The room was now brightly lit by candlelight, its soft glow illuminating the scars on Duan Ling’s hands.
Lin Ting’s lips brushed against those scars, devoid of any trace of disgust.
Duan Ling stared intently at Lin Ting.
She was kissing his scars.
Even though Lin Ting had once called scars unsightly, tonight she was kissing the marks on his wrists, as if telling him through action that she didn’t loathe them that she was willing to accept them.
Duan Ling’s hands went numb, his breathing instantly becoming erratic, and his arousal surged the moment Lin Ting pressed her lips to his skin.
His body trembled uncontrollably.
Lin Ting felt it.
She gently kissed the scars on Duan Ling’s left wrist, then his right.
The number of scars on both wrists was similar, standing out starkly against what should have been flawless skin-like minor flaws marring an otherwise perfect painting.
After kissing them, she ran her fingers lightly over the scars, wondering how Duan Ling had endured cutting his own wrists so many times.
Many of the scars overlapped, clearly showing where one wound had been inflicted over another.
But they were all old scars, proof that he hadn’t harmed himself in months.
After examining every mark, Lin Ting lowered her head and kissed Duan Ling, who lay beneath her.
Starting from his delicate brows, she trailed down the bridge of his straight nose before finally capturing his slightly parted lips.
Her breath was warm, enveloping him from all sides, and Duan Ling’s breathing grew even more unsteady.
Her initiative left him utterly defenseless, drowning in affection.
He wanted to touch her but found his hands weak, still reeling from the shock of her kissing his scars.
So he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
Lin Ting first pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his lips before sliding her tongue along the seam.
The moment she entered, he eagerly chased after her lips clashing, tongues tangling, breaths turning damp.
Duan Ling tilted his head back slightly, lips already reddened, craving deeper, harder kisses.
Lin Ting obliged, bending lower, one hand lifting his chin as she pressed closer, intensifying the kiss.
She held absolute dominance, and he surrendered willingly.
He gasped for air-whether to breathe or to take in more of her essence, he didn’t know.
The golden hairpin in Lin Ting’s hair jingled against her other ornaments, glinting dazzlingly.
Duan Ling wrapped his arms around her waist, his palms resting on the sash of her dress.
Though his wrists still tingled faintly, the numbness had mostly faded.
Moments later, the perfumed red sash slipped onto him.
The candlelight in the room burned brighter, the glow intensifying.
On the bed, Duan Ling’s pale skin contrasted sharply with the crimson sash draped over him-white and red entwined like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.
Lin Ting tugged the sash loose.
Duan Ling couldn’t resist kissing her desperately, wishing they could merge into one.
Having long grown accustomed to intimacy with him, and having confirmed her physical attraction to him just yesterday, Lin Ting no longer hesitated after all, they were married now.
She tilted her head slightly to kiss his flushed cheek.
Duan Ling tightened his grip on her waist, mirroring her movement in an attempt to continue their kiss.
But Lin Ting’s lips instead found his jaw, then trailed down to the bobbing Adam’s apple at his throat.
In that instant, Duan Ling choked on pleasure, hastily releasing her waist to clutch the bed sheets instead, gripping them tightly as if to tear them apart to endure the overwhelming ecstasy she stirred in him.
A low, helpless moan escaped him.
Lin Ting kissed Duan Ling’s softly moaning lips again, her hand gradually reaching for the white-feathered jade hairpin adorned with bells that bound his hair.
She pulled it out, and his long hair cascaded down like a waterfall, spilling over the soft pillow.
She set the jade pin aside, the bells swaying and occasionally chiming against the delicately carved white jade feathers—a light tinkling sound before fading into silence.
Lin Ting ran her fingers through his long hair.
Duan Ling panted lightly, his eyes open as he gazed at her, the corners tinged with a faint blush, as if brushed by her rouge.
Though he wore no makeup, he looked increasingly like a bewitching male ghost adorned in lavish colors, drawing her in step by step.
Spellbound, Lin Ting kissed the corner of his eye, as if trying to erase that alluring flush-yet under her touch, it only deepened.
She couldn’t resist tracing it with her fingers.
Duan Ling caught her hand and brought it to his lips, his tongue slipping deftly between her fingers, kissing each one before pressing a kiss to her palm.
Lin Ting didn’t look at the hand he was kissing but instead at the one he had raised.
Without the cover of wrist guards or sleeves, the scars on his wrist were finally exposed openly, no longer hidden beneath fabric that seemed to shroud them in eternal darkness.
