CHAPTER 20
I don't know how we ended up in my bedroom. Between desperate kisses and ragged breaths, we stripped away the reality around us. I remember Shi Tong carrying me for a moment, my legs wrapped around his waist, before we both tumbled onto the tangled sheets of my bed with a clumsy, deliciously chaotic urgency.
Now, the only light in the room comes from outside, spilling a warm glow over our bodies. Shi Tong hovers above me, bracing on one elbow to keep from crushing me. His fingers trace the line of my cheekbone, slowly pushing back a damp strand of hair clinging to my skin. His eyes roam my face as if he still can't believe we're together, that this is happening. We're both panting, trying to catch our breath after the journey from the door to the bed.
The silk of my clothes has ridden up during the struggle, tangled around my waist, and his body—still dressed in that damned dark suit—grinds against mine with a brutal contrast that melts me from the inside. I feel the weight of his trousers on my bare thighs, the dampness of his shirt clinging to his torso, outlining every muscle, every dangerous curve of his anatomy. There's something feral and liturgical in the way he looks at me, as if he's about to devour a long-forbidden delicacy. His silence doesn't intimidate me. It prepares me. It consumes me.
He kisses me again, but this time, there's no hurry. There's recognition. A twisted kind of devotion in the way his lips seek mine. As if he's memorizing the taste, in case this is the last time. And I let him. There's no reason, no sanity. Just a body open to his, a soul arching to meet him.
His hands slide down to my hips. He grips them with restrained force, wrenching a choked moan from me. Then he lowers his head, pushing the robe from my shoulders with a gentle, hungry motion, and begins kissing my neck. His breath, hot and uneven, melts into my skin. Every brush of his mouth is a silent confession:
I've needed you. I've imagined you. I've wanted you to the point of madness.
I arch, craving more. My fingers trace the edges of his jacket, the fabric taut over his chest, but I don't open it. I can't. I don't want to break the intensity of his advance. I need him like this. Dressed. Restrained. While I unravel beneath him.
"Shi…" I whisper his name against his jaw as my lips trail along it. "Don't stop."
And he doesn't.
By the time his mouth reaches the base of my neck, I'm no longer here. I'm in another dimension. One where fear, modesty, and shame don't exist. Only this desire that pushes, that drags, that claims me whole. His teeth bite down gently… then harder. He leaves a mark and smiles against my skin, as if he knows I want it, need it, crave to carry it with me even when he's gone.
His mouth drifts lower, down my cleavage. He tugs the straps of my camisole aside with his teeth. The fabric slips from my shoulders as if obeying his will. I feel his lips between my breasts, his wet tongue tracing slow circles before catching a nipple between his teeth. I cry out. Not in pain. In a need that strips me bare. I'm not a doctor. Not a woman. Not anything. Just his. His flesh, his offering, his sin.
Shi Tong isn't in a hurry, but he shows no mercy either. He worships me with his mouth, his hands, the weight of his body—still dressed while I'm left in only my camisole and panties. Yet I've never felt more exposed. Because he doesn't look at me like just a body. He looks at me as if he's waited his whole life for this. As if I've been carved into his skin.
When his fingers trail down my stomach and slip between my thighs, I hold my breath. He strokes me over the fabric, slow and precise, like someone verifying if something is still real. The wetness betraying me seeps through the lace effortlessly, yet he doesn't rush. He explores me through the thin barrier with reverent rhythm, almost as if in prayer. There's no pause, but no haste either. His fingers trace ancient paths along a sacred border. He recognizes, learns, memorizes. As if he wants to engrave it all over again, inch by inch.
He doesn't look me in the eye, but I feel his attention locked onto every reaction my body gives him. My breath fractures. My pulse races. Every cell burns.
And then, without warning, he stops. He withdraws his hand slowly, as if reluctant to sever the thread between us. The air hits my lungs like a slap. I try to speak, but he's already shifted slightly. His body still covers mine. His trousers are still on, though the wetness between my legs has soaked even his clothes. His breathing, rough and uneven, crashes against my collarbone as if he, too, is about to shatter.
"Do you know what I've clung to this past week to keep from going insane without you?" he murmurs, his voice hoarse, deep, almost broken.
I stare at him, uncomprehending. Then he raises his hand and pulls something from the inner pocket of his jacket.
My panties.
The black lace ones. Soft as a sigh. The ones that vanished the last time he was here. The ones I never found, no matter how much I tore the house apart.
My breath catches.
He holds them between his fingers like a trophy. Or a relic. His eyes never leave mine.
"This is what kept me sane," he says. "The scent of your body. Your taste. Your trace."
My cheeks burn. Not from shame. From something else. Something darker, more primal. The mere thought of him carrying them. That he slept with them, breathed through the fabric, buried his face in that piece of me…
A soft, trembling moan escapes me, helpless. I feel the dampness gathering between my legs again. And he knows. He senses it. I see it in his dark eyes.
"You smell just like this," he whispers, dragging his nose along my thigh.
He moves up slowly, grazing the soaked fabric with his lips without kissing me. I shiver. My eyes flutter shut.
"Shi…" I whisper, unsure what else to say. Because there are no words for what he does to me.
His teeth skim my skin. He inhales deeply, as if he wants to tattoo my scent onto his soul. I arch against the bed, seeking his mouth, his tongue… But he doesn't hurry. He tortures me with the slowness of someone who knows desire grows in the waiting.
"I came to this more times than I care to count," he murmurs, a faint smile on his lips. "But none of them felt like this. Because now you're here. Alive. Trembling for me."
I fall apart.
My back curves. My fingers clutch the sheets. My thighs tense. The orgasm crashes into me without warning—wild, raw. Without him even touching me fully. Just his voice, his confession. Just the image he's carved into my flesh without a single caress: him, panting with my panties in his hands, thinking of me.
