Chapter 4
Qing Wu maintained a downward gaze throughout, her eyes shimmering like a summer night sky, imbued with a profound clarity and ethereal purity.
Pei Muci, under her long scrutiny, felt like a rare porcelain cup awaiting careful appraisal.
Unable to resist, he lifted his eyes to examine the vibrant expression on the woman before him.
When she smiled, two faint dimples graced the corners of her lips, her face gradually softening and fading like the sun retracting its brilliance, yet piercing through layers of clouds to cast its light upon Pei Muci.
It was reminiscent of the pitch-dark dungeon from his memories, where, at dawn’s first light, a faint warm ray would touch the damp straw beneath him.
Her gaze seemed to possess a magical power, dispelling the dust that clouded the gloom, brightening the heart and mind.
Pei Muci indulged in this light, rare and captivating, momentarily lost in thought.
“Hmm?” Qing Wu, after waiting a while with no response, hummed softly and looked at him with shimmering eyes.
Whether from blood loss or weariness, his pale jade-like face appeared fragile and distant, as if a snow-capped mountain sealed off from the world for years.
Qing Wu’s gaze lingered, and she felt her heartbeat tremble uncontrollably.
She curled her fingers, longing to touch his alabaster face to see if it was as cold as obsidian.
Just as Pei Muci was about to speak, Qing Wu pressed her index finger lightly against his lips, silencing him.
Warm breath escaped between her fingers as she gently wiped the sweat from his brow, asking softly, “Why did you run?”
Her slender hand was soft as silk.
Pei Muci swallowed the bitterness in his mouth, staring fixedly at the blood welling from the wound and trickling down his thigh.
He seemed oblivious to the pain, brushing the injury with his thumb, as if puzzled by the endless flow of blood.
Soon, a small pool had formed on the ground.
Their eyes met, and he saw in her agate-like pupils a purity and clarity as transparent as a mountain lake.
No one had ever longed for his closeness like this before.
His throat felt dry.
Qing Wu seemed to ask the question casually, not expecting a reply, but Pei Muci’s indifferent, almost reckless demeanor unsettled her.
Playfully, she placed two fingers on the prominent point of his neck, feeling his Adam’s apple rise and fall, as if confirming he had swallowed the pill.
That brief touch seemed to press a hidden switch; Pei Muci shivered under her cool fingertips.
Qing Wu’s hand traced over his skin, gliding past the slight hollow of his collarbone, warm and smooth as jade beneath her touch.
His steady breath grew heavier under her casual ministrations.
In the silence, a heartbeat thundered—whose, neither could tell.
She even felt an urge to bury her face in his skin, to taste him—but restrained herself, tilting her brow as she called for Ning Chun to come in and do her hair.
Pei Muci, wincing from pain, staggered and tried to withdraw.
“Who gave you permission to leave?” Qing Wu called out, her tone coquettish, the inflection stirring a subtle allure.
She handed him the comb from before the mirror, “Will you?”
Their gazes locked in the bronze mirror; one played with strands of hair with tempting heat, hoping for submission tamed.
The man before her stood rigid in shadow, his eyes dark as a deep pool, reflecting countless complex and unreadable emotions.
After a brief hesitation, Pei Muci reached out, took the comb, and clenched his fist on Qing Wu’s shoulder, then pressed his knee against the stool, gently pushing her toward the dressing table.
Qing Wu smiled softly, using Pei Muci’s thigh as a backrest, sinking against him effortlessly.
The back of her head pressed painfully against his hip bone; she adjusted her angle and nuzzled his side.
Her unique scent filled their private space, invading Pei Muci’s robe with a wild abandon.
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Combing hair was a private matter in the inner chambers; if word spread that Pei Muci did this for her, he could no longer hide his role as an advisor in the Princess’s residence.
Qing Wu blinked gently, silently lifting the corner of her mouth, awaiting his touch.
Pei Muci hesitated, the comb teeth leaving a neat imprint on his palm, a strange restlessness gnawing at him.
He felt like a fisherman drowning in shallow water, knowing the danger ahead, yet holding the comb felt like a key to a new realm—once he opened the door, the little princess would stand on the shore and pull him in.
The thought was oddly appealing.
Why not try?
That idea sprouted wildly in his mind.
He scooped some oil, rich and slick, rubbing it between his palms until it melted.
A fresh gardenia fragrance wafted out—whether from the oil or her, it was so faint it seemed a trick of the senses.
When his fingertips warmed and lost their chill, Pei Muci deftly removed the plain wooden hairpin, easily unfastening the clips holding her bun.
