Between "instant death upon mission failure" and "potential retribution from Elena Nightshade at a later date," Marcus Chen made his choice with the decisiveness of a man who'd already died once before. He'd take his chances with the latter, thank you very much.
After all, he still possessed a modicum of confidence in his quick wits and combat-honed reflexes. Surely those skills counted for something? He'd survived worse odds as a bodyguard in his previous life—though admittedly, none of those situations had involved a potentially homicidal heiress with a grudge and a poison ring.
Probably worse odds, he mentally amended.
Marcus hastily arranged his features into an expression of profound helplessness and sincere apology, offering Elena a placating smile she couldn't see. Then, moving with calculated care, he closed his eyes and settled his chin lightly atop her head, affecting an air of perfect naturalness—as though embracing one's wheelchair-bound wife in a death grip while her family watched was the most ordinary thing in the world.
The logic was simple, really: if he didn't make eye contact, he wouldn't have to see those murderous eyes. If he couldn't see them, the fear diminished. If the fear diminished, he could focus on what truly mattered—completing the mission and earning those beautiful, life-saving points.
Out of sight, out of mind. Out of mind, into fortune.
[Congratulations, Host! Maintaining current contact status: Positive Value +1!]
Fortune's cheerful notification chimed in his consciousness, and Marcus felt his lips twitch upward despite the precariousness of his situation. The familiar rush of acquisition thrummed through his veins—that mercenary's high he'd chased through countless dangerous jobs, now reduced to the simple act of holding a woman against her will.
How the mighty had fallen.
He drew in a careful breath through his nose, and immediately an exquisite fragrance invaded his senses—cold, proud, with the distinctive character of camellia blossoms. The scent was deceptively delicate, refusing to clamor for attention, existing in splendid isolation like something too refined for the vulgar world.
The parallel to Elena herself was almost poetic. Camellias possessed a particular quality that had always fascinated him in his previous life: they bloomed with immaculate perfection regardless of whether anyone appreciated their beauty, maintaining their breathtaking elegance even in death. As their petals fell, they descended whole and unblemished, never showing the corruption of decay, never surrendering to the indignity of withering.
Holy and pristine on the surface, yet concealing depths of startling contradiction beneath.
Just like the woman currently trapped in his arms, projecting fragility while plotting murder.
Elena felt the oxygen being systematically stolen from her lungs. Marcus's chest pressed against her back like heated iron, his scorching body temperature and aggressively foreign masculine scent forming an inescapable cage around her. The intimacy of it—the sheer presumption—made her skin crawl with a visceral need to escape.
She endured the suffocating contact through sheer force of will, one hand creeping upward with agonizing slowness until her fingertips found the fabric of Marcus's pajama top at his waist. Applying subtle pressure, she simultaneously wrenched her head backward, desperately seeking separation from that infuriating expanse of heated skin.
The minor victory of creating a gap—however infinitesimal—allowed her to gulp down quick, shallow breaths. Her chest heaved with the exertion of maintaining her composure, of not doing something regrettable like driving her elbow into his solar plexus.
Pervert, she seethed internally, grinding her teeth. Shameless, opportunistic pervert.
At precisely that moment, the bedroom door swung fully open. A silver-topped cane of obvious quality entered first, its polished surface catching the morning light as it tapped against the threshold with quiet authority.
Grandfather Jiang—patriarch of the Nightshade family, Elena's doting yet shrewd grandfather—made his entrance with the unhurried gait of someone accustomed to deference.
He'd barely crossed two steps into the room when his forward momentum ceased entirely. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows illuminated a scene of apparent domestic bliss: his beloved granddaughter wrapped securely in her new husband's embrace, both seemingly lost in the innocent depths of sleep, their pose speaking of newlywed intimacy and mutual comfort.
"Ahem." Grandfather Jiang cleared his throat with audible awkwardness, the sound carrying a note of chagrin as belated realization struck. His granddaughter had only recently married, after all. Young couples in the throes of their honeymoon period deserved privacy, not unexpected intrusions from meddling relatives.
He executed a swift about-face, raising his cane to gesture vaguely toward the doorway while lowering his voice to address the small entourage trailing behind him. "Move along, all of you. Nothing to see here. Let the children rest—they're young and in love, for heaven's sake."
Unfortunately, that brief window of observation had been more than sufficient. The handful of people who'd followed the patriarch into the room—Elena's Second Uncle Hubert Jiang, his wife Lillian Wang, and their youngest son Jason Jiang—had already absorbed every detail of the intimate tableau on the bed with varying degrees of interest and calculation.
Young Jason, still possessing a child's instinctive modesty, clapped both hands over his eyes while mumbling, "Second Cousin Elena and her husband are—"
"Hush!" Lillian Wang cut him off swiftly, her perfectly manicured hand finding her son's shoulder as she adopted an expression of exaggerated consideration. Her stage whisper carried clearly through the room. "Don't disturb them, darling. Your second cousin and her husband are still sleeping."
The saccharine solicitude in her tone couldn't quite mask the sharp gleam of assessment in her eyes.
Grandfather Jiang retreated from the bedroom, drawing the door closed with careful quietness before ushering the group toward the living room. His weathered features betrayed a flicker of satisfaction that he couldn't entirely suppress. "Well," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, "their relationship appears quite... harmonious."