"God…" I whimper, covering my face as if I could hide the delicious shame burning through me.
But he doesn't stop. He gives me no respite.
His mouth presses against the soaked fabric and licks slowly. As if tasting me. As if savoring a fruit he's waited too long for. His tongue presses right at the center, still covered, and I writhe. I scream his name. He groans against me, the vibration wrenching another spasm from me. I'm coming undone.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties. He pulls them down slowly, with the kind of care reserved for something he'll keep forever. He sets them aside like a relic on an altar. I tremble.
Then he spreads my legs wider. No words, no commands. Just the firmness of someone who's waited too long. He stares, breath ragged.
"Look at me, Yiran," he orders. His voice is low, rough—not violent, but devotion. And I obey.
Our eyes lock just as his tongue drags over skin he's already claimed as his.
He devours me. No pause, no mercy, no restraint.
He feasts on me like he's starved. Licks every drop. Sucks until my voice breaks. And I come again—hard, violent. I arch, scream, sob. He doesn't stop. Not even when I beg him to. Because he knows it's not a stop. It's a more, please.
His fingers push into me as he lifts his gaze. Dark, dilated. As if my body just revealed a secret he needed confirmed. He holds my stare, barely breathing, and for a moment, I think he'll speak. But he doesn't. Instead, he pulls back slowly, fingers still wet, dragging the last aftershock from me. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his jacket.
I sit up slightly, still trembling, and watch.
He removes his blazer without haste but with a contained urgency that consumes him. He tosses it aside like a threat. Then his hands go to his tie. He loosens it. Slides it off. Lets it fall. His eyes never leave me. Can't. Neither can I. I stay perched on the edge of the bed, breath uneven.
When his fingers reach his shirt buttons, something shifts in his expression. No longer just desire—need. Restrained fury. He tears it open violently. Buttons scatter. His torso is finally bare. Tense, defined. Old scars I don't need to understand to know he's survived many battles… until I became the most dangerous of them all.
His chest heaves. I lean forward. My hand lifts. Fingers brush his skin slowly, as if doubting he's real. He closes his eyes at my touch. Says nothing, but his body leans into mine, as if that contact is more vital than air. My palm drifts up, exploring his chest, collarbone, throat. He holds his breath when my fingers pause over his heart.
"You're burning…" I whisper, voice frayed by something nameless.
"You set me on fire," he grits out, like a confession of guilt.
Then, as if those words seal a pact, his hands return to me. Not with the earlier urgency, but with dark, trembling reverence. He takes my hands and pulls me to my feet.
"I want to see you," he growls, as if the desire isn't human—but animal.
His fingers hook into the straps of my chemise and slide them down my body. His touch burns. The fabric glides over my thighs, soft as a sigh. I don't move. Just watch him. Breathe like I've escaped a shipwreck. When the chemise pools at my feet, I let it go. He doesn't look away. He worships.
The silk hits the floor with a whisper drowned by our ragged breaths.
I don't cover myself. Don't shiver. I just look at him. And let myself be seen.
I'm still standing. Or trying to. My legs shake, muscles quivering, every breath an act of faith. Before me, Shi Tong hasn't moved in seconds. He stares as if memorizing a vision he never wants to forget. His gaze doesn't roam my body—it reveres it.
Then, without warning, his voice cuts through:
"Stay just like that."
The command spears through me. Firm, but quiet. Intimate. He holds my soul in one phrase. And I obey. Not because I must, but because I want to. Because something in his voice makes me ache to give him everything I am.
He moves closer. Slowly. His body, clad only in trousers, his chest bare and taut like a caged beast. He locks eyes with me. Then he kisses me. There's no rush. No desperation. Just a deep, wet kiss that steals my breath. His hand grips the back of my neck, holding me close as his mouth demands more. I kiss him like he's oxygen. Like survival depends on it. Maybe it already does.
His tongue withdraws deliberately. Then he begins to descend. His mouth trails down my neck, nibbling the sensitive line between ear and collarbone. He bites. I moan. This is his way of leaving marks—like signing his name with his teeth.
One hand cups my breast while his lips claim the other. His tongue circles my nipple, savoring, sucking. I gasp for air. His other hand tightens around my waist, steadying me as he bites down—just hard enough to make my legs buckle and my stomach clench violently. I cry out his name without thinking.
"Shi—"
He releases me only to switch sides. The other nipple suffers the same fate: licking, biting, sucking. I'm unraveling. Arching. I don't collapse because he holds me up. His body is my anchor. He keeps me upright as he continues his descent.
His lips glide over my abdomen, leaving a damp trail. My skin prickles. Every part of me seeks him. Craves him. When he reaches the center of my belly, he kneels.
His hands slide along the backs of my thighs. Slowly, he parts my legs, his gaze alone reducing me to tremors. He gives me no time to think. He opens me. Breathes me in. Inhales like my body is his temple.
"God…" he rasps.
Then he licks me. A firm, dark, delicious tongue.
A groan vibrates against my skin, and my body arches again. A shiver races from my nape to my heels. His grip on my hips tightens.
He licks me once more. Slow circles. No penetration—just savoring. And when he senses I'm at my limit, he slides a finger inside me. I choke back a cry. My legs give out, but he won't let me fall.
"Stay still," he orders, voice low.
I try. I try so hard to remain standing as his finger teases me with a skill that shatters me. He knows exactly what he's doing. Far too well. My lips part. I scream his name when the spasm hits—raw, wild, unstoppable. My thighs tense as I grind against his hand, his tongue lapping up what spills from me with a devotion that splits my soul.
