Chapter 51

Chapter 51

They said the first time was strange, the second familiar, and by the third it came naturally. But some sayings were less reliable than they sounded.

Late at night, the icy wind howled beyond the window, deepening the chill that hung over the darkness.

Shen Qingyu had Qiao Ying tucked beside him in bed beneath the same quilt. His pale, cool fingers rested lightly against her face, his fingertips testing the softness of her skin and occasionally pressing a tiny dimple into it as if he had discovered an entertaining new game.

“Qiao Ying.”

“What?”

“Your face is very hot.”

Half her face was buried under the quilt. Only her eyes remained visible as she stared at him and muttered, refusing to be outdone, “Your ears are bright red.”

At that, Shen Qingyu withdrew his hand and touched one ear. Only then did he realize that it, too, was hot. He looked utterly perplexed.

“Qiao Ying, I’m sick.”

Qiao Ying said nothing.

His fingers returned to her warm cheek and stroked it slowly. “Qiao Ying, you’re sick too.”

Qiao Ying remained silent.

Shen Qingyu considered the matter, then spoke in a tone that suggested he was proposing a reasonable compromise. “Qiao Ying, perhaps I shouldn’t be human today.”

“…What does that mean?”

He tugged down the quilt covering half her face, then held out his hand. Pressing his index finger to the corner of her mouth, he tried to push it between her lips.

His mouth curved into a gentle, obedient smile. “Bite me. My blood will cure you.”

He had once promised Qiao Ying that he would not injure himself so readily.

A person ought to keep his promises. But today, he could not. That was why he had said he would stop being human for the day.

Qiao Ying’s eyelid twitched. She opened her mouth and bit him as he wished, but did not even break the skin. All she left on his finger was a row of tooth marks.

Shen Qingyu felt no pain, only a tickle. He laughed softly. “Qiao Ying, you’re like a puppy whose fangs haven’t finished growing.”

She could not be bothered to argue. But when he moved to bite open his own finger, she hurriedly caught his hand and covered the fingertip.

“Enough. I don’t need your blood.”

Shen Qingyu tilted his head, faintly bewildered.

Qiao Ying sighed. She had no choice but to explain. “You think we’re sick, don’t you? Then tell me: what did we do before we got sick?”

Shen Qingyu adjusted the little red flower slipping from his white hair. Its vivid color brushed his pale fingers, making them look all the more exquisite.

“You kissed me,” he said.

“You kissed me.”

His fingertips found a soft lock of black hair and wound it lazily around his finger. Smiling, he said, “Qiao Ying, you were clearly the one who used your wiles on me and kissed me.”

“Nonsense!” Furious, Qiao Ying propped herself up. For once, she had the chance to look down upon the boy she usually had to crane her neck to see. “You locked me in your room! Not only did you kiss me, you dragged me onto your bed and made me sleep with you. I’m so delicate and defenseless. How could I possibly have used any wiles on you?”

Shen Qingyu replied, “You looked at me with such clinging eyes today. You saw only me. No one else existed for you.”

The young man lay on his back, his white hair appearing even more luminous against the blue-black brocade quilt, like frost and snow. A white silk blindfold concealed his eyes, but it could not hide the soft, shallow smile on his lips.
His fingertips still hooked lightly around the lock of Qiao Ying’s black hair, rubbing it almost imperceptibly. His smile held equal parts smugness and beguiling charm.

Qiao Ying could see no one but him. Of course he had reason to be pleased with himself.

His smug little expression made her want to grind her teeth, but she had no rebuttal. Giving up, she flopped back onto the bed and glared at the canopy in sulky silence.

She was utterly hopeless!

Yet once she stopped talking, Shen Qingyu found the silence uncomfortable.

This time, he was the one who pushed himself up and hovered above her. His white hair spilled down, several unruly strands brushing her cheek and making her itch.

“Qiao Ying, you still haven’t told me why kissing me made us both sick.”

She brushed the white hair off her face. She had been about to tell him that this was not illness at all, merely a perfectly normal physical reaction to intimacy between a man and a woman. But when she saw his flawless, jade-like face so close to hers, she abruptly changed her mind.

“Shen Qingyu, you’re right. We really are sick.”

Shen Qingyu propped his chin on both hands. Facing her, his lips lifted as if to say: See? I’m still cleverer than you. I said from the beginning that we were sick.

When she saw his finger approaching her mouth again, Qiao Ying hurried to add, “This is no ordinary illness. Your blood alone can’t cure it.”

The smugness faded from his smile. She seemed to have led him into territory he had never encountered before. “Why? In the past, even people who had lost arms or legs and were about to die could recover completely after eating a piece of my flesh or drinking my blood. Why can’t I cure you?”

He asked in honest confusion, wanting only an answer. He did not notice that the girl beside him fell silent for a long time after he spoke.

The young man waited and waited, but no answer came. He gave the black hair around his finger a gentle tug. “Why, Qiao Ying?”

“Why do you have so many questions?”

Badgered beyond endurance, Qiao Ying rolled over and pinned him beneath her. With both hands on his shoulders, she snapped, “Because I’m Qiao Ying, one of a kind in the whole world! I’m different from anyone you’ve ever met, so of course my illness is harder to cure!”

Shen Qingyu lay obediently beneath her, like a cut of meat on the chopping block, willing to let her do as she pleased. Who would imagine that this delicate, beautiful young man was the smiling God of Slaughter?

He thought her explanation might contain some truth. After all, she was very strange.

The longer he spent with her, the stranger she became. There was no logic to her at all.

When the little flower in his hair began to fall, the girl caught and steadied it with quick fingers. Its brilliant color remained, as though she had stubbornly preserved a touch of spring amid a winter buried in snow.

Shen Qingyu turned his face slightly, brushing almost imperceptibly against her hand. “Qiao Ying.”

“What?”

“If your illness can’t be cured, will you die?”

Qiao Ying looked at him.

He asked again, “I’m sick too. Will I die?”

Her gaze drifted. “No.”

“Do you know how to cure it?”

His snow-white hair was untouched by mortal dust. The white silk blindfold hid everything in his eyes, leaving only a smooth, jade-like jaw and a clean, innocent curve to his lips, as guileless as a child eager to learn.

Qiao Ying felt that if she kept looking, she was going to do something wrong.