Chapter 27 #2
Lady Wei Yun-yao, wife of The Great General Who Guards the Nation, has demonstrated extraordinary virtue and courage in retrieving her husband from certain death.
Her devotion exemplifies the highest ideals of wifely duty and filial respect.
She faced dangers that would daunt trained soldiers, crossed hostile lands, and refused to accept loss where others would have surrendered to grief.
Such devotion honors not only her husband and family, but the institution of marriage itself. Let no tongue speak ill of one who has served the throne through her actions. Let her name be recorded among virtuous women whose deeds surpass ordinary expectation.
Any who continue to spread malicious rumors about Lady Wei shall answer to this Emperor’s displeasure, for to slander her is to question our judgment in sanctioning this marriage.
Thus speaks our will.
By Imperial Decree, in the 18th year of the Xuanming Reign of Xi Dynasty”
When Zhen-ting returned home, he found Yun-yao pacing in the garden, her composure finally cracking after three days of waiting.
She turned at his footsteps, eyes searching his face. “Well?”
He crossed to her in three strides and pulled her into his arms. “The Emperor called you the most devoted wife in Great Xi.”
She sagged against him. “He didn't—he doesn't think I'm—”
“He thinks you're useful,” Zhen-ting said quietly, stroking her hair. “He thinks your gifts, whatever they are, were used to serve imperial interests. He’s protecting you because it protects his investment in me.”
She pulled back to look at him. “That’s... good?”
“That’s politics. And yes, it’s very good. There will be a decree. The rumors will die.” He cupped her face. “But Yun-yao, he knows. About the Wu blood. He didn't say it directly, but he knows. And he made it clear: as long as we're loyal, he doesn't care. But if we're not...”
“We'll be loyal,” she said firmly. “I didn't find you just to lose you to political scheming.”
“Of course.”
She smiled then, a twinkle in her eyes. “So, the Emperor thinks I'm devoted.”
“Stubbornly, foolishly, magnificently devoted.”
“He really said that?”
“Near enough.” He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. “Come on. Let’s go inside before the servants start gossiping about us too.”
“Let them gossip,” she said, but she took his hand anyway. “We've survived worse than gossip.”
“If we’re giving them something to talk about,” he murmured, voice low and warm against her ear, “we might as well make it worth their while.”
Yun-yao flushed red, but she followed him meekly, heart pounding like a war drum beneath the silk of her robe.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet afternoon.
Sunlight streamed through the lattice windows, painting golden stripes across the silk bed hangings, the polished wood floor, the edge of Zhen-ting’s boot as he toed it off.
Smoke rose from the small ceramic dish, where an incense ball smoldered with its sweet intoxicating scent.
Yun-yao’s pulse hammered in her throat. Daylight.
This was madness. Servants moved through the courtyard beyond these walls; her maid could knock at any moment with tea or messages; the gardeners were still raking leaves outside the window.
Proper wives did not do this in broad daylight.
Proper wives did not let their husbands undress them with the sun still high, did not gasp when calloused fingers traced the curve of her collarbone, did not—
His mouth found hers, his kiss deep and demanding. His tongue tasted like the lychee she’d fed him earlier, sweet and heady, and when she made a small, desperate sound, he groaned in response, his hands tightening on her waist.
“Yao-yao,” he said against her lips, voice rough. “My wife.”
The way he said it—possessive, reverent, like she was something precious and his all at once melted her heart entirely.
She fisted her hands in his robe and kissed him back, harder this time, her teeth nipping his lower lip.
He hissed, then laughed, low and dark, before his mouth slanted over hers again.
They stumbled toward the bed, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing.
His robe pooled at his feet; her hairpins scattered across the floor like fallen stars.
The cool air raised gooseflesh on her bare arms, but his hands were there immediately, skimming up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through her thin silks.
She arched into the touch, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Heavens, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at her. His gaze was black with want, his chest rising and falling too fast.
