheets back with care. She's wearing one of those silk nightgowns that drive me crazy—soft, light, barely covering anything, yet suggesting everything. The fabric clings to her back, glides effortlessly over the curve of her thighs, and every move she makes holds the same grace with which she breathes. Yiran doesn't need to undress to become irresistible. She only has to exist.
Then she turns. She sees me. She gives me a faint smile, barely a shadow on her lips, and yet it slices through me like it steals my breath away.
"Are you going to stand there like a silent spy?" she asks, in that warm voice of hers that flows even when she doesn't mean it to.
I take a step, then another. I approach without touching her yet, and stop by her side.
"It's not my fault," I whisper. "You're hard to look at without going still."
She tilts her head slightly, amused, and extends her hand to me.
"Come."
There's no urgency in that word, no hunger. Just a quiet invitation. A promise of company. Not of flesh.
I unbutton my shirt slowly. My fingers move on their own—not from desire, but from the need to leave the day behind. I let the shirt fall to the floor, not thinking about picking it up. Then I push down my pants and leave them next to the shirt, carelessly. I'm left in my boxers, stripped of everything but what I feel. Tonight, I don't need anything more.
I take her hand—warm, steady. She leads me to the bed with the same ease with which she breathes. She sits first. I follow. There's no tension. No anxiety. Just the feeling of finally arriving at a place where nothing more is expected than simply being.
We lie down without rush. She nestles on her side, pressing her body against mine with a trust that undoes me. She rests her head on my chest, one leg draped over my hips, our arms tangled together. I wrap her in my arms instinctively, one hand on her waist, the other buried in her hair. The sheet covers us halfway, as if hiding were unnecessary. We breathe together. We don't speak. We just listen to the night, to the brush of fabric, to the hush of something new settling in the air.
And slowly, without knowing how, we fall asleep.
*****
I don't know how long I've been asleep, but something slowly pulls me back. A persistent vibration breaks the silence: my phone. I reach out, fumbling along the floor beside the bed, and find the pants I tossed aside hours ago. I carefully retrieve the phone to avoid waking her, and when the screen lights up, Mao's name glows like a warning. I slip out of bed silently, gently lifting her leg off my hips, and walk barefoot into the living room, phone in hand, heartbeat anchored in my chest.
"Talk to me," I answer as I light a cigarette, letting the first drag sting my throat like a jolt of reality.
"Boss," Mao's voice is low and precise. "No updates on that son of a bitch. He hasn't shown up at the hospital again."
"And his house?"
"Just like you ordered. We pulled the cars and left two men watching the area. There's been some movement—people not known to the neighborhood—but we can't confirm if any of them were sent by him. No direct action. No signs."
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with smoke and suspicion. Liu Jian's absence doesn't calm me—it unsettles me. His silence isn't rest. It's calculation. A slow movement before the strike.
"Keep the surveillance. Rotate shifts every twenty-four hours," I order, my eyes fixed on the windowpane where darkness clings to the glass like a silent threat. "I don't want anyone exhausted. Not a second of distraction."
"Understood, boss."
"And one more thing. Find out who leaked his whereabouts. Whoever it was… they disappear. No deals. No mercy. I want their name erased from the map before anyone can speak it again."
Mao pauses for a beat. Just long enough to make it clear he understands.
"We'll handle it."
"That's all," I say, and hang up.
The click of the call ending sounds as final as the decision I just made. I stand for a few more seconds by the window, watching how the night cloaks the forest in its thick veil, wondering if everything I'm doing will be enough to keep her safe—or if something is slipping through my fingers.
I stub out the cigarette in the ashtray, letting the glass absorb the dying ember, and walk back to the bedroom. As I open the door, the contrast hits me: there she is, wrapped in the purest calm, her body tangled in the sheets, her chest rising and falling with a slowness that shouldn't exist in this world. She doesn't know what I've done. She doesn't know what I've ordered. She doesn't know that, for her, I've condemned someone without blinking.
But I would do it again.
I lie down beside her once more, wrap my arms around her, and pull her close until her breath grazes my neck again. I close my eyes and force myself to believe that, at least for tonight, she's safe.
CHAPTER 34
The knife slices through the fruit with a slowness that's anything but innocent. It's a measured gesture, almost therapeutic—as if each cut helps me keep control. On the table, I've arranged strawberries, peach slices, and a small jar of honey. I didn't prepare this for breakfast. I prepared it for her. To watch her surrender. To witness her unravel, piece by piece, moan by moan.
I hear her before I see her. The whisper of bare feet on wood, an accidental creak, the soft sigh of someone waking from a long dream. I know exactly where she is without looking. I could trace her silhouette with my eyes closed. I could name her without speaking. But I hold back. I love this moment. This anticipation.
And then she appears.
