In the early hours of the morning, the Typhoon No. 3 signal quietly passed. The heavy blackout curtains wrapped the mansion into an airtight cocoon the perfect environment for breeding nightmares that shouldn’t see the light of day.
Shen Yanzhou lay deep within his soft bedding, his sleep restless. His slender neck was arched back in distress, cold sweat had already soaked his hair at the temples, and his pale lips were parted in an unconscious gasp.
He was dreaming.
There was no light in the dream, only overwhelming, suffocating pheromones. A primitive, savage scent forced its way into his nasal passages, paralyzing his nerves and scorching his reason.
He couldn’t move.
A terrifyingly massive body held him pinned. The heart-stopping difference in size and weight made even breathing difficult.
His silk robe had been pushed up at some unknown point, leaving his naked body exposed to the damp, cold air. A pair of calloused, rough hands wandered wantonly over his skin; the palms were so coarse that the texture of the skin felt like sandpaper rasping against his soft flesh.
He struggled within the nightmare, trying to push the person away, but his hands were pinned behind him and his legs were forcefully pried apart.
Then, that person’s scorching, heavy breath ghosted over his neck. A rough tongue scraped over his fragile Adam’s apple, licking upward. The sound of wet friction was amplified infinitely in the silent dream, dripping with decadence.
Finally, the wet, hot tip of the tongue stopped at the most sensitive spot behind his ear his scent gland. A low, satisfied voice echoed against his eardrum. In the next heartbeat, sharp canine teeth pressed against the delicate skin of the gland, grinding and gnawing with just enough force to bring a terrifying pleasure the constant threat of being pierced, of being completely marked.
“Hah—!” The intense stimulation made him want to scream, but a powerful hand squeezed him, forcing his head back to endure a violent, deep kiss.
The man’s lips were scalding and dry, ruthlessly stealing all his breath and prying his teeth apart. A thick, powerful tongue drove straight in, swirling and sweeping through his mouth with wild abandon. The inner walls of his mouth were roughly abraded; his fluids were swallowed in large gulps.
Deprived of oxygen, his mind went blank. He was limp, left with no strength to fight back under the suppression of high-level pheromones. Under the dual torture of heat and hypoxia, his body shamefully betrayed his will.
Uncontrollably, he opened his mouth to welcome this storm-like possession, his nails digging deep into the man’s hot back, leaving behind red welts.
When he jolted awake from the absurd and erotic dream, the wall clock had just passed 8:00 AM.
The carnal intensity of the dream, which had felt like he was being devoured bone and all, vanished instantly, leaving only the dead silence of the room. Shen Yanzhou was drenched in sweat. His exorbitantly expensive silk pajamas were ruined, clinging wetly to his frame and highlighting the overly thin, butterfly-like protrusion of his shoulder blades.
He lifted his hand and heavily wiped his thumb across his lips. The skin wasn’t broken, but the sensation of his teeth being pried open and a tongue forcing its way in felt jarringly real. Looking down, the wound on his ankle was healing at an impossibly fast rate.
“I’m going crazy,” Shen Yanzhou frowned, his eyes turning dark. It had to be because he hadn’t sought release in too long, combined with the presence of an S+ Alpha in the middle of his rut downstairs. Those pheromones must have seeped through the door, triggering such an absurd dream.
Looking grim, he threw back the covers and walked barefoot into the bathroom.
The mirror reflected a cold, elegant face with a high brow and deep-set eyes—his usual arrogant, “everyone is beneath me” expression. The only jarring detail was the red tint at the corners of his eyes forced out by lust. It was an eyesore that irritated him.
He turned the faucet to the maximum and splashed ice-cold water onto his face, attempting to wash away the sticky heat of the nightmare. After finishing his morning routine, he changed into clean loungewear and walked downstairs with a blank expression.
In the living room, the mess from last night’s typhoon had completely vanished. The floor-to-ceiling windows, washed clean by the rain, were blindingly bright. Instead of the damp smell of mold, the air was filled with a very faint scent of lemon not sweet, but pleasant.
Shen Yanzhou’s gaze fell on the open kitchen. The man who had been full of murderous intent in the black-market cage last night was now standing at the counter with his back to him.
The man had clearly showered. His slightly curly black hair was slicked back, revealing a full, clean forehead and a sharp, angular profile.