He doesn't stop. He kisses the insides of my thighs. My knees. Lower. His tongue traces my skin down to my ankles. He kisses my feet. One. Then the other. I close my eyes. My entire body trembles—not from weakness, but from the worship he pours over me.
I am an altar. And he, my devotee.
When he finally looks up at me, his face glistening with my essence, his chest heaving, I'm no longer the same. All I want is to fuse with him. Inside. Outside. Forever.
He rises slowly. His hands encircle my waist. He stands. And at last, we're face to face. Me, naked. Him, chest bared, trousers straining where his erection betrays him without shame. The contrast between us is brutal. He looks like a dark god. I am the flame that dragged him to hell.
Our bodies brush. His skin burns. His desire presses against my belly. I pant—not from what he's doing, but from what he's not doing. Because he's just watching me, barely grazing my arms, my jaw, my lips. He won't give in. He only stares, as if memorizing me with his eyes.
"What are you waiting for…?" I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. I try to kiss him, bite him—anything.
"Ask for it," he replies, his breath hot against my mouth.
"I am asking—"
He shakes his head. Cradles my face. His thumbs trace my lower lip, then my cheek. The tenderness is an unexpected knife. My throat tightens; my legs shake. Desire melts me from within. I'm drowning in need.
"Beg me," he says. "Like you need it more than air."
So I do. Because I can't take it anymore.
"Shi Tong—" My voice breaks, as if saying his name for the first time. "Take me, or I'll die."
CHAPTER 21
She stands before me. Naked. Trembling. Her skin prickled as if she'd just been born, for me alone.
And for a moment, I forget to breathe.
I watch her like someone witnessing a miracle that won't repeat itself. That which can't be demanded or stolen. What you only get when a woman belongs to you from within, even if she's never said it aloud. My gaze travels over her body without shame. I haven't touched her yet. Not for lack of want. I just don't want this moment to evaporate.
There she is, standing on unsteady legs, her breath ragged, lips parted—as if begging to be devoured.
She's mine. All of her. What she was. What she is. What she'll be, even if they kill me tomorrow.
"Lie down."
My voice doesn't tremble. Her body does. I watch her obey without hesitation. She settles onto the sheets with that mix of modesty and desire that drives me wild. She spreads her legs without me asking. Stays like that—offered, open, perfect.
I reach for my belt. I want her to see how I undress for her. How I tear away my sanity with every buckle I undo. I push down my pants and boxers carelessly, let them drop. Now there's nothing between us. Just skin. Just hunger. My cock points toward her center like a threat. Tense, throbbing, inevitable.
My body crashes into hers a second later. Not to crush her, but to make it clear—with my weight—that there's no escape. I bite her neck savagely. My hands pin hers above her head. My mouth finds her breasts like a man reaching an oasis after an eternity of thirst. I suck her nipple until she screams. Until she shakes beneath me. And I love it. God, how I love it. I bite. Leave another mark. She whimpers. I laugh, rough and dark, against her throat.
"Say it." I growl. I don't know if it's an order or a plea.
"Shi…" she gasps, between a moan and a sob.
"Louder. I want your neighbors to hear." I bite her other nipple.
"Shi Tong…" Her body arches. "Please…"
Yes. Just like that.
I release her hands, and one of mine slides down to her stomach. I trace the curve of her pelvis with my palm. She's wet. Warm. Ready. But I don't enter her. Not yet. Because something in me roars louder. Something wild that can't wait.
"I'm going to come," I whisper in her ear. "I'm going to come without fucking you. Because I can't take it. Because seeing you like this destroys me."
She gasps and nods. As if that gesture seals a silent pact with everything I am.
I pull back. Kneel over her. Wrap my hand around my cock—hard, straining, about to burst. I stroke myself while watching her. My fingers move violently, but my eyes don't blink. They're hers. Like all of me.
"You're so fucking irresistible when you surrender like this…" My voice is ragged, veins taut. "So perfect. So, mine."
She doesn't move. Watch me. Mouth open. Eyes glazed. Cheeks flushed. Her chest heaves as if she's running without moving.
Then it happens.
The orgasm tears through me like a whip. I snarl her name. Spill over her stomach, her navel. My cum lands hot. Thick. Marking her like some primal ritual. I don't close my eyes. I need to see her. Burn this image into my mind. Forever.
But I don't stop.
I lean down. My trembling hands smear it over her skin. Her stomach, her breasts—every inch covered in me.
"Look what you do to me," I rasp, voice wrecked. "You're drenched in me. As you should be."
She doesn't answer. Just pants. Stares. And then, I fulfill what I've craved most in this hellish week. I lick every drop. From her chest to her stomach. My lips taste her and me. I drown in her skin, in her flavor mixed with my desire. I drag my tongue over her like an animal starved.
Every lick is a prayer. Every bite, a blasphemy.
I haven't even fucked her yet, but I'm already inside. Inside her soul, her flesh, that fierce certainty screaming that no one else will touch her. Ever. Only me.
She trembles with anticipation. I see it in her eyes. Feel it in her skin. She's waiting for me to take her, to push into her. To wreck her with everything I've held back this week.
But before I claim her completely, I need one more thing.
"On your knees."
Not a plea. A cold, precise order. Loaded with a hunger that claws at my chest. She obeys without blinking. Positions herself on the bed, hands and knees. Spreads her legs, as if she already knows what I want.
I take her in. Naked. Offered. Fearless. Shameless. Her back is a perfect curve. Her breath quickens. The tremble in her thighs tells me she's on edge. That a single word from me could push her over. And that undoes me.
"You're perfect like this," I murmur, brushing two fingertips over her cunt. "So fucking perfect it makes me sick."
She moans. That sound of hers poisons me.
I shift behind her, bending close. My nose grazes the base of her spine. I inhale. My throat burns.
