TWENTY-TWO
Yi sank into his favourite dream. The one where he was victorious from his latest battle, and he lay in the arms of his bride, a woman whose softness and curves were his alone to caress. When she moaned in pleasure, her voice was low and husky – none of the high-pitched, childish giggling so popular among court ladies. He would happily spend every night devoted to bringing her joy, if only to hear her voice. Yet she was no shy, delicate doll – oh, no. She had all the brazenness of a camp follower as she returned his attentions in equal measure. His scars earned him kisses, not disgust, like they would from court ladies who preferred their men as pretty as themselves. A real woman for a real man – that was what he craved. Surely such a woman existed. He had to find her, because
