Chapter 115: Sleeping together

"Fine. I’ll take the floor." I slid down against the wall, sitting cross-legged on the rough wood with a performative sigh. "It’s cold, it’s full of splinters, and my entire body aches from fighting cave crawlers, but don’t mind me. I’ll just sleep here like a discarded shield."

She stared down at me, her lips parted slightly, her eyes narrowed in a mix of irritation and sheer disbelief. "You are, without a doubt, the most frustrating man I have ever met."

"Get up."

"I don’t know, Yan. The floor is really starting to grow on me."

"Barry, get up." She took two steps forward, grabbed the linen quilt off the mattress, and wrapped it securely around her shoulders. She marched to the far edge of the bed and sat down, the movement pulling the silk of her Vermilion robes tight across the broad curve of her hips and the slender arch of her waist. "You can have the edge. And there will be a line."

"What line?"

She pulled the Twin Phoenix Ember Fans from her sash. With a deliberate, clicking snap, she laid them down the exact center of the mattress—gold and crimson, cutting the small space perfectly in half.

"That line," she said, casting a look over her shoulder. The posture forced her back to arch, the silk tightening across her chest, tracing the soft, full shape of it in the amber lamplight.

"Cross it, and I’ll see if your new diamond scales can handle a blast of Phoenix fire."

"Those are legendary sect relics, Yan. Pretty sure using them as a property barrier violates some kind of ancient law."

"Then you better stay on your side so you don’t wrinkle them."

Amused, I climbed onto the bed and stretched out on my side. It was a tight fit. The mattress was narrow, and since she had monopolized the quilt, I was left with a cold breeze and a view of her back. The river outside murmured a quiet, steady rhythm against the rocks, filling the silence between us.

For a long time, neither of us moved.

"Barry," she whispered into the dark.

"Yeah?"

"Are you asleep?"

"Extremely."

"You’re an idiot."

I heard the soft rustle of the quilt as she shifted. "I’m cold," she muttered.

I propped myself up on an elbow, looking over the boundary line. "You’re a fire cultivator, Fire Empress. You literally boil water by touching it."

"It’s not that kind of cold, you fool," she snapped softly, though her voice lacked any real bite. She turned around to face me, the quilt slipping down to her elbows. The top ties of her robe had loosened, exposing the smooth, pale expanse of her collarbone and the shadow between her breasts. She looked flushed, her eyes wide and vulnerable in the dim light. "It’s... the silence. It’s too quiet."

Three years in the dark. Locked in iron cages where the only sounds were shifting chains and the steps of demon guards.

I didn’t say anything. I just reached out, picked up the crimson and gold fans one by one, and tossed them onto the low wooden table by the bedside.

Her breath hitched. "I didn’t give you permission to move the line."

"The line was getting in the way," I said, my voice dropping as I slid closer, closing the distance between us until the heat of her body washed over mine.

"Barry, I said you can’t touch—"

"I’m not touching," I murmured, leaning in until my lips were just an inch from the shell of her ear. "Unless you want me to. Aren’t You’re the one who’s cold?."

She let out a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to my mouth before lifting back up, full of defiance and something much heavier. She deliberately let the quilt drop completely, rolling onto her side to face me fully. The high slit of her robe fell away, revealing the long curve of her thigh and the soft swell of her hip resting against the dark sheets.

"You think you’re very clever, don’t you?" she whispered, her voice a teasing purr that sent a sudden spike of heat straight down my spine.

"I have my moments." I slid my hand over her bare waist, my palm taking in the smooth, burning warmth of her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she moved closer, her chest pressing against my torso,her heart racing.

"No talking," she whispered, her fingers curling tight into my clothes, pulling me down until her forehead rested right in the hollow of my neck. "Not a single one of your stupid jokes."

"Okay okay fire empress."

She let out a soft, contented sigh, shifting her leg until it draped over mine, her soft weight anchoring me to the bed. The scent of her—pure fire and summer rain—completely filled my senses, pushing back the weight of the capital and the looming threat of the morning.

We lay there in the quiet, the rise and fall of her breath slow against my chest.

"Barry?" she murmured.

"Mm?"

"My heart is incredibly loud."

"I can feel it," I whispered, my hand tracing the slow, gentle curve of her spine.

I felt the faint, warm press of her lips against my collarbone—brief, lingering, and entirely real—before she settled deeper into my side, her grip relaxing as sleep finally tooking over her.

I thought she was asleep. Her breathing had slowed, and her fingers had gone slack on my sleeve. A sensible man would have let it be.

But I have never been accused of being sensible.

I turned over slowly, careful not to wake her. She lay on her side, facing me, the quilt pulled up to her chin and her hair spread across the straw pillow in dark waves. The lamplight caught the gold of her earrings and the faint rise and fall of her chest. In sleep her face was soft, her lips slightly parted, the stubborn crease between her brows finally gone.

I looked at her for a long time. Then I reached out and settled my hand on her waist. The vermilion silk was smooth and cool over the warm curve beneath it. She didn’t stir. I let my thumb trace a slow line along her side, over the narrow dip of her waist, and felt her breath hitch.

’Interesting’

I let my hand drift lower, unhurried, following the long line of her hip. The silk whispered under my palm. Her breathing had changed. My fingers slid over the swell of her hip and curved, slowly, onto her rear. She went rigid.

"Barry." She said slowly. and every word was edged. Her eyes were still closed.

" y-yeah?" I said, with great innocence.

"I am not sleeping."

"Ha-ha, i-i thought –"

"You knew I was not sleeping."

"W-Well ,i had my suspicions."

Her eyes finally open. They glittered in the dim light, looking angry and furious, and her face was already flushed to the tips of her ears. "Remove your hand."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"I said—" Her voice cracked slightly, and she swallowed. "I said remove it."

I didn’t move my hand. I didn’t squeeze, either. I simply left it where it was, warm and still, and held her gaze.

She glared at me. It was a magnificent glare, the sort that had frightened demon overseers. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her fingers curled into the front of my robe as if she meant to shove me off the bed. But she didn’t shove.

She didn’t say another word, either. She just lay there looking at me, and the anger in her eyes began to change. I watched it happen. It melted slowly, the way ice goes under a spring sun, until what was left was something darker and shakier and much harder to hide.

’He is so close.’

Qing Yan could feel his heat through the thin silk, the broad, steady warmth of his chest only a hand’s breadth from hers. His palm rested against her like a brand, and every nerve in her body had narrowed to that single point of contact. Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

’I should push him away. I should...’

But She didn’t. She thought of the cave, and wished she hadn’t. Her mind supplied the memory without permission: the heat, his weight, the sound of her own voice crying out his name. She had told herself it was the poison.

But there was no poison in her blood tonight. There was only the slow, golden pull she felt every time he looked at her, and the way her breath caught when he smiled, and the shameful, wonderful warmth spreading low in her stomach right now.

’I am not drugged,’ she thought, with a kind of terrified clarity. ’I am not out of my mind. But...I want this.’

Her body moved before her pride could stop it. She leaned forward, just a little, and her back arched, pressing her against him from chest to knee. A shaky breath escaped her lips. She felt his hand tighten at her hip in answer, and the sound he made, low and rough, sent a shiver racing all the way down her spine.

"Qing Yan," I said.

She was looking at my mouth.

I don’t think she knew she was doing it. Her eyes had gone hazy and half-lidded, and her lips were parted, trembling slightly. The lamplight shimmered in the dark of her irises. She was so close I could feel her breath on my chin, warm and uneven, and the soft weight of her against my chest made it very hard to remember my own name.