"You smell like sex and me," I growl. "Like you always should."
I drag my tongue along the curve of her ass. Then lower, tasting her again. Drinking her in. Devouring her until I lose my mind. Yiran gasps, arches, but I don't let her move.
"Stay still," I order. "I want to savor every inch of you."
I push my tongue inside her—just enough to hear her choke. To hear her moan my name with a desperation I've never known. She offers herself without restraint, and I take.
"You like this?" I whisper between licks. "You like me eating your pussy like you're the only thing keeping me alive?"
She can't speak. Only nods. Shattered. Beautiful. Infinite.
My fingers return. Two this time. I slide them into her slowly as my tongue flicks her clit, torturing her with every wet stroke. She trembles. Tightens. She's close. But I don't let her fall.
"Not yet," I warn, pulling away.
My hands grip her hips so hard my nails leave marks. Yiran pants, squirms, but holds on. I lean in, pressing my forehead to her back, my words searing into her skin:
"Starting today, I own you. You know that don't you?"
She nods. Her voice is a broken whisper: "Yes… Shi Tong… only you…"
"Look at me."
She turns her face over her shoulder. Lips parted. Hair wild. Eyes glazed, brimming with tears of pleasure. And then, I say it:
"I'm going to fuck you."
Yiran unravels.
Her body shakes like a rope about to snap. I can't wait any longer. I press against her, my cock throbbing between her thighs—not inside yet, but just the friction makes her shudder.
"I'll fuck you so hard you won't walk for weeks."
And then, I claim her.
I sink into her in one brutal thrust. Fierce. Absolute. The scream she lets out ignites me. Pleasure. Surrender. Pure chaos.
"Shi Tong—" Her voice cracks.
Her body trembles against mine.
"That's it," I snarl through clenched teeth. "Scream my name while I fuck you raw."
I thrust again. Harder. Deeper. Her flesh welcomes me, clenches around me, burns me alive.
I fist her hair, forcing her to arch. Her neck curves, fragile. I bite down. Hard. Leaving a mark that won't fade for days. I plunge deeper. She opens, takes me. Wet. Willing. Perfect.
My hips slam into her, again and again. Relentless. The slick sound of us mingles with our gasps, her shattered breathing, the storm inside me. She moans. Arches. Breaks.
"You'll feel me in your bones," I growl, shaking. "You'll learn what it means to be fucked by a man who'll never let you go."
I drive into her harder. Each thrust pushes me to the edge, but I hold back. I won't come until she screamed my name a thousand times. I wrap an arm around her, crushing her to me. My hand at her throat. Her mouth open, panting. Her sweat-slick back under my lips.
"You're mine, Yiran. No one else touches you. If they try, I'll kill them."
She trembles at my words. Moans. Her body tightens around me like she wants to keep me inside her forever.
"Say it," I demand. "Say it now."
"I'm yours…" she sobs. "Only yours…"
"Again."
"I belong to you, Shi Tong…"
And then, I come.
With a ragged groan, I spill into her, fucking her through it, so deep I feel my soul leave with it. I hold her. Bury myself to the hilt. My hips jerk. My nails dig into her skin.
But I don't stop.
I keep thrusting. Keep fucking her even after I've finished. Because I don't want it to end. Because her body is a drug, and now I'm ruined beyond saving.
She screams again as another orgasm tears through her.
When the adrenaline finally ebbs, I lift her like she weighs nothing. Tossing us onto the bed, I pull her onto my cock.
"Ride me," I command, gripping her hips. "Like your life depends on it."
She obeys.
Slow at first. Then faster. I meet her thrust for thrust. She gasps. Claws at my thighs. Her breasts bounce. Sweat coats us. Pleasure makes us.
"Look at me," I order, seizing her chin, forcing her eyes to mine.
And when they meet, I know. There's no going back. I want her. Worship her. Destroy her. Save her. She's mine. And I don't know if that makes me more of a man—or more of a beast.
Yiran moves with more force. More hunger. Her body vibrates against mine, her breath turning erratic, her thighs trembling against my hips. She stares into me—lips parted, eyes glazed with intensity.
"Can I…?" she whispers, her voice a frayed thread.
I nodded. She doesn't need to finish. I already know. Already feel it. She's teetering on the edge.
"Let go," I murmur against her mouth. "Come for me again."
And she does. She screams. Arches. The orgasm rocks through her like a dull thunder, violent and all-consuming. Her nails dig into my chest, her back curving, her sex clenching around me with a force that wrings a ragged groan from my throat. I hold her as she shudders, as she unravels, as she spills herself over me once more.
When her body finally goes slack, she looks at me. Bare. Spent. But full. Full of me. Of everything I am.
"Can I lie down…?" she asks, her voice nearly shattered.
Only then do I notice—she's shaking. Can't hold herself up. Not weakness. Satiety. Absolute surrender.
I nod silently.
Carefully, I gather her. Help her peel away from me. Steady her as she sinks into the mattress. I arrange her in the sheets like something sacred. Brush her hair back, tuck a strand behind her ear, then stretch out beside her.
I cover her. Not just with the sheet. With my body. My arms. With everything I am and everything I have left.
I pull her close. She doesn't resist. Nests her head against my chest, hooks a leg over my hips—as if even now, she needs to remind me: You're staying.
She doesn't have to say it. I know.
CHAPTER 22
Silence carries a different weight after a night of love. It's denser, more intimate. It smells of bodies that searched for each other tirelessly, of skin marked by teeth, of ragged breath still hanging in the sheets. I open my eyes slowly, unhurried, as if my eyelids knew they had shielded me from a truth too vast and must now face the certainty that perhaps it's all over.
But the room still smells like him. Of sex, of sweat, of a night unleashed.
