Remarriage (1v1, H) - 5
Lu Xiniang chewed the last shred of pork-floss cake with deliberate calm. The moment her chopsticks stilled, Chunmei stepped forward with a bowl of strong tea.
“Madam, His Grace will escort you to the dowager’s apartments soon. Let us dust a little more powder.”
Lu Xiniang’s hand paused mid-wipe. She gave a tiny nod.
In the inner chamber she had barely settled before the bronze mirror when the maids dropped into curtseys. Boots sounded on the lacquered floor. She turned.
He stood three paces away: tall, shoulders filling a crimson round-collar robe that matched her own jacket, a soft gold-thread cap crowning his ink-black hair. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
Sword-straight brows, star-cold eyes, lips pressed flat. He said nothing, yet the air bent around him like a drawn bow.
Older, harder, the boyish softness planed away, but she had raised him from the cradle. Ten years of scraped knees and midnight fevers lived in the set of that jaw.
Her Chong-ge’er.
Memory slammed into her: skin on skin, his weight crushing her into the sheets, that monstrous c0ck splitting her open until she sobbed. Even now her pvssy throbbed; the smallest shift of her thighs sent sparks of pain up her spine.
His mouth latched to her br3ast, sucking until the n1pple stood raw and purple; the silk binder refused to tie, every brush of cloth a fresh torment.
Sin.
Plain, screaming sin.
Come the next life they would both burn in Avici Hell.
Lu Xiniang’s cheeks blazed. She clapped both hands over her mouth to cage the whimper that tried to escape.
Chong-ge’er had never once called her “Mother,” yet behind every bow, every bowl of medicine he’d carried to her sickbed, lived a son’s fierce devotion. No bl00d-kin in the Lu clan had ever weighed half as much in her heart.
If last night had never happened, she would have flown to him the instant her soul woke in Yuexiang’s skin, spilled every impossible detail, begged his cool head to solve the riddle.
But he had fucked her raw for hours. How could she speak of miracles when her thighs still trembled at the memory of his c0ck?
A few threads of sense finally knotted together:
Chong-ge’er had married her niece.
The maids kept calling her “Your Ladyship.”
She remembered the Qin clan had a legitimate son—yet somehow the ducal coronet had landed on Chong-ge’er’s head. Questions crowded her tongue, but none found voice.
Chunmei and Chuntao, drilled since childhood to serve the real Yuexiang, watched their mistress turn to stone before the duke. Chuntao pinched the sleeve at Lu Xiniang’s back and breathed, “Madam, rise.”
The hint struck home. Etiquette demanded a full curtsey, a murmured “Good morning, Your Grace.” Instead she stared, mute, eyes glassy.
Wang Chong registered the oddity (new bride struck dumb the morning after), but it barely rippled his thoughts. He flicked a complicated glance over her flushed face.
“Come.”
They stepped out of Linhui Courtyard side by side.
Lu Xiniang had lived inside these walls twenty years, yet beyond festival days she had rarely left her own compound. The maze of corridors felt foreign under her sore feet.
She trailed him in silence, every step a needle between her legs. The man’s stride was mercifully slow; she managed to keep pace.
After many turns he halted.
She looked up and her breath caught.
Her courtyard.
Her pear tree, her half-moon gate, her quiet refuge.
Why had Chong-ge’er brought her home?