Second Uncle Hubert seized the opening with the eagerness of a man who'd been waiting for precisely this moment. Crowding closer to his father, he arranged his face into an expression of profound concern, his brow furrowing dramatically. "Father, you mustn't allow superficial appearances to deceive you. Elena is young and inexperienced—easily swept away by romantic notions. But we, as her elders, bear the responsibility of protecting her interests."
He paused for emphasis, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I've conducted extensive inquiries into Marcus Chen's background. The man's history is deeply questionable—he's nothing more than an opportunist with a talent for manipulation! His intentions toward Elena are transparently mercenary. He's clearly positioned himself to exploit her inheritance!"
Grandfather Jiang's gaze slid sideways to his second son, his expression settling into studied neutrality. Yes, the family assets were important—the Nightshade fortune represented generations of careful accumulation. But at this particular moment, his granddaughter's happiness took precedence over financial considerations.
He'd known from the beginning that Marcus Chen was far from an ideal match. The young man's credentials were dubious at best, his sudden appearance in Elena's life suspicious. But Elena had expressed her desire to marry him—or so the situation had been presented—and as her grandfather, he lacked the heart to deny her categorically.
When he finally spoke, his words emerged with the measured cadence of absolute authority. "Whether the man proves worthwhile or worthless is no longer your concern to investigate. You may be Elena's second uncle, but ultimately, that relationship carries inherent limitations. She's a married woman now. Her future—her triumphs and her mistakes—belong to her alone to navigate."
The unspoken translation hung in the air between them: As long as Elena accepts him, Marcus Chen's character is none of your damned business.
Hubert's face darkened to an unhealthy shade, his jaw working soundlessly as his father's rebuke struck home. He could only exchange loaded glances with his wife Lillian, their shared frustration and resentment requiring no verbal communication.
The group proceeded to the stairwell, where the household butler moved to assist Grandfather Jiang with the descent. The patriarch halted abruptly, pivoting to aim his cane directly at his second son like an accusatory finger.
His tone shifted from dismissive to razor-sharp. "Rather than obsessing over the contents of other people's bowls, perhaps you should attend to your own catastrophic mismanagement. I've received reports about that venture capital disaster of yours—another substantial loss, I understand? The third one this fiscal year?"
His attention swiveled to Lillian, whose designer outfit and elaborate jewelry suddenly seemed garish under his disapproving scrutiny. "And you—parading around as the pampered socialite, frittering away resources on frivolous luxuries. Have you contributed anything of actual value to this family lately, or is your sole occupation maintaining appearances?"
Finally, his gaze landed on young Jason, who had developed an intense interest in his own shoes. Grandfather Jiang's disappointment rang clear in every syllable. "And you, young man! Your teacher informed me that you scored in the bottom percentile on your mathematics examination. At this rate, you won't qualify for even a mediocre university, let alone one befitting the Nightshade name. What possible use will you be to this family's legacy?"
Jason—a slight, dark-haired boy with an unfortunate tendency toward academic underachievement—immediately ducked his head, one hand rising to rub the back of his neck in a gesture of nervous contrition. "I'm sorry, Grandfather," he stammered. "I promise I'll apply myself more diligently to my studies."
Grandfather Jiang maintained his stern expression, allowing his censorious gaze to linger on each family member before finally turning away with obvious displeasure.
As he prepared to descend, his instructions to the butler emerged in considerably gentler tones. "Please inform Elena and Marcus that it's time to rise. Excessive sleeping is detrimental to young people's constitutions. We'll take breakfast together shortly."
The butler executed a precise bow. "Of course, Chairman."
Inside the bedroom, both Marcus and Elena registered the retreating footsteps with simultaneous relief—though the atmosphere between them remained charged with barely suppressed hostility.
Silence reclaimed the space, yet the tension had somehow intensified, coiling tighter in the absence of witnesses.
Marcus continued his shameless exploitation of the situation, maintaining his possessive embrace with stubborn determination. Every passing second generated more Positive Value, and this passive income stream was intoxicating. The lazy efficiency of it appealed to something fundamental in his mercenary soul.
Why work harder when you could work smarter?
Still feigning ignorance of their departed audience, he pushed his advantage further, surreptitiously extending one foot beneath the covers until his toes made contact with Elena's ice-cold feet.
[Ding! Congratulations, Host! Foot-to-foot contact established: Positive Value +1!]
Marcus's mouth curved in unbidden satisfaction, his imagination conjuring visions of currency symbols multiplying with dazzling brightness—like avaricious stars illuminating the path to financial freedom.
"Release me." Elena's voice could have flash-frozen nitrogen, each word dripping with undisguised revulsion. "Now."
Marcus affected sudden awareness, allowing his gaze to drift downward toward the top of her head. Deciding to brazen out the awkwardness with forced casualness, he made a show of measuring their height difference with one hand. "Huh. You know, Elena, your height comes up precisely to my shoulder. The proportions are actually quite—"
"And that matters why, exactly?" Her tone could have stripped paint, radiating an aura of how is this possibly relevant to anything.
Marcus pressed forward with determined cheerfulness, deploying his most disarming grin despite her inability to see it. "I'm just saying... it's rather endearing, don't you think?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
He really needed to learn when to stop talking.