I turn in bed and, for one eternal moment, I think he's gone. That the empty space beside me confirms what I already feared from the moment he dared to touch me like I was his salvation. That he wouldn't be here when I woke up. Because men like Shi Tong never stay.
I sit up, wrapped in the fragile silence his absence has left behind. The sheets are tangled between my legs, still damp, and my body aches with a pleasure that hasn't faded, not even with the passing hours. Every part of me remembers him. My hips, my breasts, my throat, raw from moaning his name. I bring my hand to my neck, to the exact spot where he bit me with fury, as if he wanted to leave a mark the world could see. And then, I hear it.
His voice…
Deep, dry, strained with command. He's on the phone in the living room. I can't make out what he's saying, but I recognize the tone. It's the voice of a man who gives orders, who demands, who doesn't plead. A man who, even on the other side of the world, is still exactly who he is.
I get up. Barefoot on the floor, I search for the silk robe that was discarded last night like an offering. I slip it slowly and walk toward the open door of the bedroom. I don't want to interrupt. I just need to look at him from afar. I want to remember why, even knowing he's not mine, I want him with a desperation that unravels me.
He's facing away. Standing at the window, phone in hand, wearing only a pair of dark boxers. His back is a map of taut muscles and old scars, but what captures my gaze is the tattoo that covers nearly all of his skin. A powerful, brutal image. No tigers, no dragons. Just an ancient shield in Eastern strokes, with a vertical sword crossing it from end to end. I recognize the symbol. It's from the Ming dynasty. An emblem of loyalty unto death. A silent oath inked onto his back.
He doesn't know I'm watching. And I don't hear what he's saying. I just watch.
I feel desire coil once again in my belly. Not because of his body. But because of what it represents. He's mine, yes. But never completely. Never beyond what he chooses to give. And that… that has to be enough.
He hangs up and turns.
Our eyes meet without words. And in his, I know: he's seen me. He's felt me. He's sensed me. He closes the distance between us in slow, certain steps. And without asking permission—like everything he does—he takes my nape in his hand, pulls me to his mouth, and kisses me. It's a kiss with tongue, with breath, with the taste of goodbye.
"I have to go. Will you be okay?"
"I will. I'll be fine."
It's not a lie, even though it burns my soul to say it. Even though his leaving leaves my throat dry. I will be, because now I understand. I know how this will be. He'll appear when he can. When he wants to. When the world out there grants him a pause. And I—if I want to survive—must not wait. I must live, work, breathe.
I kiss him back. Briefer. Softer.
I turn around. Walk toward the bathroom. I don't look back as I cross the threshold, because I don't need to see him to know he's watching me.
The hot water greets me like a caress that isn't his. My muscles relax under the steady stream, but my chest remains tight. Today I have to return to the hospital. To the ER. To the life that doesn't wait. And my body still carries the weight of a night at war. I don't feel weak. I feel alive. Too alive.
When I leave the shower, wrapped in a towel, I know it before checking. He's gone. No trace of his body, or of the heat he left in the mattress. Only the muted echo of his presence, still pulsing through the walls. I walk into the kitchen to make tea. And there it is. The cup. Still steaming and ready. As if, with that, he could say: I'll come back.
I step closer, take it in my hands, and whisper, barely audible, as if he could still hear me:
"Come back to me."
And I drink, as if that tea were his promise.
*****
The hospital doors no longer creak when they open. They just give way—like people do when I walk in. The air, thick with disinfectants and tension, hits me like a cold slap. There's something different this morning. Faster. More chaotic. Footsteps echo with urgency, voices rise without direction, and stretchers arrive like an endless chain of misfortune.
I haven't even made it through the entry hallway when an assistant intercepts me, her coat open, hands shaking, face so pale she looks ready to collapse.
"Dr. Wan," she pants. "Multiple collision. A truck and five cars. Three critical patients, five conscious, and more on the way. We're out of beds."
"Which units are available?" I ask, without slowing down.
"Trauma 2 and Observation. Pediatrics is full. Emergency too."
"Then convert Operating Room 3 into an immediate triage unit. Move all stable post-ops to recovery upstairs. I want three more beds cleared in twenty minutes."
I don't raise my voice. There's no need. Everyone knows what it means when I arrive: chaos has a commander, and she does not tolerate mistakes.
When I turn the corner into the ER, it looks like a war zone. Blood on the floor, stretchers crisscrossed, shouting, monitors screeching. And yet, nothing knocks me off balance. I grab a mask, some gloves, and begin.
Patient one: hip fracture and cranial trauma.
Patient two: unconscious, rigid abdomen, signs of internal bleeding.
Patient three: a six-year-old boy, face covered in blood, eyes wide like shattered moons.
"I want the vascular surgeon here now!" I bark, and someone runs. "And someone clean up this corridor or I'll end up operating in the damn hallway."
Tension sharpens me. Turns me into a scalpel. No one hesitates when I give an order. No one argues when I point. I'm the only one who doesn't doubt. Because here, doubt kills. I run into a resident trying to stop me to talk about a patient with irregular breathing.
"What's his O₂ sat?" I ask without looking at her.
"Ninety-one, but—"
"Then he's not in arrest, is he? He can wait."
And I move on.
There's a young woman screaming for her son. The child is conscious. A gash on his forehead, and he won't stop asking for his dad. I don't tell him, but his father is already in the OR. They still don't know if he'll survive.
"Are you strong?" I ask the boy, crouching in front of him.
"Yes…" he stammers.
"Then I need you to be a little stronger. Because if you're okay, your mom can calm down."
It's not medicine. It's not science. It's humanity. And in this room, where everything seems to break every minute, being human also saves lives.
