Chapter 10
The campaign began quietly, almost tenderly. Wei Zhen-ting, the Great General who Guards the Nation, decided—without proclamation or warning—that he would make his wife the envy of Shangjing. He didn’t speak of it, he just acted.
The garden blazed under the midday sun, thick with the scent of jasmine and rosemallow, their petals vibrant and unyielding in the peak of summer.
Yun-yao adjusted the blooming flowers with deliberate care, though her fingers trembled slightly, ridiculous, really, how the heat made one so flustered.
A flush crept up her neck, and she blamed the oppressive weather, certainly not the way her thoughts kept drifting to yesterday’s kiss: his hands in her hair, his breath rough, his eyes as if she were the only woman in the world.
A shadow fell across the path. She turned, expecting a servant, and stilled. Zhen-ting stood there in his military uniform, gold embroidery gleaming in the sunlight. He rarely came home at this hour—his days belonged to the barracks, the council, the emperor—but today he had come for her.
“You’re home early,” she murmured, smoothing her skirts.
“I have some free time today,” he said, smiling. “I wanted to see you.”
The simplicity of it warmed her more than the sun.
They walked together through the garden, his presence both calming and unsettling. When she mentioned her obligation to attend Lady Han’s tea gathering that afternoon, something shifted in his expression—not displeasure, but consideration.
“What time must you leave?” he asked.
“Within the hour.” She studied his face. “Why?”
His smile turned almost mischievous. “No reason.”
Later, when Yun-yao stepped out in soft plum silk embroidered with orchids, she found Zhen-ting waiting in the courtyard, his horse already saddled beside her carriage.
“You’re escorting me?” she asked, startled.
“Unless you’d rather I didn’t.” His mouth curved. “I thought you might enjoy the company.”
A general accompanying his wife to a social call—unheard of. Servants traded wide-eyed glances as he offered his hand to help her into the carriage.
At Lady Han’s estate, whispers flitted through the gathered wives.
“General Wei! What an unexpected honor!” Lady Han trilled, feigning composure.
“My wife tells me your gatherings are the most refined in the capital,” Zhen-ting said smoothly. “I wished to see for myself.”
Yun-yao nearly stumbled.
I thought I said the most boring.
Through the long afternoon, he stayed near her—pouring her tea, draping his cloak over her shoulders when a breeze stirred, and once, leaning close to whisper, “If you fall asleep, I’ll catch you.”
Her cheeks burned as the other wives stared, but beneath the mortification was a fluttering she could not name.
The gossip from Lady Han’s tea had scarcely cooled before Zhen-ting struck again. At Minister Zhang’s monthly poetry salon, he recited poetry to an audience. Not the distant, heroic kind the literati favored, but a poem about love:
“The moon hangs low, a silver hook in the sky,
But brighter still the light I see
Not stars above, but in your eyes,
The home I’ve waited years to be.”
The hall fell silent, then erupted in applause. Minister Zhang clapped delightedly. “A warrior and a poet! How rare!”
Yun-yao’s hands trembled around her cup. Zhen-ting’s eyes found hers across the table—unrepentant, teasing, adoring.
On the ride home, she tried to scold him. “You recited love poetry in front of half the capital’s scholars! They’ll gossip for weeks.”
He leaned back, utterly pleased. “Let them. I meant every word.”
She should have reprimanded him, reminded him of propriety. Instead, she laughed. “You’re making them hate me.”
Zhen-ting tilted his head. “No. I’m making them envy you.”
“That’s worse.”
“Is it?” He stepped closer, his voice a low murmur. “Let them whisper that the Great General can’t keep his eyes off his wife. Let them wish they were you.”
His thumb brushed her lower lip. Her breath caught. “Zhen-ting—”
He kissed her before she could protest. Slow, deep, and utterly certain. When they broke apart, she whispered, “This isn’t proper.”
“Proper just grew wings and flew away.” Zhen-ting replied, smiling at her.
The carriage jolted forward as the driver urged the horses into motion, the sudden movement pressing Yun-yao against Zhen-ting’s chest. His arms came around her instinctively, steadying her, and for a breathless moment, neither moved.
