Chapter 8 Firewood and Tension
Sunlight fell across the stone table. The air carried the scent of incense and faint medicinal ointment.
Tsk.
This was heading in a strange direction.
The tube of ointment warmed in my palm. The plastic had grown soft from my body heat.
He was still fighting with that broken cabinet. His back stretched tight like a drawn bow. The redness at his ears had not faded.
I stood there a moment. The atmosphere felt too thick to breathe. I grabbed the items and slipped back into the meditation room.
The door shut behind me, cutting off the bright courtyard light and his heavy presence.
I leaned against the wood and exhaled. When I looked down at the ointment and the box of pure white cotton underwear, heat crawled up my face again.
Damn.
I, Qing She, had wandered the human world for eight hundred years. I had seen every kind of scene. Being chased by a monk was normal. Yet after he pinned me down and did all that, he still gave me this kind of careful care.
It was truly a first.
My body still ached. A burning pain throbbed in my most secret places.
I shuffled to the meditation bed, unscrewed the cap, and squeezed out some ointment.
The cool paste touched the swollen skin. I hissed. For some reason his fierce yet awkward face from earlier flashed in my mind.
Clumsy. But rare.
I finished roughly and changed into the new underwear and clothes.
The fabric was coarse yet clean. It smelled of sunlight and carried a faint trace of the same sandalwood that clung to him.
It felt like being wrapped by him again.
I tugged the oversized hem, uncomfortable.
When I pushed the door open, he was still in the courtyard with his back to me, chopping wood.
The heavy monk's staff lay discarded. He swung an old axe with fast, brutal strikes. The blade flashed. Thud! Thud! Thud! Each blow shook the ground. Wood chips flew.
Muscles bulged on his arms. Sweat soaked his robe, pasting it to his back and tracing every powerful line.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched in silence.
He seemed to be driving all his restless strength into the wood. The swings were savage, almost angry.
Sweat ran down his shaved scalp, over his neck, and into his collar. The red marks I had left stood out sharply on his wet skin.
My throat went dry.
He must have felt my stare. His axe froze mid-swing.
He did not turn, but the muscles across his broad back tightened further.
Only his rough breathing filled the quiet yard.
"What are you looking at?" His voice came out hoarse and dry from the labor.
"Watching Master move with such power," I said slowly, walking over to pick up a stray wood chip. "Even chopping firewood looks like you're trying to transcend someone."
He set the axe down and turned. Sweat rolled from his temple and dropped into the dust.
Under the hat, his eyes were dark and piercing. His gaze swept over me, paused on my new clothes for a breath, then flicked away. His throat bobbed hard.
"Nothing to do?" He wiped his face. The words tried to sound cold, but his heavy breathing softened them.
"You locked me here. What else is there to do but watch you chop wood?" I spread my hands. "Or strengthen the phone signal so I can watch dramas?"
His brows snapped together. "Don't even think about it."
"Then find me a scripture?" I teased. "So I can awaken soon and set your mind at ease?"
He glared, his jaw tight.
He bent, lifted the water bucket, and drank several deep gulps.
Water spilled from the corner of his mouth, sliding down his chin and neck, then over his heaving chest. The wet robe turned nearly transparent, outlining every defined muscle.
I could not look away.
After he finished, he walked to the ancient well, drew cold water, and poured it over himself from head to toe.
Water splashed violently.
He shivered, shook his head, and sent bright droplets flying through the sunlight. The soaked clothes clung to every line of his body.
I stared.
This cooling method was quite primitive.
He wiped his face, breathing hard, and looked at me. His eyes were wet, burning.
"Qing She." He called my name.
"What?" I stepped back warily.
He walked forward step by step, carrying cold water vapor and fierce heat, and stopped right in front of me.
His gaze sank, landing on my lips.
"Does it still hurt?" he asked, voice rough.
I froze, then understood.
My face burned.
"None of your business!" I lifted my chin and looked everywhere except at him.
He raised a hand as if to touch my cheek. Seeing the wood chips and dirt on his fingers, he froze, clenched his fist, and dropped it.
"Yeah." He gave a low sound, its meaning unclear.
He turned back to the wood pile, grabbed the axe, and swung again.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Harder than before.
I stood watching his venting back. My heartbeat matched the heavy rhythm of the axe.
Only when the entire pile became neat blocks of firewood did he stop.
Sweat streamed down him like a river, darkening the ground.
He tossed the axe aside and walked back to me. His breathing remained ragged, chest rising and falling hard.
"Cook," he ordered, eyes fixed on me like I was the next log.
"Huh?"
"You." He pointed at me, then at the small kitchen. "Go cook."
I laughed from anger. "Why? Am I your prisoner or your maid?"
"Prisoner." He answered without hesitation. His gaze scraped over me. "And a sinful creature."
The last two words left his mouth low and hot, heavy with unclear meaning.
"You—" I wanted to scratch his face.
He gave me no chance. He seized my wrist and dragged me toward the kitchen.
"I don't know how!" I struggled.
"Learn." He pushed me inside and blocked the doorway like a supervisor. "If mortals can do it, so can you."
The kitchen was tiny. With him filling the door, almost no light or escape remained.
I glared at the bag of rice and the few wilted vegetables. Anger boiled with nowhere to go.
"No meat!" I protested. "I eat meat!"
His brows furrowed deeply. "This is sacred ground. No meat or fish."
"Then I refuse to eat!" I threw my hands up.
He stared at me in dark silence. After a long pause he finally said, "...Eggs are permitted."
I fell quiet.