She's still wearing the black silk nightgown she fell asleep in. The fabric barely covers her thighs, clinging shamelessly to every curve. The neckline falls open, revealing the faint outline of her nipples under the cool morning air. Her hair is slightly tousled, her eyes still heavy with sleep. But what strikes me most is how she looks at me. Half-asleep, yes—but also awake. Alert. As if she already senses the shift in me this morning. And she's right. This peace has lasted too long. And I… I no longer want peace.
"Good morning," she murmurs.
I meet her gaze without a word. Just point to the chair across from me. She hesitates for a second, then obeys. Sits slowly, spine straight, legs relaxed, the silk riding higher on her thighs. I set the knife aside and pick up a strawberry. Drag it through the honey, coating it in that thick sweetness that reminds me so much of her tongue.
I lean in…
"Open your mouth," I order, softly.
She does, without hesitation—and that simple act ignites me. I place the fruit on her lips, watch as her teeth sink into the flesh. A trickle of juice escapes the corner of her mouth. I catch it with my finger, slow, deliberate, and instead of returning it to her lips, I smear it down her neck.
"Don't move," I whisper.
I bend down and lick the sticky trail from her skin. It tastes of fruit, of heat, of restrained desire. Yiran lets out a tiny moan, a sound so faint it's almost air—but to me, it's a detonation. I kiss the hollow between her neck and collarbone. My hand slips beneath the nightgown, gliding up her thigh, seeking the wetness already gathering there.
"You're not wearing anything underneath…" I murmur against her ear.
She shakes her head, eyes locked on mine, unflinching.
"Perfect."
My finger finds her center effortlessly. She's warm, wet, and trembling. I stroke her slowly, steadily, just to hear her breath hitch in her throat. Without pausing, I pluck a slice of peach from the table with my free hand and eat it, never breaking eye contact with her arousal. The fruit's sweetness mingles with the thrill of feeling her surrender beneath my touch.
"Do you like this breakfast, Yiran?"
She nods, wordless. Her hips tilt slightly, begging for more. My fingers circle, slow but firm, as my mouth brushes her cheek, my breath hot against her skin.
"Today, I'm going to savor you as if your body were a platter laid out just for me. And when I'm done, you'll beg me to fuck you on this table."
She moans. Shudders as the orgasm rips through her. But she doesn't pull away. She stays there, spent, waiting for what comes next.
"Stand up," I command, voice rough.
She rises, facing me. I don't move. Just lift my hands and slide them up her arms to the straps of her nightgown. Gently, I push them down her shoulders, feeling the fabric yield. The silk slithers off her body, pooling at her feet. She stands naked. Entire. Breath ragged, eyes wide—as if she can't tell whether she's about to be devoured or worshipped.
"If you could see how I see you right now…"
She doesn't answer as I lift her into my arms and lay her gently on the table. The wood, warmed by morning sun, cradles her like an offering. Her thighs tremble under my hands. I part her legs with a single press of my fingers—firm, unhurried—and she yields without resistance, as if she's been waiting for this exact surrender since she woke.
"You're going to stay very still," I murmur, reaching for the fruit.
I place a strawberry on her collarbone. A dark grape on the curve of her breast, where the skin is thinnest. A slice of ripe peach in the dip of her navel. And finally, another strawberry, lower, just above her pubis—so close to the edge it trembles with every breath. She shivers but doesn't move. My eyes roam her without shame, like a man studying a map made only for him. An offering. A ritual.
"Don't move," I remind her.
And then I begin to feast.
My mouth finds the strawberry on her collarbone first. I bite slowly, letting the juice burst over her skin, then lick it clean, blending the taste of fruit and her into one. She inhales sharply, arches slightly—but holds herself back. And that only makes me wilder.
"Just like that," I growl against her. "Exactly like that…"
The grape on her breast rests just above her nipple. I take it with my lips, savor it, then circle the peak with my tongue—slow at first, then harder, until I'm sucking it outright. She moans, a broken, primal sound. Her back bows, seeking more, as if her skin can't contain what she's feeling.
"Easy," I tell her, pinning her hips to the table. "Not yet."
I trail lower. The peach slice on her abdomen waits in the warm hollow. I seize it with my teeth, chew without looking away, my lips grazing the skin beneath. The last piece—the strawberry near her core—quivers. But she quivers more. Her eyes lock onto mine, filled with something beyond tenderness or desire now: absolute surrender.
The strawberry threatens to fall. I catch it just in time with my lips, letting my tongue swipe the skin below. And that's when her moan shatters like glass under too much pressure. The pretense of control is gone. She's given in.
"Shi…" she whimpers, barely audible.
I don't answer. Just part her legs wider, opening her to me without resistance. Her center glistens, aching, the scent of her turning me feral. I bend, grip her thighs, and devour her without mercy. With hunger. With the quiet rage only she can soothe. My tongue claims her like it knows her. Like it belongs there.
