Chapter 29
They crossed the threshold into the dim corridor beyond the Winter Garden. Mingxi leaned heavily on her, his blood left a dripping trail along the marble.
Penelope tightened her grip around his waist, breath steady, steps precise. Her pulse hammered despite her outward calm, her stomach churning desperately.
The corridor filled with the thud of boots, three Guardians sweeping around the corner, weapons half drawn.
“Lady Penelope!”
“Councilor Shen!!”
“The wards spiked. What happened?”
Penelope didn’t slow. “No questions,” she said sharply.
The Guardians froze mid-stride.
Her voice wasn’t loud, just absolute. She adjusted Mingxi’s arm over her shoulders. His breath came shallow, tight with pain.
“He needs medical attention,” one Guardian began.
“No,” Penelope cut in. “Not here. Not in the Hall. Not with healers.” Her gaze flicked to the shattered lantern-glass stuck to Mingxi’s sleeve. “He was hit by shadow magic. I won’t risk interference.”
The Guardians exchanged uneasy glances.
“Lady—”
“Safe house,” she said, pitch low, decisive. “The nearest one. Now!”
“But—”
She turned her head and leveled a look at the closest Guardian.
He went silent instantly.
“You can brief the Council,” she said. “I will get him stabilized.”
A beat. Two.
Then the ranking Guardian bowed his head. “As you command.”
The corridor became a flurry of motion, one Guardian breaking ahead to clear the route, another unlocking a concealed passage, a third forming a protective barrier behind them. Penelope kept moving, Mingxi leaning into her, breath hitching with every other step.
He spoke once, voice thready. “Lady Penelope—”
“No, don’t call me that,” she said.
His brow knit, pain shadowing his eyes. “Then… what shall I call you?”
They reached the hidden stairwell, narrow and dark and blessedly empty. She helped him down each step slowly, carefully, feeling the tremor in his muscles. Only when they reached the bottom did she speak.
Her voice was quiet, but not soft. “Call me Poppy.”
Mingxi’s breath caught, and she sensed it was not from pain this time. Their eyes met, but only for a heartbeat. Then another ripple of pain tore through him, bending his posture.
“Poppy,” he managed.
She nodded once. “Good. Now keep breathing.”
The Guardians ushered them into a lantern-lit room carved into the old stone beneath the Hall, a secure chamber, wards thick and ancient.
The moment the door slammed shut behind them, Poppy’s control sharpened into purpose.
“Sit,” she told Mingxi, guiding him onto a cot.
He tried to remove his coat; she stopped him with a gentle but firm hand.
“I said sit, not struggle.”
He obeyed. Barely.
She tore open the fabric with a knife, revealing the wound: a jagged gash of shadow-burn and frostbite along his ribs, still bleeding steadily.
Mingxi hissed between his teeth. “You should not—”
“Be touching this?” she finished. “I know. But I trust my hands more than theirs.”
She reached for a basin, water sloshing as she dipped a cloth.
Mingxi’s gaze followed her with quiet intensity. “You should not be tending my wounds,” he said hoarsely. “It’s beneath your station. And dangerous. And—”
She pressed the cloth to his side, and he inhaled sharply.
“I decide what I do,” she said.
For a long moment, the only sound was water dripping from the cloth and Mingxi’s uneven breaths.
She could feel him watching her, really watching her. Not as the moonborn, not as the Lady Penelope Sinclair, and not as the Council’s target, but as someone who had chosen to be here, hands steady, movements sure, tending the wound he took in her place.
“Poppy,” he said again, quieter this time.
She stilled, and moonlight flickered faintly under her skin, just once.
“Yes,” she said as she kept working.
Gray dawn filtered through the thin safe-house curtains, cool and muted. Poppy stood with her back to the tiny window, arms loosely folded, watching Mingxi check the bandage at his ribs.
He moved carefully, controlled even in pain, but he swayed a little too much.
She stepped forward—not touching, not grabbing, just close enough that he could lean on her if he needed to. He did not. But they stood there anyway.
Breaths mingling. Bodies not touching but separated by an inch that felt deliberate. Mingxi’s fox-spirit heat radiated off him. Warming not scorching, just warm in a way that made the cold room feel suddenly small.
He exhaled once, steadying himself. “Poppy.”
Something in her chest tightened. After everything—the blood, the entity, the dances, the safe house where she’d cleaned his wound with her own hands—she realized she didn’t want that distance anymore.
She swallowed, surprised at how soft her voice sounded. “Yes, Mingxi.”
Mingxi froze, not with shock, but with something like reverence. His eyes softened, gold flickering like candlelight through amber.
He said it slowly, with care. “Poppy? That’s an unusual nickname.”
She smiled, small and private. “My sister couldn’t say poppet when she was little. It always came out as Poppy.”
“Poppy. It’s beautiful,” The sound of her name in his voice felt like the brush of moonlight across skin. Unexpected. Gentle. Dangerously sincere.
But then something slipped from him. Something deeper than language. Unguarded. Instinctive. “Mèihuā…”
Her breath caught.
It wasn’t English. It wasn’t formal. It was intimate.
“What did you call me?” she whispered.
Mingxi’s jaw tightened. He looked away, rare for him, clearly struggling with a flush of real emotion.
“That was… unintentional.”
“What does it mean?”
“A blossom.” He paused and then quietly said, “An entrancing one. Hidden beauty. The kind that only reveals itself when someone truly looks.”
Her cheeks warmed before she could stop it. The room, small as it was, suddenly felt too intimate.
“Say it again,” she whispered, a request she didn’t entirely understand.
He stepped closer, just enough that the heat of him brushed her skin, and then breathed, “Mèihuā.” Then, softer, his voice edged with something he clearly didn’t intend to reveal. “My bewitching flower.”
The air between them trembled.
Then a Guardian knocked at the door, shattering the moment like fragile glass. They both stepped back, too quickly, too sharply, as if the closeness had been fire.
But the word lingered in the room, warm and glowing, refusing to fade.