Chapter 3
1209 Words
How long had it been since he last set foot in this wing?
Three years, two months, and eleven days. Not that Luo Qifeng counted. Since Fang Yichun’s funeral, the east wing had stood as a mausoleum, its mahogany doors sealed with the weight of loss. Now, he shouldered through one of them, Ember’s limp form in his arms, the air thick with lavender potpourri—Yichun’s favorite scent, still trapped like a ghost.
The master suite loomed ahead, a cavern of shadows. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, its prisms catching the moonlight in fractured shards. He laid Ember on the four-poster bed, noting the way her hair splayed across the silk sheets—jet-black against ivory, just like Yichun’s.
Damnation. He hadn’t meant to bring her here.
Ember thrashed on the bed, her blouse half-unbuttoned. The drug’s fever had turned her skin into a furnace, each breath a ragged gasp. Luo Qifeng poured a glass of bourbon, the liquid sloshing against the crystal. He’d bought this whiskey the night Yichun died, a bottle of Blanton’s Gold, her favorite.
“Mmm…” Ember moaned, arching her back. A bead of sweat trickled down her neck, disappearing into the lace of her bra. He watched it go, his throat tightening. When was the last time he’d felt such a primal urge? Not since… no, he wouldn’t think of that.
He set the glass down, the clink echoing in the silent room. Crossing to the bed, he traced the line of her jaw with his knuckle. So delicate, like the porcelain figurines Yichun used to collect. His touch made her shiver, and she turned into his palm, seeking coolness.
“Stop…” she mumbled, eyes still closed. “It’s too hot.”
His lips curved into a bitter smile. You have no idea.
The kiss was a mistake.
He’d meant to intimidate, to pry information from her. Instead, her mouth had been warm and sweet, like summer peaches left in the sun. He’d tasted bourbon on her tongue, a flavor that mixed with her own, confusing him.
Yichun, forgive me.
He pulled back, staring at Ember’s flushed face. Her eyes were open now, hazel flecked with gold, wide and vulnerable. For a moment, she wasn’t a potential assassin—just a girl caught in a nightmare.
“Who are you?” she whispered, voice hoarse.
The question hung in the air. Who was she? A pawn in Qixuan’s game? Or something more? He didn’t know, but the thought of her being a pawn irritated him.
“I should ask you the same,” he replied, his voice colder than he intended. He reached for the bourbon, taking a long sip. The alcohol burned his throat, a welcome distraction from the heat in his veins.
The slap took them both by surprise.
Ember’s palm stung, and Luo Qifeng’s lip bled where her ring had nicked him. For a heartbeat, they stared at each other in shock. Then, he laughed—a low, dangerous sound that sent a shiver down her spine.
“Feisty,” he said, swiping the blood with his thumb. “I like that.”
Ember scrambled back, hitting the headboard. Her mind was a fog, but one thing was clear: this man was dangerous. Yet, despite the fear, there was something else—a pull, a curiosity that scared her more than his threats.
“Why am I here?” she demanded, trying to sound brave.
Luo Qifeng moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and she had to fight the urge to lean into him. “Because you intrigue me,” he said, tracing her knee through the fabric of her skirt. “And because my dear half-brother seems to think you’re a threat.”
“Your brother?” Ember frowned. “I don’t know any—”
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Save your lies for someone who cares.”
His touch was electric, sending sparks through her. She wanted to pull away, but her body had other ideas. The drug and the alcohol had lowered her defenses, leaving her raw and exposed.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and Ember was alone.
She sat up, hugging her knees. The room was dim, but she could make out the details: a vanity covered in dust, a wardrobe with a cracked mirror, a framed photo on the nightstand.
Curiosity got the better of her. She slid off the bed, padding across the cold floor. The photo showed a beautiful woman with long black hair, smiling beside a younger Luo Qifeng. They looked happy, in love.
Fang Yichun. The name came to her in a flash, something she’d heard Shin mention once. So this was her room. No wonder Luo Qifeng had looked so tortured.
The realization changed everything. He wasn’t just a dangerous man—he was a grieving one.
“Looking for something?”
Ember spun around, dropping the photo. It landed with a thud, the glass cracking. Luo Qifeng stood in the doorway, shirtless, a towel slung around his waist. Water droplets clung to his skin, trailing down the ridges of his abs.
She should have looked away, but she couldn’t. He was beautiful in a raw, masculine way, like a statue come to life.
“You loved her,” Ember said softly, nodding at the photo.
Luo Qifeng’s expression hardened. “What of it?”
“Nothing.” She bent to pick up the photo, but he caught her wrist.
“Leave it,” he said, voice rough. His grip was tight, but not hurting. “Why are you really here, Ember? And don’t tell me it’s by accident.”
She met his gaze, seeing the pain beneath the anger. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “One minute I was at the bar with Shin, and the next… everything exploded.”
“Shin.” He released her wrist, stepping back. “Your friend who drugged you.”
Ember’s eyes widened. “How did you—”
“I know things.” He walked to the wardrobe, pulling out a clean shirt. “Now get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Alone again, Ember climbed back into bed. The sheets still held his scent—spiced cologne and something uniquely him. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Down the hall, Luo Qifeng stood at the window, staring at the city lights. He’d poured another glass of bourbon, but this time, he didn’t drink it.
Yichun, he thought, looking at the photo on his nightstand. What have I done?
The room was silent except for the distant hum of the city. He should have sent Ember away, but he couldn’t. There was something about her—something that drew him in, despite his better judgment.
Maybe Qixuan was right. Maybe he was losing his edge. Or maybe, just maybe, he was tired of being alone.
He finished the bourbon in one gulp, setting the glass down with a sigh. Tomorrow would bring answers, one way or another. For now, he had to survive the night in this room, with its ghosts and its new, unexpected occupant.
- Writer