Yiran screams.
Not from pain—not even just from pleasure. It's a cry of surrender, of acceptance, of desire stripped bare. Her back arches, her hands claw at the edges of the table, her breath shatters into fragments.
My tongue claims every inch of her. I suck, I worship with my mouth, I make her mine. I hunt for her deepest moan. I want her to come on my tongue, to break knowing it's me holding her together. And when I feel her teetering on the edge—every muscle trembling, her stomach quivering, her sex clenching—I grip her tighter. Not to stop her, but to force her to keep falling.
"Don't stop…" she begs, voice frayed. "Shi… don't stop…"
And I don't.
Because this isn't breakfast. It's a declaration. A way to tell her, without words, that every morning I want to open her like this. Taste her. Mark her. Make her shake before the world even tries to touch her. And if I ever stop… it'll only be because I'm dead.
I thrust my tongue into her, jaw taut, fingers digging into her hips like I can keep her from unraveling. I lick until she sobs. Until she folds. Until her voice doesn't just say my name—it screams it, like she's clinging to it to keep from breaking.
And then, I let her fall.
Her body tenses, bows, dissolves into spasms that steal her breath. I hold her as she comes on my tongue, as her whole body vibrates, as her soul seems to pour out through her skin. I don't pull back. Don't ease up. I follow her down, all the way, until there's nothing left but her ragged gasps, her arched back, and that final whimper that sounds like a confession.
When her breathing begins to steady, I lift my head. My lips glisten with her. I rise without letting go, without severing the invisible thread between us.
"Look at me," I whisper.
Her eyes open—hazy, blown wide, still clouded with the aftershocks. I lower her slowly, her feet touching the floor, but I don't release her. My hands circle her waist as she rests her forehead against my chest. Her legs still tremble, her body hums under my touch. But she doesn't pull away. She leans in.
"I'm not done with you," I growl against her ear, my voice thick with want.
I turn her gently, until her back presses to my front, until she's braced against the table. A light pressure at her nape coaxes her to bend. I don't force her. Don't dominate her. I just show her where I belong… and where she does.
Her torso folds gracefully over the warm wood. Her spine curves in perfect surrender. Carefully, I lift her right leg, guiding her knee onto the table. I want her like this—open for my pleasure, for ours, for always…
One hand settles at the small of her back while the other undoes my pants. The click of my belt unfastening echoes through the room, almost feral. The zipper hisses. Fabric pools at my feet. My cock springs free, hard, throbbing, already slick with anticipation.
I lean over her. My chest brushes her back. My hands grip her hips with leashed urgency. There's nothing in the world I want more than this body trembling for me. But it's not just desire. It's her. This woman is my anchor. My sanity. My madness.
"Do you know what you do to me?" I rasp, my lips grazing her ear. "You turn me into a fucking animal."
She doesn't answer. Just nods, forehead against the wood, fists clenched, body offered.
"Your cunt owns me, sweetheart," I snarl, licking a bead of sweat from her spine. "You're mine. Every inch. From your toes to every goddamn sound I rip from your throat."
Then I'm inside her. One brutal thrust. No pause. No mercy.
Her scream splits through my chest. She arches back, into me, like her body needs to swallow mine whole. I sink to the hilt, to the place only I know, and stay there—feeling her stretch around me, fit me, like we're one shape, one being.
I exhale against her nape. Grit my teeth. My entire body shakes. But I hold still. Because I want to savor this. To carve myself into her. To make sure she never forgets how it feels to have me buried inside her, truly.
Then I move: slow, cruel, necessary.
Every thrust is a silent vow. Every time I fill her, it's like I'm erasing every touch that came before. Her body takes me, answers me—whimpers, pleads, bows deeper.
"Say it," I demand, my voice is rougher than I've ever heard it. "Tell me I'm yours. That I belong to no one else."
"You're mine," she gasps, broken, breathless. "All… mine…"
Those words undo me.
My rhythm turns wild, desperate. My hips slam into her, over and over. The sound is raw, wet, and brutal. My hands leave marks on her skin. She screams my name. Shudders. Takes me deeper. Harder. Give me everything. And I—I break with her.
Her orgasm hits like a storm: violent, uncontrollable. Her body convulses around me, clenches, drags me under. I come with a roar, shouting her name like a prayer, like a vow sealed in flesh. I fill her. Flood her. And stay buried inside, pressed to her back, to her breath, to her tremors.
We stay like that. Melted together. The world is gone. No sound. No time. Just this place. This moment.
I rest my forehead against her spine. My lips brush her skin. This kiss isn't hunger. It's gratitude.
"I've got you," I murmur, still inside her, with no intention of letting go.
And like always with Yiran—I feel whole.