When I finally check the clock, almost two hours have passed. I haven't stopped. Haven't eaten. I haven't had water. But nothing hurts. Because this is where I exist. This is where I don't think about last night, about Shi Tong's marked back, or his mouth biting into mine.
And yet, just as I head to the nurse's station to sign off on a lab order, a nurse shouts from the end of the hallway:
"Dr. Wan! We've got active labor in the waiting room! She didn't make it to maternity in time!"
I turn, freeze for a second, and then I run.
The white light of the fluorescents runs with me down the hallway, as if even it knows there's no room for error. Chaos parts around me. A nurse shouts instructions, someone slips, a stretcher bangs against the wall in a turn. The scene waiting for me is an explosion: a pregnant woman on a makeshift stretcher, panting through screams. Her partner tries to hold her up and fails. Amniotic fluid on the floor. A collective hum of tension.
"I'm Dr. Wan," I announce, pulling on gloves mid-stride. "Breathe with me. You're not alone."
The woman looks at me with wild eyes. A contraction hits. Her belly tightens. She screams with a sound older than memory. Her body knows what to do, even if her mind is hanging by a thread.
"Fully dilated," the nurse beside me mutters. "Head engaged."
"Let's do this."
I approach, brush the sweat-soaked hair from her forehead, and lock eyes with her.
"Listen to me. Every time you push, every scream that comes out of you will bring him closer. Do you understand? Your baby. He's right there. He just needs you to open the way."
She nods slowly, but it's enough.
"At the next contraction, push," I order, positioning myself between her legs.
Everything becomes rhythm. Instinct. I feel the baby's head, trace the birth canal, urgency wrapping everything. No empty cries. No chaos without meaning. Just life pressing forward through blood and will.
"Now. Push!"
The woman pushes and screams at the same time. My hands guide her—they don't dominate. They're just there to hold what's inevitable.
"That's it. Almost… just a bit more."
And then, with one last roar, with a soul-splitting push, the baby emerges and everything stops.
The cry is immediate. Sharp, beautiful, pure.
I catch him in my hands. Wrap him in a blanket a nurse offers instantly. Cut the cord. Look at the father. He's not breathing yet. He hasn't realized his world has changed.
"He's your son. He's fine. He's beautiful."
The mother sobs, the father breaks down, the baby wails… and in the middle of it all, I exist.
I, who last night was flesh beneath a man who broke me with want, am now the hands that bring into the world a soul untouched by sin. And that anchors me.
I look at the child for a few seconds. Tiny fingers, lips searching for his mother's breast. Slippery, warm, fragile as a breath. The weakness—and the sheer force—of what has just been born hits me square in the chest.
A nurse hands me a towel to clean my hands. I nod, still breathless. Step back a few paces while the family embraces, and let the emotions return to my body. Just a little. Just enough to remind me who I am.
"Dr. Wan," another voice calls from the hallway. "Bed three patient is coding. We're taking him to resus."
I nod. Walk with steady steps. Because that's the cost of being me.
One night, I strip for a man who smells of gunpowder, dirty desire, and raw truth. And in the morning, I soak myself in blood and tears to save whatever can still be saved.
CHAPTER 23
The room smells of mildew, old gunpowder, and restrained sweat. The long dark oak table creaks under the weight of papers, maps, and silences. No one speaks unless I allow it. And right now, I haven't said a word in almost ten minutes. We meet like this every week—reviewing routes, contacts, covert movements. But there's a different tension in the air. I feel it on the back of my neck, in the way Sun drums his fingers against the metal of his ring, in how Dai hasn't taken his eyes off the portable monitor. My most trusted men are on alert. And coming from them, that means something's coming.
Zhang bursts in without knocking. He crosses the threshold like a projectile. His face is contorted, and his coat is still damp from the rain. The man never allows himself that kind of disorder unless something's burning.
"Shi," he says—no protocol, no greeting. None is needed. "We have a possible location."
I don't ask. I just raise my chin, waiting for him to speak. Zhang swallows hard. His throat moves visibly.
"Liu Jian's been spotted. Black market, east side. No photos. No confirmation. But the description matches him."
Time stops.
I see it in their eyes. In how Sun freezes and Dai finally looks away from the screen. The name hits like a gunshot in everyone's mouth. Liu Jian. The bastard from the rival clan. The one who tried to kill me and failed. The one who swore to destroy everything I touch. My breathing stays steady, but I know my pupils must be dilated. My insides aren't a nest of snakes—they're a bomb.
"Who saw him?" I ask, voice low. Lethal.
"A kid from the illegal gambling joint in Dongcheng. Says he saw him cross the alley into Huan's back room."
"Bring him in. And bring him in whole. But if he doesn't talk… make him learn how with broken teeth."
Zhang nods and disappears. Fast. Without looking back. Sun leans toward the table, wearing a smile I don't like.
"Let me handle it," he says, sharpening each word with his tongue.
I look at him.
"Do it. But I want results. And if you have to gouge eyes out, make sure they talk first."
Dai types something, activating the underground camera network. His tone is dry, precise.
"I'm tracking from the last perimeter. If Liu's here, we'll find out sooner or later."
Later isn't good enough. I get to my feet.
The muscles across my torso tense beneath my shirt. I'm calm outside, but my mind is already soaked in blood. Flash images of what I'll do if that son of a bitch dares come near. Because this isn't about me. Everything inside me screams a single name. I don't say it. But every cell in my body repeats it: Yiran.
"Secure all routes," I say, looking at the two of them. "Lock down the perimeter around her home. No unfamiliar faces, no fucking shadow left untagged. And if anyone tries to get close to…" I don't finish. They know who I mean. "No one touches her," I growl. "No one breathes near her. Got it?"