With elegant movements, her raven hair cascaded into his hands.
His fingers brushed her fair, smooth cheek, gathering stray strands and tucking them behind her ear.
Gentle and precise, Qing Wu felt no pain.
Even the old nurse, who attended the emperor’s side for years, could unwittingly tug painfully at her scalp.
Qing Wu had intended to challenge him but was surprised by his skill.
Pei Muci expected questions but saw only a glance from her before she closed her eyes, leaning against his waist with a slight arch.
His breath caught; his heart skipped a beat.
Too close.
No one had ever come this close to him unguarded.
Especially not in that position.
“Your Highness...” Pei Muci forced a bitter smile and sighed.
“Keep going,” Qing Wu’s voice carried a tired nasal tone, the final note lingering like a feather drifting on the breeze, settling softly on his heart.
Her clear black eyes, like a mountain stream, were utterly pure, untouched by impurities.
Pei Muci concentrated, easing his wrist as he combed from roots to tips, then curled the strands back with the comb’s teeth, massaging gently.
Qing Wu wondered where he had learned such skill—it certainly wasn’t to be her personal attendant—but she didn’t ask.
She closed her eyes in comfort, leaning all her weight against him, tilting her head to admire his sharp jawline, secretly thinking that even without his noble looks, his skill alone was enough to keep him in the residence.
After about a dozen passes, the tension in her scalp relaxed, and drowsiness crept in.
“All done.” Pei Muci supported Qing Wu’s upper body, seeing her slump as if her bones were disassembled.
He cupped her nape with his palm, pressing gently with his fingers.
His rough palm bore faint calluses at the joints.
His strength far exceeded that of any maid nearby; that simple pressure made Qing Wu curl her toes and her spine soften.
The relief was palpable as she wrapped herself in a towel and entered the bathhouse.
Ning Chun entered with steady eyes, noting the princess bore no grudge against the gentleman, speaking naturally without malice or flattery.
The palace attendants and servants alike served the princess; none was superior to another.
She placed the medicine box beside Pei Muci for him to dress his wounds.
---
Pei Muci recognized all the medicine left; he also understood why the doctor had deliberately withheld painkillers.
It was simply meant to teach him a lesson.
He tore the bandages in half, soaking one piece in strong liquor to clean the bloodstains on his leg.
Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly.
Then he sprinkled the white hemostatic powder evenly on the remaining gauze.
He did not fear the pain.
He feared that after tasting honey, he might forget the pain.
Pei Muci averted his gaze and quickly covered the wound with the medicated gauze.
Everything spun around him; he bit his lower lip, stifling a sound, sweat beading on his forehead as veins throbbed visibly.
The pain was like a venomous thorny vine, tearing through the wound and binding his leg, leaving him breathless and immobile.
His body twitched uncontrollably; large beads of sweat rolled down his pale face, clinging to his chin.
He pressed hard on the gauze; the powder seeped into his flesh, mingling with blood as it spread.
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The bleeding from the long scar on his right leg had stopped; prolonged pressure left the limb congested and numb, able only to hold still or lose control.
Pei Muci bent slightly, steadying the stool Qing Wu had just left, kneeling in place.
A rustle of clothing falling—it was improper to look, but knowing the curtain shielded the view, Pei Muci lifted his head.
Inside, a woman posed gracefully behind the sheer curtain, her subtle fragrance stirring endless imagination.
Pei Muci recalled his childhood, having seen a renowned master’s painting of a lotus emerging from water in his mother’s chamber.
In the misty haze, smooth petals wrapped a faintly pink bud, pure and exquisite, a favorite of his mother’s, who often admired and copied it.
But that painting and its artist had long vanished in a fierce fire, leaving no trace.
Leaning on the low stool, Pei Muci casually turned his palm, studying the circular patterns on his knuckles.
He smiled wryly, a chill flickering in his eyes.
He never thought he would recall childhood memories, believing that all etched deep in his mind were bloodstained rooms and deafening wails.
Yet, there were still fragments worth cherishing.
How absurd.
The dried wound began to bleed again, as if pierced repeatedly by countless fine needles.
Not agonizingly painful, but tormenting to the mind.
Unconcerned, Pei Muci glanced toward the bath as the sound of splashing water drew his attention.
He stiffened briefly; somewhere deep inside, a switch seemed to be gently flipped.
Soon, Qing Lian appeared before him.
Each step left wet footprints behind.
Delicate and charming, she emanated a refined, fresh floral scent mingled with the woody aroma of soapberries in her hair, filling the air.