Chapter 62: I Like It When You're Bad to Me

The bedsheets were freshly washed, still not entirely dry. The damp mist mixed with the mint-scented laundry detergent, resembling a foggy sea into which Yan Zhuo fell.

His hands were bound. A piece of rope, retrieved from who knows where, was wrapped around his wrists multiple times. The dark red rope against his skin and the visibly strained veins exuded an unspoken, heavy desire.

His body slightly unfolded, with his bound hands raised above his head. He looked up from below at the person who had reduced him to this state, calling out with a hint of grievance, "A-Yan."

"Shh," Qu Yan made a silencing gesture. "Rewards require patience."

He looked down at Yan Zhuo from a superior height, the emotion in his eyes very faint, as if he were deliberately suppressing something. His extended fingers brushed lightly over Yan Zhuo's chin. He quickly withdrew his hand, and without a trace of reluctance, wheeled himself toward the window.

Yan Zhuo still called out to him plaintively from behind.

Outside the glass window, several sparrows stared in unison at Qu Yan. As if sensing his disgust, they simultaneously shrank their necks and finally scattered away in all directions.

"Swish—"

The curtains were drawn tightly, and the bedroom instantly plunged into dimness.

Qu Yan found what he wanted in the nightstand drawer, then asked in an extremely soft voice, "Bedside lamp or candles?"

Yan Zhuo answered, just as expected, "Candles."

Qu Yan chuckled, raised his hand, and lit a candle. The flame flickered, casting a lengthened shadow of Qu Yan that enveloped Yan Zhuo's body.

Qu Yan shifted slightly, and his shadow swayed accordingly. Yan Zhuo let out a whimper resembling a sob.

Qu Yan lowered his head and exchanged a gentle, unhurried kiss with him. It was too tender yet fleeting, almost vanishing in an instant. Yan Zhuo reached out longingly, attempting to chase after Qu Yan's lips, only to be pressed back down.

The shirt clinging to his abdomen rolled up a few times. Compared to the kiss just now, the actions of Qu Yan's hands could hardly be called gentle. The somewhat loose fabric quickly piled up against Yan Zhuo's chest, exposing his unevenly rising and falling upper body.

Qu Yan grabbed the bundled-up shirt all at once, lowering his gaze as he said, "Open your mouth."

The commanding tone carried a bewitching allure, and Yan Zhuo obeyed without a single thought.

The moment his mouth parted, it was stuffed with soft fabric. He froze for a few seconds before realizing that the thing in his mouth was his own clothes.

Qu Yan patted his slightly puffed-up cheeks. "Bite down tight."

This was truly a shameful posture: the arched waist, the utterly helpless hands, the shirt bitten between his teeth—it resembled forced humiliation, yet was equally unmasked eroticism.

Yan Zhuo belatedly realized this, but it was already too late.

Qu Yan leaned forward, narrowing his eyes to look at the blue liquid merging into Yan Zhuo's body. They extended branches, completely covering Yan Zhuo's entire upper body, flowing beneath the skin like an alternative human circulatory system.

Yan Zhuo probably did not know that when he was stirred with passion, the color of the liquid buried beneath his skin grew slightly deeper. Some plants use gorgeous, alluring appearances or sweet nectar glands to lure insects, and then kill those foolish insects as food. Yan Zhuo was no different from those plants right now, which was why Qu Yan felt that being attracted to him was a completely natural thing.

He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against Yan Zhuo's waist and abdomen, and obtained his desired, adorable reaction.

Taking it a step further, he pressed a kiss to his skin, only to watch this beautiful, athletic body shudder violently. Yan Zhuo's bound hands swayed uncontrollably twice.

With a crash, the desk lamp on the nightstand was knocked over. The wind stirred by its fall caused the candlelight to sway wildly. Yan Zhuo's pupils reflected the warm yellow light, while his peripheral vision caught sight of something falling alongside the lamp.

It was very light and thin, making not the slightest sound as it dropped.

Intuition told him it was an extremely important object; even the desire to climb to the peak could be completely ignored. He propped his upper body up, releasing the fabric dampened by his saliva.

Beneath the bed lay a pitch-black carpet. Yan Zhuo's normally exceptional eyesight was now entirely useless. He lay prone by the edge of the bed, scanning the area twice before finally turning to Qu Yan for help: "A-Yan..."

He only uttered Qu Yan's name because he did not know what that object actually was. He could not describe it at all, and could only gaze at Qu Yan with anxious eyes.

"Looking for this?"

Qu Yan opened his palm toward him.

The object that had captured all his attention lay flat in the center of Qu Yan's palm. Yan Zhuo's gaze eagerly shifted over, and then he froze completely.

It turned out to be a corner of a photograph, with yellowish-brown scorch marks still lingering around its edges. Only a tiny piece remained, yet the portrait upon it was remarkably intact—half the profile of a young man.

Yan Zhuo recognized it. It was him.

Him in high school.

Yet why did Qu Yan have his photograph? Certain moments from his memory were dredged up. He recalled an evening from two years ago, the smell of paraffin in the air, the ash piled on the floor, and Qu Yan's expressionless face.

He had said: Past photographs, of no consequence.

Past memories intertwined with everything before him. Yan Zhuo asked in an unsteady, raspy voice, "Why didn't you burn it?"

His expression revealed a trace of careful hesitation, whereas Qu Yan appeared far more composed. He said, "I also want to know why I kept it."

To burn away one's own past, yet deliberately preserve the corner of a photograph featuring only Yan Zhuo—on many occasions afterward, Qu Yan had wanted to know why he had done such a thing.

Now he had the answer, and he met Yan Zhuo's gaze. "You were smiling."

Smiling with curved eyes, unable to contain the overflowing joy. Qu Yan had misinterpreted and doubted, only to realize in the end that Yan Zhuo had never changed, and neither had his love.

To love and be loved is an exceedingly simple thing, yet unfortunately, the only maternal love he had ever received ended in a clueless childhood. For many years thereafter, whether praised or admired—due to the beautiful shell he was born with and the fabricated facade he wore—he eventually became a madman surviving for revenge, a cripple in the eyes of worldly society, and a heartless beast whom no one else loved.

Thus, he did not believe in love. Such a fragile thing, drifting like duckweed, was vulnerable to a single blow. Yet Yan Zhuo accepted all his malice and misunderstandings, repaying them with the purest love.

He had awakened a little late, but thankfully, everything was not too late.

"Yan Zhuo, I'm too bad, aren't I?" Qu Yan whispered.

The question felt familiar. Qu Yan had asked it once two years ago, and back then Yan Zhuo had given an affirmative reply. This time, however, he shook his head. "No."

Qu Yan was not surprised. He knew Yan Zhuo would give this answer, just as he could clearly have easily broken free from the red rope binding his hands, yet still allowed himself to submit to everything Qu Yan did to him.

He untied the rope. Yan Zhuo's wrists were chafed red, the fresh crimson marks overlapping with the uneven scars, as if adding new injuries to old ones.

Yan Zhuo cared not the least bit about this. He pulled Qu Yan into his embrace, whispering softly, "I like it when you're bad to me."