Sun and Dai nod. Zhang, from the doorway, returns just to tell me the car is ready. I head for the exit without looking back. Tension spears through me like a burning lance. I have no proof Liu is looking for her. No evidence. But I know. I feel it in my bones. In that cold hollow between my collarbone and my stomach. In that tightening in my chest like a crow perched on my heart.
I'm alone.
The office is in shadows, barely lit by the corner lamp that flickers like it too fears what's coming. The air is thick with tension, with pent-up sweat, and something worse than rage: uncertainty. My hands tremble over the desk—not from fear, but from fury. A cold, poisonous rage that coils through my body like a nameless serpent.
I unroll the map across the table.
The city of Beijing. Millions of blind spots. Millions of places where a son of a bitch like Liu Jian could hide like the rat he is. I grab the red marker and draw a cross over every location my men have mentioned. An alley in the southern district, a shuttered shop near the old market, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts. Nothing conclusive. Just traces, rumors, bloodstained breadcrumbs. I clench my jaw until I feel my teeth grind.
"Son of a bitch…" I mutter, and the sound of my voice feels foreign—like it's coming from an animal I don't recognize.
Across the table, my phone vibrates. I glance at the screen. It's Zhang. I answer.
"We've confirmed it," he says without preamble. "Liu Jian has moved through that zone in the last few days. But there's no sign of movement near the lady's neighborhood."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, boss. Her area hasn't been touched. No patrols, no surveillance. Nothing."
I go silent. I stare at the map. Yiran's neighborhood is far, yes. Too far. But that means nothing. The bastard doesn't act by proximity. He acts by weakness—by impulse. And if he knew she existed… if he knew she was my soft spot…
The air grows thick. Sweat trickles down my spine.
"Double the watch on her street. Three rotating shifts. No gaps. No rest."
"But, boss, have you considered that if they notice we're tightening security around that location, it might raise suspicions?"
I pause, thinking. He's right. I'm losing it—acting without control.
"You're right... Don't do anything. Better to keep things as they are," I exhale, angry at my own lack of judgment.
"Anything else, boss?"
"Just keep me informed," I answer, running a hand through my hair.
"Don't worry, we'll handle it. The lady will be well protected," he says before hanging up.
I stay still a few seconds longer, thinking, reevaluating. My fingers grip the edge of the desk. The city is marked in red circles like open wounds. Wounds I don't know how to close. But there's one I won't allow to bleed: Yiran. She is mine. Mine to kiss. Mine to possess. Mine to protect.
It doesn't comfort me to know there's no threat. It doesn't ease me that her home lies outside the strike radius. Because if Liu is back, nothing is beyond his reach. And I, who have lived in darkness more than anyone, know exactly what a man driven by revenge can do.
I cast one last look at the map. Beijing still lies there, streaked in red, like a wounded creature that hasn't yet decided whether to bleed out. My eyes land on the circle around her building. The one place that shouldn't exist. The one point I can't control.
My hand slides to my sash, where I always keep the knife. Curved steel, polished, fast. I don't think. I don't hesitate. I slice my forearm with a clean cut. The pain is warm, almost familiar. Blood flows—dark, thick. I let it fall on the map. One drop. Then another. Right on her building. The red ink of my body marks what's already mine. A sign. A warning. A vow.
"If anyone comes near her…" I whisper, "…they better be ready to learn what pain really is."
CHAPTER 24
I shouldn't be here. I know. It's not part of the plan. It's not safe. It's not logical. But as I step out of the car and walk toward her door, the only thing that matters is confirming she's still alive. Still whole. That light inside her—the one the world tries to smother under its endless chaos—hasn't flickered out.
My man briefed me minutes ago about her day: a packed ER shift, a multi-vehicle collision, pure bedlam, blood, an unexpected delivery… and her in the middle of it all. Standing tall, commanding the storm like some goddess of life carving order from hell.
I stayed silent when Zhang finished talking. Didn't make a sound. But inside… inside, something cracked open in my chest with a dry snap. Admiration? Fear? Something worse—tenderness. I don't need anyone to tell me her worth. I've known it since the first time I saw her. But hearing how she saved those people, how she caught a newborn in her blood-smeared hands, how she didn't collapse even after a night of being fucked raw—that wrecked me. Because me? The man with blood on his hands, who's killed for less? I don't know if I've ever had that kind of strength.
I enter the house without a sound. My steps are silent on the floor. The air smells like jasmine, steam, her—as if her presence has seeped into the walls. I pause, holding my breath. Then I hear it. Water sliding over skin. The shower. She's there. Just beyond that half-open door, letting the heat rinse away the day. Maybe even the exhaustion.
But I know better. The body can lie. The soul doesn't.
I move closer, bracing my hand against the doorframe. No announcement. Just watching. Her silhouette bleeds through the frosted glass. Steam curls around her, distorts her, but not enough to hide the curves I've memorized. She's soaping her arms with slow, mechanical strokes. Head tilted slightly, wet hair clinging to her neck. The firm line of her thighs. The slope of her back. Water cascading down every inch like it, too, is desperate to touch her.
My body reacts before my mind does. My cock hardens without permission, thick and aching, a beast stirring at the scent of its prey. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to leash the impulse. Fail. My belt comes undone without thought, my shirt shrugged off in impatient jerks. Every second clothed feels like an insult to what I'm feeling—to what I need.
I haven't made a sound. Haven't spoken. But she knows I'm here. I feel it the instant her body stills. She stops moving. Lets the water sluice over her shoulders without turning, without speaking. And that certainty—that I'm the only one who could walk into her world without shaking it apart—ignites something feral in me.
I slide the shower door open silently. Steam hits my face like a damp inferno. And there she is. Just turning her head. Our eyes lock. No surprise. No fear. Just want. Raw, simmering, untamed.