The space between them was replaced by warmth, by the steady thud of his heart beneath her palm, by the familiar scent of pine in sunshine that made her pulse quicken.
Then his mouth found hers again.
This kiss was different—less restrained, touched with urgency.
His lips moved against hers with a hunger that stole her breath, his hands sliding up to cradle her face as if she were something precious, something fragile.
Yun-yao melted into him, her fingers clutching the front of his robe.
The carriage swayed gently, the rhythm of the horses’ hooves a distant drumbeat against the roar of her own blood in her ears.
Zhen-ting groaned softly, the sound vibrating against her lips, and his hands shifted—one sliding into her hair, dislodging pins with a careless urgency, the other tracing the line of her collarbone before dipping lower.
His thumb brushed the swell of her breast through the silk of her robe, and Yun-yao gasped, breaking the kiss.
Her body arched involuntarily, butterflies fluttering in her belly.
“Yun-yao,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath hot against her ear. “Yun-yao.”
She should tell him to stop. She should.
But something in his tone tugged at her heart, the silent plea there.
She bit her lips and softly laid her hands on his wrists, not to push him away, but to anchor herself as his touch sent shivers through her.
His fingers were calloused and rough from years of wielding a sword, but they moved over her with a reverence that made her ache.
When his palm finally cupped her breast, gentle but possessive, she stiffened at the unfamiliar heat that sent her traitorous butterflies flying furiously through her veins.
Zhen-ting’s breath hitched. He had imagined this—dreamed of it—but the reality was beyond anything his mind had conjured.
The softness of her, the way her body responded to his touch, the faint floral scent of her skin.
.. It was intoxicating. His thumb circled slowly, teasing, and she made a small, needy sound that nearly undid him.
“Heavens,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “You’re perfect.”
Yun-yao’s mind spun. She had read about such things in her forbidden huaben, had imagined what it might feel like—but nothing had prepared her for this.
She shuddered as his mouth trailed down her neck, his teeth grazing lightly, his tongue soothing the sting.
The heat of his mouth on her skin, the way his touch made her body tighten, the way her hands gripped him out of her own accord.
The carriage seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with the scent of osmanthus, pine, and something darker, something theirs.
His lips found the dip between her collarbones, and she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Zhen-ting—”
“I know,” he murmured, his voice strained. He forced himself to still, his forehead resting against her collarbone. His body was taut with restraint, every muscle coiled tight. “We should stop.”
She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his hands trembled where they still cradled her. The realization that he was as affected as she was sent a thrill through her. He wants me. Not just as a wife, not just as a duty, but me.
With a shaky breath, she pressed her palms to his chest and gently pushed him back. His dark eyes met hers, heavy with desire, but he didn’t argue. He simply... waited.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by their ragged breathing. Then, slowly, Zhen-ting reached up, his fingers carefully tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered on her cheekbone, his touch feather-light.
“Forgive me,” he said, though his voice held no regret. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t apologize.”
A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. He leaned in, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her temple. “We’ll be home soon.”
Yun-yao nodded, her cheeks burning. She turned toward the carriage window, her fingers flying to restore some semblance of order to her hair.
When she glanced back at Zhen-ting, he was already composed—his robe smoothed, his expression carefully neutral.
Only the dark fire in his eyes betrayed what had just passed between them.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside their estate just as she stuck the last pin in. Zhen-ting alighted first, then turned to offer her his hand. Their fingers brushed, a secret promise.
The skewed pin in her hair was the only evidence of what had passed between them—but it was enough. For now.
THREE DAYS LATER, THE next maneuver of his campaign unfolded in the marketplace. Yun-yao, who had not walked through common stalls since childhood, found herself at his side among the clamor of vendors and hawkers.
“Look at this,” he said, holding up a jade hairpin shaped like an osmanthus blossom. “It reminds me of you.”
“I don’t need—”
“I want you to have it.” And before she could refuse, it was pressed into her palm.
He bought her favorite pastries, a scroll of southern poetry she’d once mentioned, and carried every parcel himself. The onlookers gawked. A general, arms full of bundles like a lovestruck husband—scandalous!
“You’re causing a scene,” she whispered.
