Chapter 73
She did not finish her sentence, because she did not know the name of the girl before her, did not know who she was, did not know why she stood in this artificial hell together with Huan Zheng, did not know why she stared—or more precisely, sensed—with an intensity that made the hairs on her neck stand on end.
But she did not need to know, because what mattered right now was not the identity of that strange girl, but Huan Zheng—Huan Zheng who had long been lost, Huan Zheng whom she had searched for so long, Huan Zheng who now stood before her, within her embrace, within her grasp.
And she would not let go of him, would not allow anyone—including the white-bandaged girl whose eyes could not see yet somehow felt as though she were staring sharply at her—to ruin the moment she had waited for thousands of years.
Rather than wasting time thinking about that strange girl, the Singer chose to ignore her—at least for the time being—and refocus her attention on Huan Zheng, on the man who still stood silently with his signature lazy expression, not releasing her embrace, not pushing her away, not saying anything—just silent, letting her do whatever she wished, just like before, when they were still young, when they still believed that bonds of friendship could last forever, when they still did not know that this world is unfair, that kindness is not always repaid with kindness, that sacrifice is not always appreciated, that love is not always enough to save someone from a cruel and meaningless death.
With a graceful and sensual movement—a movement only a woman who knows exactly what she wants and is not ashamed to take it could perform—The Singer repositioned her body, shifting from embracing him from the front to standing behind Huan Zheng.
Her hands, which once held a green flute, now wrapped around his waist, and even more thrilling, her two soft curves—once hidden beneath her thin red robe—now pressed firmly against Huan Zheng's back, applying a deliberate softness, as if she were saying:
"Look, Huan Zheng, at what you've been missing. Look at what you could have if you wanted. Look at what you will never get from that skinny, white-bandaged girl."
And to emphasize that unspoken message, she tilted her head to the side, her red, moist lips approaching Huan Zheng's left ear, then with a slow, meaningful, deliberately sensual motion, she began to lick his earlobe, her warm and flexible tongue moving up and down along the curve of his ear, leaving behind glistening traces of saliva under the dimming black flames, while from her mouth escaped soft moans—intentionally loud enough to be heard by Ling Xu standing in the distance—moans that said:
"He is mine. He has always been mine. Since long ago, since before you were born, since before you became anything. And you cannot take him from me, no matter how desperately you try."
Huan Zheng, standing between the two women—one behind him pressing her entire body against him with desire, one before him standing frozen with jealousy burning in her chest—did not move, did not speak, did nothing but stand still with his usual lazy expression, like someone waiting in line at a market, unconcerned with who stood in front of or behind him.
Yet within his heart, amidst the pulses of his Humanity Domain that began to beat in a strangely erratic rhythm—sometimes fast like war drums, sometimes slow like a river obstructed by massive stones—he muttered:
"Singer... you haven't changed. Still the same as before. Still shameless. Still unconcerned with who is watching. Still thinking only of yourself and what you want. But this time, you've chosen the wrong target. I am no longer the Huan Zheng of the past, the one you could spoil with embraces and licks and erotic moans, the one you could tempt whenever you pleased."
He took a deep breath—a breath that felt like swallowing the patience that was beginning to run thin—then exhaled slowly, letting the air leave his lungs like a river releasing its waters into the sea, carrying away the burdens he had borne alone all this time, without ever telling anyone, not even Ling Xu who had died eleven times just to stand by his side.
"The Singer," he said, his voice still lazy, still flat, yet beneath that laziness lay a warning he had never shown this woman before—a tone that made it clear he was not joking, that he was serious, that if she did not stop now, he would act decisively, regardless of the fact that they were once like siblings, regardless of the fact that they once laughed together in the bamboo pavilion at the edge of the universe, regardless of the fact that this woman had searched the entire universe just to find him, "stop. There is something more important than... this."
The Singer did not stop.
Instead, she quickened the movement of her tongue against Huan Zheng's ear, pressing her soft curves even tighter against his back, and in a deliberately wet and desire-filled voice, she whispered:
"I can't, Huan Zheng. I've waited too long for you. It's been far too long since I've felt your touch, heard your voice, smelled your scent. I can't endure it any longer, Huan Zheng. I want you to treat me gently on the bed, just like before, when we were still young, when we didn't yet know that the world is cruel, when we still believed that love could overcome everything. Now, Huan Zheng. Right now. I can't wait any longer."
She paused for a moment, then planted a firm kiss on Huan Zheng's left cheek—the sound of it echoing clearly in the silence of the artificial hell now filled with the soft moans she let slip from her lips—before returning to lick that cheek with her hot, wet tongue, leaving behind a gleaming trail of saliva beneath the dimming black flames, while continuing to murmur in a voice full of desire:
"Say that you want me, Huan Zheng. Say that you won't leave me again. Say that you will love me forever. Because I won't be able to live if you reject me, Huan Zheng. I won't be able to breathe if you leave again. I won't be able to endure if you choose another woman over me."
Ling Xu could no longer hold back the fire burning in her chest.
Not the cold, black fire of the Cancer plague, but a hot, red fire of jealousy—a fire born from the deepest depths of her heart, from the place where she had stored everything she had never said to Huan Zheng throughout the years they had walked together, from the place where she admitted—perhaps for the first time in her life—that she did not merely need that lazy man as a companion, as a protector, as a tool to avenge her mother, but as something more, something she could not name because words were too small to contain a feeling this vast.
To be continued…