Remarriage (1v1, H) - 9
Lu Xiniang’s head snapped up.
Her thighs were still splayed, her fingers frozen against the swollen seam that had shrunk to a single scarlet thread.
Wang Chong stood on the footboard inside the curtains, calm as winter iron.
Since dawn his face had been a locked gate; now a hairline crack appeared.
She stared, stunned.
He stared back, suddenly dizzy.
Yuexiang was only a cousin once removed, yet the tilt of those eyes, the way lamplight caught the curve of a cheek, it was her aunt at the window watching crab-apples fall.
He swallowed gall.
She had wanted him married, fat babies on her lap, a house loud with grandchildren.
Lu Xiniang came to life with a squeak.
She lunged for the quilt, knees skidding, bottom in the air.
A rough hand clamped her waist.
Calloused thumbs swept the bruised petals.
She jerked; he growled, “Hold still.”
Heat flooded her face.
Old women were supposed to be past shame—Lanping used to scold her for brooding.
She gave up, buried her face in the pillow, and mumbled, “Don’t look.”
Silently she recited the Heart Sutra.
If this was her future—night after night beneath the boy she’d raised—she would rather die again.
Only… she would miss him.
Before he left for Xiangcheng he had promised to fetch her once he set up his own household.
She had protested out of habit, already planning which jars of osmanthus wine to carry from beneath her guihua tree.
She had pictured herself rocking his sons and daughters, spoiling them shamelessly.
Now the same seed he had poured into her last night might ripen.
How could she hand her own grandson to his father and say, *Here, the child you planted in your aunt*?
A small mercy: he let go.
She yanked the quilt to her chin, cocooned like a corpse.
“Does it hurt badly?” Wang Chong asked, voice low.
Lu Xiniang stayed curled inside her quilt-cocoon, not daring to breathe.
Minutes passed; nothing.
At last she peeked out.
Wang Chong’s voice drifted from the outer room, low and clipped, then boots sounded again.
He stepped behind the screen, already shrugging off his outer robe.
“Bad sleep last night,” he said, eyes flicking to her. “Nothing on the docket today.”
He kicked off his boots, climbed over her, and stretched out on the inner half of the bed as if it had always been his.
She swallowed a wince.
Newlyweds shared a bed; that was proper.
In a month or two he would move to the front courtyard. She would stuff his wing with pretty, willing girls, and the nights would quiet.
Bearable.
A soft knock.
“Your Grace,” Shi-mammy called, “the ointment is here.”
“Come.”
Shi-mammy entered with the same white-jade jar and a folded brocade cloth.
Wang Chong flicked two fingers.
Lu Xiniang extended a trembling hand, took the gifts, and waited until the door shut.
“Didn’t you say it hurt?” he muttered to the wall. “Use it.”
Then he rolled away, broad back a fortress.
Lu Xiniang stared at that back for a long while.
At last she slipped down, bare feet on cool wood.
Jar on the toon-wood stool, legs wide, she scooped a dab of pale-green paste and touched her sore centre.
Frost on fire—relief sighed through her.
She was still stroking it in when a voice floated from the bed:
“It goes inside, too.”
She spun, gasping.
Wang Chong had turned; one elbow propped him up, dark eyes fixed on her.
She stumbled back, heel catching the footboard.
His hand shot out, caught her wrist, and reeled her in.
“Let me,” he said.