“Let them talk,” he said simply. “You deserve to be spoiled.”
When they nearly collided with Minister Huang and his wife, the contrast was painful.
Minister Huang strode ahead while his wife trailed behind; Yun-yao and Zhen-ting walked side by side, sleeves brushing.
Minister Huang’s wife stared, envy plain in her eyes.
As they passed, Yun-yao caught the woman tugging at her husband’s sleeve. She hid her smile behind her fan.
By evening, the ripples of Zhen-ting’s affection had reached even the military households. At the Minister of Military Affairs’s banquet, the officers’ wives whispered among themselves.
“I heard he refused a concubine offer from the Wang family!” Mistress Fang said.
“Turned it down?” Mistress Chen gasped. “Their girls are famous for—”
“He stopped them before they finished asking,” Mistress Liu interrupted. “Said his wife was all he needed.”
Yun-yao froze mid-step. He... rejected a concubine? He hadn’t even mentioned it. Because to him, it hadn’t mattered. Warmth spread through her heart. Mine, whispered some reckless part of her. He’s mine.
Across the room, Zhen-ting caught her gaze, eyes softening. When he approached, ignoring the smirks of his officers, he murmured, “Will my beautiful wife give me the honor of a stroll in the garden?”
The noise of the banquet faded as they followed a winding path between carefully arranged rocks and cultivated pines. Zhen-ting led her behind a tall arrangement of lake stones, where moonlight filtered through leaves overhead, dappling the ground in silver.
“So,” he murmured as he tucked a stray tendril of her hair behind her ears, “what’s with that look on your face when you looked at me just now?”
“I heard a rumor,” she said lightly.
“Did you?”
“That you refused a gift from the Wang family.”
He smiled. “I refused nothing. I was never offered anything.”
“Is it true?” The question came out sharper than intended. “Did they try to send you a concubine?”
“They mentioned having a cousin. Very accomplished, apparently.” His tone was utterly neutral. “I stopped them before they could finish the offer.”
The tight knot in her chest loosened. “You refused.”
“I didn't let them ask.” His hand came up to cup her cheek. “There was nothing to refuse, Yun-yao. The question was never going to be completed.”
She searched his face for obligation, for duty forcing his hand. Found nothing but quiet certainty.
“Many men would have accepted,” she said carefully. “It’s expected, for someone of your rank.”
“I'm not many men. I'm your husband. Only yours.”
A flower she hadn't known she was keeping tightly closed bloomed in her heart.
“I don’t want to share,” she muttered indistinguishably to the ground, scuffing at the dirt with her shoes.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared. Then his mouth curved into a wide smile.
“Say that again.”
Heat flooded her face, but she lifted her chin. “You're mine, Wei Zhen-ting. And I don't want to share.”
“Good,” he echoed softly. “Because I have no intention of being shared.”
The moonlight caught in his eyes, turned them luminous. Around them, the garden was silent except for the whisper of leaves and the distant murmur of the banquet. Yun-yao closed the remaining distance, rising on her toes to press a soft kiss like the promise of starlight to his lips.
Outside, Shangjing would gossip; wives would seethe, and husbands would shift uneasily under new expectations. But none of that mattered. Here, there was only the warmth of his body, the certainty of his devotion, and the unspoken promise that love is blooming.
When they re-entered the banquet hall, every eye tracked their movement. Colonel Fang leaned toward Zhen-ting, smirking. “Quite the extended stroll, General.”
“My wife needed air,” Zhen-ting replied blandly.
By the end of the week, all of Shangjing was abuzz.
“Have you heard? General Wei actually smiled at his wife during the Summer Solstice banquet!”
“He brought out pastries his wife packed for him during a council meeting! And ate them right there! Even offered one to the Minister of Military Affairs. The Chancellor nearly choked on his tea!”
“They say she laughs at his jokes. Actually laughs!”
Yun-yao should have been horrified. Should have been lecturing him on restraint, on the dangers of drawing too much attention.
But when he pressed a stolen kiss to her palm in the garden, when he quoted another shamelessly romantic poem at dinner, when he looked at her with such open devotion that her chest ached—
She found she didn’t mind the whispers at all.