When Duan Ling noticed Lin Ting staring at the scars, he instinctively tried to pull back, but she stopped him.
At that moment, the sound of pattering rain drifted in from outside-Ancheng was showered again after yesterday’s downpour, the relentless droplets beating against the flowers and grass, soaking the parched earth.
Inside, two windows had been left open, allowing the cool breath of wind and rain to slip in, yet none of it reached the bed.
Lin Ting took hold of Duan Ling’s wrist once more, kissing him while gently brushing over the scars.
The scars she touched seemed connected to the ugliness within him.
Every time her fingers grazed them, that ugliness stirred, longing—as it had before to leave him, to cling to her instead, nestling close until it became inseparable from her.
Duan Ling returned her kisses fervently, but when she straightened up, slightly breathless from bending over, he sat up to continue.
Facing each other, Lin Ting initiated the kiss first, and then Duan Ling took his turn-his thin lips pressing against her forehead, her earlobe, the side of her neck.
She tilted her head slightly, and Duan Ling, as if granted permission, kissed her neck again.
Beside her neck were her shoulders, and he kissed each one-light as a dragonfly skimming water, yet each touch sent ripples through her.
She tightened her grip on his wrist, pressing into the scars until they flushed a deeper red, adding a touch of vivid color.
Listening to the unending rain outside, Lin Ting held his wrist before guiding his ugliness toward warmth and wetness, as if applying medicine to soothe the swelling.
The scars on his wrist-no, his entire body-itched from the sensation, stirring an ache deep within.
Duan Ling wanted to move but forced himself to stay still, remembering that he couldn’t let Lin Ting discover his affliction.
He lay back, letting his wrist fall limp, surrendering to her touch.
And so, Lin Ting guided the ugliness inside-slowly, so slowly, allowing both to adjust to each other.
The slick, ointment-like moisture enveloped it tightly, as if to heal and ease the swelling.
Duan Ling let out a sound that might have been pain.
The illness had erupted completely, but he concealed it well, giving nothing away.
Lin Ting remained unaware, mistaking it for something natural.
She lifted her hips, then settled back down.
Outside, the rain continued to soak the roots of the flowers and grass, just as the medicine Lin Ting gave Duan Ling soaked into his skin.
At first, he felt pain-but soon, the swelling began to ease.
The pain eased, bringing comfort after the medication, yet Duan Ling nearly lost control of his illness—after all, it was his first time resorting to such a method for relief.
He quickly raised his head to kiss Lin Ting, suppressing the barely contained affliction.
Lin Ting still hadn’t noticed anything amiss.
She lowered her head, her loosely tied bun slightly disheveled, the golden hairpin swaying precariously.
It was the same golden hairpin as before.
Duan Ling recognized it.
This time, just before it could fall, he caught and secured it back into Lin Ting’s hair.
As the dazzling ornament brushed against her locks, the ugly thing also forcefully nudged its owner.
The chime of the hairpin was melodious, nearly causing Lin Ting to lose her balance.
She glanced at Duan Ling in surprise, but he merely tilted his head up to kiss her.
Lin Ting didn’t dwell on it.
Just as she tried to sit up again, the heavy rain outside intensified, cascading down the glazed tiles and splashing through the window ledge.
The ugly thing also released its own fluid, thicker and stickier than the medicinal solution.
Yet, it stubbornly clung to its warm refuge, unwilling to emerge—much like creatures hiding from the rain—until it stirred once more.
It hadn’t been cured yet, so Lin Ting had to slowly push the half-slipped thing back inside.
Since Duan Ling hadn’t acted without permission, entrusting everything to her, only Lin Ting had the right to tuck it back in.
By midnight, the rain ceased.
Lin Ting fell asleep, while Duan Ling lay beside her, watching.
One hand idly toyed with the golden hairpin, while the other traced her closed eyelids, tucking away stray strands to reveal her flushed cheeks.
Tonight, Lin Ting remained unusually still, no longer striking out—perhaps cherishing her precious sleep or simply too lazy to move.
Duan Ling pressed the hairpin she had worn against his face, inhaling the lingering scent of her hair with closed eyes.
Though cold to the touch, the hairpin carried a warmth that spread through his limbs, pooling in his chest.
Opening his eyes, he set the hairpin aside and pulled Lin Ting close, burying his face against her heart.
After a moment, the surrealness of it all made him lift his head to kiss her again.