Chapter 85
Chapter 85: High Stakes—Keep All Three
Tuan Tuan—the heart demon—took the shape of a pitch-black cat and followed that thick, dangerous scent straight to the Third Princess Xuan Ji’s private manor.
This place… tsk.
It leapt soundlessly onto an old locust tree by the wall, used the twisted trunk as a spring, and slipped over into the estate like a shadow.
Inside, the air felt worse.
Sweet. Rotten. Heavy with despair and hate.
Tuan Tuan sniffed, golden eyes bright with excited hunger.
It loved places like this.
After weaving through the corridors, it landed on the carved window lattice of the main house.
The scene inside was… spectacular.
A true high-stakes round.
The Third Princess Xuan Ji lounged on a gilded couch, a robe thin as cicada wings hanging loose from her shoulders. Candlelight turned her pale skin luminous.
She rolled a peeled grape between her fingers, red lips curved, gaze lazy as she looked down at three men kneeling before her.
Each one was a prize.
On the left was Xie Yu Shu, the capital’s famed cold beauty in a plain blue robe, refined and distant as bamboo. Talented in music, chess, calligraphy, and painting—once the dream of countless noble ladies.
Now he knelt here, a toy.
In the middle was Han Zhao, a guard from the princess residence. Even clothed, his build radiated blunt strength, bronze skin and hard muscle barely restrained by fabric. Silent. Obedient. Dangerous.
On the right was Liu Mian, the newest musician—beautiful in a way that looked effortless, with a naturally flirtatious tilt to his eyes. He leaned near the incense brazier, collar loose, posture soft, a pipa resting against him like an afterthought.
Tuan Tuan watched, delighted.
This was far more stimulating than Lin Qing Xuan and that maid Little Man with their tame, clean dream.
Mortals drowning in desire always looked their ugliest—and it was always entertaining.
A thin thread of black mist seeped from beneath the cat’s paw and slid into the hall, curling silently into the qilin-shaped incense burner.
The burner already held rich ambergris incense. Mixed with the mist, the scent grew sweeter, heavier, more coaxing—like warm honey poured over a blade.
Xuan Ji hadn’t eaten the grape for a long time.
She’d come back from the palace full of anger. Every word Consort Li had said still grated in her bones.
Return to the palace.
Copy sutras.
What a joke.
Since when did her life belong to anyone else?
She finally tossed the grape into her mouth and savored the last drop of juice with slow pleasure.
“If I’m going to be caged back in the palace tomorrow,” she said, voice light but absolute, “then tonight I’ll enjoy myself.”
Her gaze drifted over the three men, unhurried, evaluating.
Xie Yu Shu knelt with a brush in hand, painting her portrait with careful focus.
On the white paper, her outline had already taken shape—brows, eyes, and grace captured with eerie accuracy.
But at the collar of the painted figure, a harsh streak of red cut through the image like a wound.
Last night, when she’d decided he hadn’t pleased her enough, he’d resisted. Her nails had torn the back of his hand, and blood had splashed across the page.
He kept his eyes lowered, lashes hiding whatever he felt. Only the tension in his knuckles betrayed him.
Han Zhao knelt near the couch, head bowed, hands at her feet with mechanical obedience.
The thick calluses earned from years on a blade dragged over her skin and left angry red marks behind.
His face stayed hidden beneath his hair. He gave nothing away but submission.
Liu Mian’s fingers moved over the pipa without melody, coaxing out a crooked, decadent sound that tangled with the incense until the air itself felt sticky.
“Mm…”
Xuan Ji’s fingers loosened. Another grape rolled off the couch and vanished into the carpet.
A sudden heat surged through her without warning, starting low and rushing upward, spreading through her limbs like fire chasing oil.
Moisture blurred her eyes. Her breath turned uneven and sweet.
Was it the incense?
Was it the wine?
She barely had time to form the thought before instinct pressed down and swallowed reason whole.
She wet her lips, voice turning lazy and husky. “Tonight…”
She paused, savoring the way all three men went taut at the sound.
“You three,” she said softly, “stay.”
The room froze.
Even Liu Mian’s wavering music cut off mid-breath.
Han Zhao’s hands stilled at her ankle. His throat bobbed once, hard.
Liu Mian’s smile stiffened and cracked. He tugged at his loose collar, a flicker of panic flashing across his face for the first time.
Xie Yu Shu’s brush paused.
He lifted his eyes.
His gaze passed over Xuan Ji’s flushed cheeks, then settled on the portrait—and the red scar across its collar.
He set down the brush dipped in pigment.
His long fingers hovered over the brush rack, passing over expensive, perfect tools.
Then he chose the most ordinary brush—clean, plain, uninked.
With calm precision, he dipped it into the jade brush washer and soaked the tip in cold, clear water.
He lifted the wet brush and held it above the paper.
Droplets fell soundlessly.
One. Two.
They landed exactly on the painted collar, soaking into the red stain, spreading it, blurring it into something smeared and ugly.
His movements stayed elegant.
His focus was cold.
He wasn’t painting anymore. He was undoing.
Above the couch, Han Zhao felt pressure like a hand on the back of his neck, forcing him down.
As if yielding to a sentence already decided, he bent.
Xuan Ji shuddered sharply, the sensation cutting through her like a spark. Her back arched; her fingers dug into the fabric beneath her until her knuckles whitened.
Liu Mian stared, frozen, fingers tightening against the polished wood of his instrument as if he might crack it.
And Xie Yu Shu’s wet brush continued to move, calm and merciless, dragging cold water over the portrait’s wound until the red became a mess.
On the window lattice, Tuan Tuan gaped.
Holy hell.
They were really doing this?
A beat later, it gaped again, almost admiring.
Beautiful.
The desire in the room was thick—laced with cruelty, humiliation, resentment, surrender. It rose like aged wine, intoxicating even to a heart demon by scent alone.
But that wasn’t what made Tuan Tuan’s fur prickle.
Deeper in the manor, something else coiled—an aura black as ink, dense with death.
Outside the estate, countless vengeful wraiths circled and wailed, unable to cross the threshold.
Only a thin strand of royal aura clung to Xuan Ji like a protective veil, keeping the wraiths at bay—for now.
No.
This place was wrong.
If it kept going—if this endless desire and resentment continued to ferment—it could breed something far worse.
A devil creature.
Tuan Tuan’s eyes narrowed.
It had to get back and warn Lin Qing Xuan.
This was big trouble.