Chapter Forty: Storms Gather

Upon hearing this, Zhao Qingwu realized that he had never truly been qualified to speak of loving Mo Qinghan; his affection, compared to He Zheyu’s, was nothing more than the tip of an iceberg.

He Zheyu said, “Just because someone utters the words ‘I love you’ doesn’t mean they truly understand what it is to love.”

As He Zheyu took a few steps toward the door, Zhao Qingwu’s voice sounded behind him: “You’d better hold her hand tightly and never let her drift away from you. Because if you ever let her go, I won’t hesitate to take her from your world.”

He Zheyu replied coldly, “You’d better resolve things with Yuru first. Don’t let her cause trouble for the girl at school every day.” With those words, he left.

Zhao Qingwu remained seated alone in the boxing ring.

When He Zheyu returned home, he quietly opened the bedroom door. Without entering, he could hear Mo Qinghan’s steady breathing as she slept, her face adorned with a gentle, contented smile. He turned and headed for the bathroom.

After his shower, He Zheyu was afraid the sound of the hairdryer would wake Mo Qinghan, so he left his hair damp, poured himself half a glass of red wine, and settled in the living room. The moment he set his glass on the coffee table, Mo Qinghan appeared, wearing his white shirt. The shirt hung loosely, unbuttoned to the third button; her waist-length hair was a little tousled, her feet bare, and her sleepy eyes gazed at him. After a few seconds, both spoke in unison: “What happened to your face?”

Mo Qinghan shrugged, her tone light and unconcerned. “Someone mistook me for a romantic rival and hit me.”

“Oh?” He Zheyu drew out the sound, already guessing that, aside from his imperious niece, there could be no other culprit.

He asked, “And you didn’t hit back?”

Mo Qinghan recalled how she’d used the hickey on her neck to provoke He Yuru, and how helpless that had left her. The satisfaction was no less than slapping her outright. Clearing her throat, she countered, “You haven’t told me what happened to your face!”

He Zheyu smiled. “What a coincidence. I was hit by an actual rival in love.”

Seeing He Zheyu so at ease, Mo Qinghan concluded that everything had gone as he expected. Mimicking his earlier tone, she echoed, “Oh?” and walked over to him, settling herself on his lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she said sweetly, “Then he must be in worse shape than you!”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” he asked.

Mo Qinghan withdrew one hand from his neck and gently traced his swollen cheek with her fingers, answering his question with another: “Doesn’t it hurt for you?”

He Zheyu’s lips curled into a smile, his gaze growing more alluring. “If I said it hurt, would you have something to ease the pain?”

Tilting her head, Mo Qinghan replied with a crisp, clear voice, “Of course!”

He Zheyu, curious to see what tricks this little wildcat in his arms might play, played along and cried, “It hurts so much! Hurry and bring me some pain relief!”

Mo Qinghan, feigning shyness, picked up his wineglass from the table, took a mouthful of red wine, and before He Zheyu could react, pressed her moist lips to his. The wine flowed from her mouth to his, their tongues meeting in the exchange.

She drew away, but their faces remained close.

A faint smile played at the corner of He Zheyu’s mouth. The collar of Mo Qinghan’s shirt dipped low, and at this proximity, he had an unobstructed view of the landscape before her chest. His gaze deepened, and desire tinged his voice as he said, “Little one, are you trying to set me on fire?”