As night deepened, the European wall lamps embedded in the manor’s walls cast a soft, amber glow, stretching the shadows of the pink gauze curtains in Mu Xi’s room into long, wavering shapes.
She glanced at the clock, deeming the hour late enough, and rose from the lounge.
With practiced ease, she made her way back to the second floor, to the saccharine sanctuary that was hers alone—a world draped in shades of pink.
The room was steeped in an almost cloying intimacy.
From the lace-trimmed bed canopy to the plush, furry carpet, and the porcelain dolls adorning the vanity, every detail was a carefully curated symphony of pink, like an overly ornate birdcage, beautiful yet confining.
Mu Xi approached the bed, her fingers deftly slipping beneath the pillow to retrieve the folded knife Lin Ke’er had secretly given her.
She drew it out with care, inspecting it under the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
The blade was small but gleamed with a cold, metallic sheen, its edge honed sharp enough to bite with an icy sting.
Satisfied that it was no mere trinket but a weapon capable of drawing blood, Mu Xi felt a flicker of reassurance, as if clutching a lifeline in a storm.
She tucked the knife back beneath the pillow and drifted to the window, gazing out with restless boredom.
From the second floor, the view offered only the dark expanse of the forest encircling the manor.
The inky green shadows of the trees clawed at the night sky, monstrous and silent, pressing against her with an unseen weight.
Within the manor, lights blazed brightly, a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness outside, accentuating the gilded prison that held her captive.
A soft knock at the door shattered the room’s stillness.
“Who is it?” Mu Xi’s voice carried a faint tremor, her senses snapping to attention.
“It’s me, Qing Yun,” came the reply, soft and syrupy, with a lilt that made Mu Xi’s nerves tighten like a bowstring.
Qing Yun?
Why would she be here?
Her heart pounded as her eyes darted to the pillow, where the knife lay hidden beneath layers of pink lace, offering a fragile illusion of safety.
“Come in,” she called, forcing calm into her voice while edging closer to the bed, her fingertips brushing the pillow’s edge.
If Qing Yun made the slightest wrong move, Mu Xi was ready to draw the blade, if only to brandish it as a deterrent.
The door creaked open, and Qing Yun stepped inside.
She wore her usual tailored maid’s uniform, its lines accentuating her striking figure—curves that shifted subtly with each step, long legs teasing beneath the hem of her skirt.
Her face bore a gentle smile, but her eyes flickered with a disturbing intensity, like a predator cloaked in softness, poised to bare its fangs.
“It’s late, Miss Mu Xi. Why aren’t you resting?” Qing Yun’s voice was honeyed, but her gaze roamed over Mu Xi with unmasked possessiveness, sharp and invasive.
Mu Xi swallowed the revulsion and fear coiling in her chest, forcing a smile.
“I just got back. I was… admiring the view.”
She strove for nonchalance, unwilling to betray her unease.
Qing Yun stepped closer, her eyes tracing Mu Xi’s delicate features and slight frame with brazen admiration, as if appraising a flawless work of art.
“The manor’s nightscape isn’t much to see. You should rest. You have practice in the music room tomorrow.”
Her voice dripped with sweetness, yet it sent shivers racing down Mu Xi’s spine.
“Right, of course,” Mu Xi replied, her body instinctively retreating a step to widen the gap between them.
She could feel the weight of Qing Yun’s gaze, a chilling hunger that seemed to mark her as prey, ready to be devoured.
As she edged away, Mu Xi’s mind raced.
Lin Ke’er had promised someone would stand guard—where were they?
Unreliable at the worst moment!
Her eyes darted around the room, lingering on the pink gauze and lace, half-wishing they could transform into a shield to keep Qing Yun at bay.
In those fleeting seconds of distraction, Qing Yun moved—swift as a gust of wind.
The gentle smile vanished, replaced by a feverish excitement.
Before Mu Xi could react, Qing Yun’s arms enveloped her, the overpowering scent of perfume flooding her senses, choking her with its intensity.
A wet, forceful pressure met her lips—Qing Yun had kissed her, fierce and unyielding, as if intent on consuming her whole.
Mu Xi’s mind blanked, her body thrashing in panic as she tried to push Qing Yun away, but the woman’s strength was ironclad, pinning her like a vice.
Her hand fumbled toward the pillow, grazing the lace edge of the pillowcase, when Qing Yun’s low, warning whisper hissed in her ear: “Don’t touch that knife, little one. It’s dangerous. It could kill.”
Mu Xi froze, her eyes widening in shock.
How did Qing Yun know about the knife?
Had Lin Ke’er betrayed her?
No, that was impossible.
A chill surged from her toes, spreading through her like ice.
She felt like a fly ensnared in a spider’s web, each struggle only binding her tighter.
Qing Yun’s kiss was relentless, plundering her breath, leaving her dizzy and powerless.
Satisfied with Mu Xi’s weakened resistance, Qing Yun’s lips curved into a warped smile.
She scooped Mu Xi into her arms and carried her to the pink-draped bed, tossing her onto the soft bedding with a roughness that belied her gentle tone.
“Good girl, don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you,” Qing Yun purred, her voice dripping with false tenderness as she loomed over Mu Xi.
Her breath, hot and cloying with perfume, grazed Mu Xi’s ear, sickeningly sweet.
“Take it off yourself, or shall I help you?” Qing Yun’s fingers toyed with the neckline of Mu Xi’s pink gauze dress, her eyes glinting with a venomous possessiveness that made Mu Xi’s skin crawl.
Trembling, Mu Xi fought the tide of humiliation and fear crashing over her.
She bit her lip to stifle a scream, knowing resistance would only provoke this madwoman further.
With shaking hands, she reached for the ties of her dress, each movement mechanical, like a puppet on strings.
The pink gauze slipped to the floor, a cascade of shattered dreams, leaving her exposed and fragile under the mocking glow of the room’s lights.
Qing Yun’s gaze ignited, ravenous and unrestrained.
She knelt slowly, her fingers gliding over Mu Xi’s bare back with a reverence that felt profane, cold and slick as a serpent’s tongue.
Mu Xi shuddered, her skin prickling under the touch.
“Exquisite, like the finest porcelain doll,” Qing Yun murmured, her voice low and hoarse, laced with barely contained fervor.
Her breath, hot and heavy with perfume, enveloped Mu Xi, clouding her senses as the room seemed to close in around her.