Chapter 013
Chapter 13: Buddha’s Chosen Being Clingy is Unbearable
The moon was like silver, but it could not cut through the gloom in Xiao Man’s heart. [In this place, even staying up late is a luxury.]
Candles were costly and snuffed early, and there were no phones or computers. She thought of squeezing in with Dong Chun, but Dong Chun was on night duty. Knock on Xiu He’s door? No sound inside; she had already fallen asleep.
Xiao Man paced her tiny room like a trapped animal, then slumped on the cold edge of the bed. Her worry was a snarl of threads that would not break or straighten, yet her eyelids grew heavier and her thoughts began to blur.
She did not know how long had passed before a strong presence dragged her up out of the fog. She did not wake because of a sound. She woke because of a gaze she could not ignore.
She snapped her eyes open, her heart leaping into her throat: Lin Qing Xuan stood at her bedside.
Moonlight slipped through the lattice and sketched a pale line around him; his expression was hard to see. But his tall figure carried a heavy pressure. He stood over her like a silent jade statue, and his shadow covered her almost completely.
His cool fingers, firm and sure, slid over her cheek. The thin calluses on his fingertips brushed her skin and raised a fine shiver. He spoke in a low, rough voice that hooked into her ear, each word clear in the still night: “Xiao Man.”
He added, as if binding a knot: “I will not let you go.”
Xiao Man’s breath caught. She wanted to fight, wanted to scold, but it felt like invisible strings had tied her. She could not move, and even her voice stuck in her throat. It felt too real, more chilling than the other times he had dragged her into his dreams. He had not waited for her in a dream. He had walked straight to her bed in the real world. The thought made her go cold from head to toe.
Before she could unpack the horror of it, the scene warped. The familiar dizziness rushed in. When she focused again, she was no longer on the hard edge of her bed. She had fallen into the hazy dream he ruled.
This time, the scene had changed. There was no golden Buddha and no ancient trees. Only a soft, warm mist, like a thin veil on an early spring morning. The man who was usually high above and unreadable now clung to her like a lost child. Lin Qing Xuan wrapped his arms tight around her waist and buried his face in the dip of her neck.
“Good sister,” he said, his voice muffled and filled with a broken kind of need.
His warm breath touched the sensitive skin at her neck and raised a field of goose bumps: “Don’t go. Please pity me.”
Xiao Man’s mind went blank, struck like a bell. Only a huge sense of absurdity echoed. [Sister?]
She stiffly lowered her eyes to the overgrown child in her arms who was making small, pitiful sounds. Moonlight, even in a dream, softened his hard lines; his thick lashes drooped and cast small shadows under his eyes. The cold, distant air of a so-called Buddha’s Chosen was gone. In its place was a fragile plea that felt like it would break.
Pity him? Xiao Man almost wanted to throw her head back and laugh, or pinch herself to see if this was a dream inside a dream. [What is this performance supposed to be? In the day, before the Old Madam, you looked lost and holy, like I had used you and thrown you away. But here at my bedside, in a dream, you hold my waist and call me “good sister,” begging for pity like some two-faced flirt?]
A hard, nameless fire shot up in her chest and burned away most of the fear from his night visit. Shame and anger mixed, ready to explode. She shoved at him and snapped, her voice pitching high: “Lin Qing Xuan,” she said as she tried to pry off his iron arms, “get up. Stop pretending.”
She scolded him in a rush: “How old are you? You’re older than me by several years, right? This body is still so young. Who are you calling ‘sister’? Have a little shame. Who were you acting for in the day with that hollow look? And now what is this sad routine at night? ‘Good sister’? Please. For someone called a Buddha’s Chosen, your skin is thicker than a city wall. Let go.”
She struggled hard, but in the dream his strength was terrifying. His arms were like welded iron hoops and did not move at all. His head, warm and soft with hair, rubbed against the hollow of her neck, and he let out a wronged sound as if she were the heartless one: “Sister, don’t throw me away.”
The bed curtain stirred though there was no wind. As his fingertips brushed her sash, a slap cracked through the dream. “Smack,” the sound rang sharp. He turned his face; a red mark rose on his pale cheek, yet he suddenly caught her wrist.
Her palm hung, stopped an inch from his collar. She could feel his breath rise and fall under his robe. Beneath the thin monk’s robe, the firm lines of muscle moved with his breathing; heat bled through the cloth and burned her fingertips. Her fingers curled without thinking.
Memories from a few nights ago erupted. His sweat fell on her collarbone, tingling like tiny ants. His back went tight as he bent, full of gathered force set to conquer. The heat of their skin pressed close flooded back through the warmth at her palm.
“Lin Qing Xuan,” she said, her voice shaking as shame and anger boiled, “who are you putting on this foxy act for?”
He did not answer. He just lifted his wet eyes; his long lashes were damp, and a small, hurting sound slipped from his throat. In the dim light, the Buddha’s Chosen who had looked so holy in daylight now had red at the corners of his eyes, and his lips were bitten bright like drops of blood.
Xiao Man’s heart gave a small tremble. Without noticing, the hand braced at his chest loosened its strength. The chest under her palm was hot. Even through the thin robe, the heat seemed ready to burn away her reason. [This jerk.]
She clenched her back teeth and wished she could bite him. [Where did that cool, pure saintly face from the day go? Fed to the dogs.] [And now what is this? A little dog begging after being dumped? No. A top-shelf two-faced flirt.]
“Lin Qing Xuan,” she said, her anger so sharp it turned cold, each word steady and clear, “you are a Buddha’s Chosen. Who are you posing for like this?”
He still said nothing. He only looked at her. His eyes no longer held any of the day’s clear calm. They were heavy with mist, sticky and bare, wrapping around her without shame. It was as if she were the one who had dragged him down into the mud and was now trying to walk away.
Inside her head, a tiny voice raged: [Please. This body is only eighteen. You are twenty-three. Calling an eighteen-year-old Miss your ‘sister’ is not ridiculous to you? You look hollow and hurt in front of others by day, and at night you come here with this act. Could you be any more fake?]
He still did not release her. His grip on her wrist tightened a little. He let her say what she liked, his gaze full of pleading, as if to say: Say it all if it helps you cool down. He even guided her palm to his cheeks, tilted his face, and rubbed against her hand lightly, a bright and obvious hint.
She drew a sharp breath, trying to pull her will out of this trap of looks and heat. But this scoundrel, after taking a slap, did not dodge. He held her hand instead. He was telling her in the most direct way that he was not a god or a Buddha. He was a man. He was the man Yao Xiao Man had slept with.
Xiao Man felt hot blood rush to her head, shame and anger twined tight. [He has me right where he wants me again.]