I step in, grip the back of her neck, and kiss her. No words. No permission. No teasing. Just take. My other hand slides down her body, deliberate, relentless, until I find her center—slick from the water or from me, I don't know, don't care. I stroke her like I'm relearning salvation mapped across her skin. She moans into my mouth, arches into me. And then I know: shitty day, lives saved, walking on glass—none of it matters now. Just this. My body, my tongue, my need to devour her.
And me? I'm just getting started.
She trembles against me. Not from the water. Not from cold. She shakes because my hand already has her spread, yielding, hunting that spot between her thighs only I've claimed. My fingers move without mercy, with the precision of a man who knows every inch of worship and ruin. Warm spray spills over her shoulders, but the only thing wrecking her is the wet, relentless circles I drag over her clit. Her legs part wider. Her back bows. She clutches my shoulders like the world's axis hinges on me. And I know she's close. Know it from her ragged breaths. The bitten-off whimpers. How she clings like my skin is the only thing keeping her upright.
I don't speak. Just push. Rub harder. Hungrier. My mouth claims hers while my hand owns her, fingers plunging in and out with devotion and punishment twisted together. She moans, sharp and loud, teeth sinking into her lip—then shatters. Hips jerking, cunt clenching around my fingers as her orgasm rips through her. Soaks my hand with a cry she muffles against my chest. And that sound? It breaks me.
I don't let her breathe. Just haul her closer, kiss her, bite her—and before she can speak, she's sinking to her knees. Like this, she's both queen and supplicant, surrender and power. Water streams over her shoulders, over the tiled floor now turned altar. And me? I forget how to fucking breathe.
Her eyes find mine from below, like she knows this look will undo me. Break me. Make me worship her like a god while she ruins me like a slave.
Then her mouth opens. Takes me. No warning. Just the first hot, wet pull—perfect—and a groan tears from my throat. I brace a hand against the wall to stay upright. The other tangles in her soaked hair, possessive, reverent. She starts slow, then faster. Takes me deep, like her life depends on it. And I let her. Lose myself. Every muscle locked tight as steel.
"Fuck, Yiran—" I rasp, airless, unmoored. "You know what you do to me?"
She doesn't answer. Can't. Her mouth is full of me. Of everything I am. Of every damn ounce of worship I've been holding back for weeks. Her lips slide with a mix of precision and madness. Deeper. Wetter. Wilder. Mine.
My hips move. My cock throbs hard inside her mouth. She feels it. Knows it. Her eyes lock on mine—she doesn't stop, she devours. And I don't know if I want to come or claw my skin off from the sheer, unbearable pleasure.
I yank her up. Kiss her like a starved animal. Bite her lips. Mark her neck. Hold her tight. Because nothing else exists now. Just her body and mine.
And this fucking hunger that a thousand nights couldn't satisfy.
I slam her against the shower wall. Water crashes over her back. Her legs spread. Her sex brushes me—hot, pulsing, surrendered.
"Ready for me?" I growl against her mouth.
"Always," she rasps, eyes blazing.
Then—I'm inside her.
One brutal thrust. No mercy. Her back hits the tiles, her scream tangling with the water's roar. Pleasure. Shock. Total surrender. And I—I lose myself. Bury so deep nothing exists outside her. My cock fills her completely. Stretches. Claims. Her body takes me like it's been waiting a lifetime. No words. Just the animal rhythm of two bodies recognizing each other beyond time.
Her legs lock around my waist, back still pinned to the wall. I grip her thighs, fingers bruising skin, and move. Slow at first—savoring the feel of her. But the need is too sharp. I can't hold back. Won't.
"Mine," I snarl at her throat, driving harder.
She whimpers. Nails rake my shoulders. Her mouth gasps for air, but I give no quarter. Every exhale, I push deeper. Harder. The shower wall shakes. I shake. Yiran clings like the world will crack if we stop touching.
Water pours over us, but it doesn't cool a damn thing. The steam makes everything slicker, rawer. Her wet skin glows under the bathroom light. I bite her jaw. Kiss her open-mouthed, teeth and soul bared.
I pull out just to slam back in—a sharp thrust that wrings my name from her throat.
"Shi Tong—"
"Say it again."
"Shi… Tong…"
"Louder."
"Shi!"
I shove her harder into the tile. Fuck her ruthless. Hips crashing against hers. Her body jerks—she's close. I know. Her tight heat screams it.
"Come for me. Now. Let go while I fuck you against this wall," I order, voice shattered.
She obeys. Arches. Clenches. Her sex grips me like a molten vise as she falls apart with a scream that scrapes my chest from the inside. Unravels in my arms. Breaks into sobs no one else has ever heard.
And I—lose my fucking mind.
My rhythm turns savage. Inhuman. I pound into her like I want to wreck every inch of her and rebuild her just for me. No thought. No feeling. Just taking. Just fucking. Just worshiping her with my body, my teeth, my burning soul.
The orgasm rips up my spine like damn lightning. I arch like a beast about to roar. Teeth gritted. Muscles locked.
"Yiran—!" My groan is a snarl. "Fuck, fuck, fuck…"
Then I'm coming inside her. As deep as I can go. Like I can brand my need into her bones. I spill hard. My cum floods her, mixes with her wetness. Every part of me left there—buried in her body like a vow nothing can break.
But I don't pull out. Stay in her. Panting. Pulsing. Alive.
My forehead drops to her shoulder. I breathe her in. Our chests heave together.
"No place else you belong," I rasp. "No safer world than this—right here, in my arms."
She doesn't answer. Just holds me, eyes shut, lips still wet with my name. Her soul maybe trembling like mine.
And I—
I never want to leave.
If hell's waiting for me, let it find me inside her.