The aftermath of the banquet felt like the cooling of a battlefield, yet for Ye Wanwan, the air remained charged with a heat that refused to dissipate. As the last of the elite guests scurried into their limousines—their heads spinning with the twin shocks of the "Country Heiress" being a medical genius and the Lu family's Asura being a lovesick fiancé—the Ye Mansion returned to a tense, glittering silence. Wanwan stood on the grand balcony of the Phoenix Pavilion, the heavy, charcoal-scented coat of Lu Zhentian still draped over her shoulders. She should have thrown it back in his face. She should have been calculating the trajectory of the silver needle required to paralyze his vocal cords. Instead, she found herself staring into the dark expanse of the gardens, her fingers tracing the expensive wool that still radiated the man's unnatural warmth.
Inside the estate, the five Ye brothers were in a state of absolute meltdown. They stood in the center of the drawing room, their faces flushed with a mixture of protective fury and sheer disbelief. "He moved in?" Ye Yan, the martial arts champion, roared, his fist slamming into a decorative pillar. "He actually brought his luggage? This is the Ye ancestral home, not a five-star resort for obsessed CEOs!" Ye Mo, usually the most composed of the siblings, was pacing with a predatory stillness. "He claimed a 'life-threatening' medical condition. He told Dad that because Wanwan is the only one who can perform the 'Heavenly Breath' technique, he must be under her 24-hour supervision or he might drop dead of a heart attack. And Dad... Dad actually believed him."
Indeed, Ye Shijun and Lin Shuyin were currently in the kitchen, personally supervising the preparation of a medicinal tonic for their "future son-in-law." To the naive Ye parents, Zhentian wasn't a dangerous predator; he was a sickly, devoted young man who had waited twenty years for their daughter. They were so blinded by the joy of Wanwan's return that they failed to see the wolf settling into the guest wing. Meanwhile, in the far corner of the east wing, Ye Aurora sat in the dark, her phone's glow reflecting the murderous intent in her eyes. Her fingers flew across the screen, sending an encrypted message to the shadows she served. The variable is too high, she typed. The real heiress is a master of the needle and has the Lu family's protection. Eliminate her tonight. Make it look like a tragic accident in the garden.
Wanwan, oblivious to the family drama but acutely aware of the shifting shadows, suddenly felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The "Cold-Blood Syndrome" that governed her body reacted before her mind did; her temperature plummeted, a sign that her survival instincts had taken the wheel. She didn't turn around when the door to her balcony creaked open. She didn't need to. The scent of woodsmoke and expensive leather told her exactly who it was. "Your brothers are currently debating whether to drown me in the pool or challenge me to a duel," Lu Zhentian's voice drifted through the night air, a low, gravelly hum that seemed to vibrate against her spine. "I told them I'd prefer the pool. It's closer to your room."
Wanwan turned, her face a mask of frost. "You're lying, Master Lu. Your heart is as strong as an ox. There is nothing wrong with your pulse." Zhentian stepped out of the shadows, his silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the powerful, bronze chest that radiated heat like a furnace. He walked toward her with the slow, confident grace of a man who already owned the ground he stood on. "You're right," he admitted, stopping just inches from her, his presence forcing her back against the stone railing. "My heart isn't failing. It's just... restless. Ever since I saw you standing in that doorway, my blood hasn't stopped burning. You're the only 'ice' that can cool me down, Wanwan. Isn't it a doctor's duty to relieve her patient's suffering?"
"I am a doctor, not a stabilizer for your hormones," Wanwan retorted, her hand sliding toward the silver needle hidden in her waistband. Zhentian didn't flinch. In fact, he leaned closer, his eyes locked onto hers with a shameless, terrifying intensity. "Call it what you want. But tonight, I'm not leaving this wing. I've already moved my laptop and my files into the room next door. If you need me, just scream. Or don't scream. I'll hear your heart rate change either way." Before Wanwan could respond to his sheer audacity, a sharp, metallic ping echoed from the garden below. It was a sound so faint only a trained ear would catch it—the sound of a silencer being readied.
Wanwan's eyes sharpened into obsidian daggers. In a move that shocked Zhentian, she grabbed him by the lapels and spun him around, pinning his massive frame against the wall of the balcony. "Stay. Quiet," she hissed, her face inches from his. Zhentian's breath hitched, not from fear, but from the sudden, delicious proximity. He looked down at the "cold" girl who was currently holding him captive, a dark grin spreading across his face. "If this is how you treat your patients, I might never recover," he whispered shamelessly. But Wanwan wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the treeline.
Three figures in tactical black gear emerged from the fog, their movements synchronized and lethal. They weren't common thugs; they were professionals from the "Shadow Syndicate," the very group Aurora's biological father controlled. They didn't aim for the windows; they aimed for the balcony, their high-tension crossbows loaded with neurotoxin bolts. Wanwan didn't reach for a gun. She didn't call for her brothers. She reached into her rucksack and pulled out the Silver Needle Silk—a spool of ultra-thin, high-tensile wire attached to her needles.
"Close your eyes, Master Lu," Wanwan commanded, her voice a lethal silk. "You wouldn't want to see a country girl get her hands dirty." Zhentian didn't close his eyes. He watched, enthralled, as the girl he had claimed as his fiancée leaped over the railing. She didn't fall; she descended like a phantom, the silver wires glinting in the moonlight as they whipped through the air. In the span of three heartbeats, the garden became a silent theater of war. The first assassin didn't even see the wire before it wrapped around his throat, his nervous system shutting down instantly as the needle found the pressure point in his neck. The second and third were neutralized with a grace that was more like a dance than a fight.
Wanwan stood in the center of the garden, the snow falling around her, her breath hitching as the "Cold-Blood" attack hit her. The exertion had forced her temperature too low. She began to shiver, her knees buckling. Above her, Zhentian watched with a mixture of awe and a rising, protective fury. He didn't wait for the stairs. He vaulted over the balcony, landing in the snow with a heavy thud. He reached her in two strides, wrapping his massive, burning arms around her freezing frame. "You're a god of death, aren't you?" Zhentian whispered into her hair, his body heat pouring into her like a life-line. "But even gods need to stay warm."
Wanwan leaned into him, her frozen cheek resting against the pulse point of his neck. For the first time, she didn't push him away. The "Human Furnace" was the only thing keeping her conscious. "They're dead," she whispered, her voice fading. Zhentian tightened his grip, his eyes looking toward the east wing where a curtain had just twitched. "They're worse than dead," Zhentian growled, his golden eyes glowing with a promise of total annihilation. "They touched what belongs to me. And tomorrow, I'm going to show this city why they should have never let the Phoenix back into the nest."