She should have been embarrassed. Should have covered herself, turned away, like a proper lady. But the way he looked at her—like she was fire and water and every good thing he’d ever wanted—made her bold. She reached for the ribbons of her silk undergarments, her fingers trembling.
His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, his eyes locked on hers, something raw and vulnerable flickering in their depths. Then his hands covered hers, stilling them. “Let me.”
The silk square slipped from her shoulders like a sigh.
She reclined before him in nothing but daylight, her skin prickling under his gaze.
He didn’t touch her—not yet. Instead, he knelt, pressing his lips to the center of her chest, right over her racing heart.
His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, slow, worshipful, until they cupped her bare bottom, pulling her closer.
She gasped as his mouth trailed lower, his tongue hot against her navel, then lower still—
“Zhen-ting!” His name tore from her throat, half-protest, half-plea. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her legs trembling.
He looked up at her, his lips curved against her skin. “Too much?”
She paused, too embarrassed to say anything. “Do... do people really do that?” she breathed.
He kissed her there again. She hiccupped and moaned.
That was all the permission he needed. His lips parted against her heated skin, tasting the salt-sweet essence of her as his tongue delved deeper, languid strokes mapping every hidden curve and shuddering ridge.
Yun-yao writhed beneath him, her thighs tightening reflexively around his shoulders, her fingers scrabbling helplessly against the silk sheets.
The delicate arch of her spine rose off the bed like a drawn bowstring.
She was making sounds now—broken, desperate little cries that drove him mad.
His name fell from her lips in a breathless chant, her fingers clawing at the bedsheets, then at his shoulders, as if she couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.
He didn’t let up, his tongue stroking, teasing, pressing deeper until her breaths came in ragged sobs, her body tensing like a drawn bowstring. And then—
She shrieked.
The keening cry tore from her throat as her back arched off the bed, her entire body trembling violently in his grasp.
He held her through it, his mouth still gentle against her, his hands soothing over her hips, her stomach, as she collapsed back against the mattress, boneless and spent.
Her chest heaved, her skin flushed a delicate pink, and when he finally lifted his head to look at her, her eyes were dazed, her lips parted as she struggled to catch her breath.
Utterly, perfectly, undone.
Yun-yao could feel Zhen-ting’s lips trailing upward, slow and deliberate through her haze, until he hovered over her. The weight of him was delicious, his skin hot where it pressed against hers.
I want to pleasure him too.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
“Yao-yao?” He asked in a rough whisper.
“Yes,” she whispered, pulling him down. “Now. Please.”
She was still trembling when he settled between her thighs, his body poised above hers.
He buried his face into the crook of her neck, lips brushing her pulse as he thrust straight into her.
She gasped—not from pain, though the stretch of him was overwhelming—but from the sheer rightness of it, of him filling her completely.
His breath came hot and uneven against her skin, his hands gripping her hips as if she would vanish if he loosened his hold.
He moved hard and fast, each thrust a piece of his love extended to her.
Her quivering insides, still sensitive, welcomed him deeper, and Yun-yao gasped as she sunk into another vortex of desire.
The rhythm grew faster, more urgent, their bodies moving together in synchronized cadence.
The bed rocked beneath them, its hollow creaks mingling with their ragged breaths, the embroidered silk hangings swaying with each impassioned thrust. Sunlight streamed through the lattice window, dappling their sweat-slicked skin with golden patterns that danced with their movements.
When his release came, it was with a rough, broken cry, her name spilling from his lips, his body shuddering against hers in waves of pleasure. She cradled him to her and cried out too, feeling that elusive white light again. Their bodies tangled in the aftermath, inseparable.
For a long moment, neither moved. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant call of a magpie in the garden. Then Zhen-ting lifted his head, his dark eyes soft, his lips curved in a smile that was just for her.
“Worth the gossip?” he murmured.
She traced the line of his jaw, her thumb brushing the scar there. “Worth the scandal.”