He was wearing a white dress shirt that Shen Yanzhou had tossed into the laundry bin. He had apparently scavenged it for himself sensible enough, but while the high-end shirt looked loose and elegantly wealthy on Shen Yanzhou, it looked like an act of violence on a man nearly two meters tall with bulging muscles.
The fabric was dangerously taut across his broad back. With every movement of the knife, the “V-taper” of his musculature was faintly visible. To top it off, he had donned an apron left behind by the former butler, the strings tied in a tight knot at the small of his powerful, “public-dog” waist.
Sensing the gaze behind him, the man stopped and turned around. He possessed a handsome, wild face and a body with incredible sexual tension, yet his smile was strangely honest and a bit dim-witted.
It was jarring, no matter how one looked at it.
“Master? You’re awake.” The man set down his ladle and wiped his hands casually on his apron. His deep eyes lit up instantly, like a large dog wagging its tail while waiting for praise. “I saw it was about time. The porridge just finished simmering. The wind was heavy last night, so drink something hot to warm your stomach.”
Shen Yanzhou sat at the dining table, his gaze raking over the man’s calloused and scarred hands.
“I thought someone raised in a black-market cage would only know how to throw punches and bite throats,” he said softly. “I didn’t expect you to be capable of such delicate work.”
The man scratched his head awkwardly, revealing a grin that was honest yet carried a hint of rogue charm. “Before I went to the black market to fight, I spent two years as an apprentice in the kitchen of a food stall in Yau Ma Tei. Life was cheap then. If I didn’t learn a few tricks to please the chefs and the customers, I couldn’t even get a warm bowl of leftovers.”
The reason was practical and poignant, carrying the “street-smart” aura of someone who had crawled his way up from the bottom.
Shen Yanzhou withdrew his gaze and asked no more. A steaming bowl of porridge was presented with both hands. It was an incredibly authentic Liwan Boat-style Porridge.
The base was as soft as silk, the rice grains bloomed but not mushy, and it was packed with ingredients: tender fish fillets, golden crispy pork rinds, squid cut into wheat-ear patterns, and springy minced beef.
He picked up a porcelain spoon, ready to take a bite, but suddenly froze mid-air. He looked directly at the man.
“Thirty Million, who taught you to make it like this?”
The bowl was too “clean.” There wasn’t a single strand of ginger, no spring onions, and even the white pepper usually used for seasoning had been replaced with a few drops of lemon juice.
This was Shen Yanzhou’s extremely private, almost eccentric preference. Even the butler who had served him for years would occasionally forget. How could this man, who had been here for less than a day, execute it so precisely?
The man asked nervously, “What’s wrong? Is it not to your taste?”
“I don’t eat ginger or onions, and I don’t eat pepper,” Shen Yanzhou stared at him. “How did you know?”
“I… I guessed,” the man said softly, his fingers nervously gripping the edge of his apron.
“Guessed?” Shen Yanzhou sneered. “Even the lemon was a guess?”
“Mhm.” The man pointed toward the double-door refrigerator nearby, looking sincere and innocent. “When I was looking for ingredients, I saw a piece of ginger in the corner of the fridge. It was shriveled and untouched. I thought, a master as refined and elegant as you probably wouldn’t like that pungent, spicy taste.”
“As for the spring onions…” He smiled awkwardly, revealing two sharp canine teeth. “I noticed that Master always smells fragrant. I figured you wouldn’t like eating things with such a strong odor.”
“And the lemon juice… I saw half a cut lemon on the counter, so I took the liberty of adding a bit to cut the fishiness. Besides, when I first learned to make Boat Porridge, that’s how my teacher taught me.”
The reasons were terrible full of holes and coincidences. But combined with the man’s cautious, “please don’t kick me out” expression, the pathetic explanation seemed damn near plausible.
Shen Yanzhou languidly withdrew his gaze. The scrutiny in his eyes faded. The man’s eyes were too bright and direct; aside from a craving for meat and a desire to please his owner, there wasn’t a trace of depth.
True enough, he thought. What kind of deep scheme could a big oaf have, if he was starving for four days and got clubbed and sold? He likely just spent too much time in the gutter and learned to read people as a survival instinct.
Furthermore, this man was just a tool for breeding. Once he was pregnant, he would kick him out. There was no need to understand the man’s past.
He lowered his head and stirred the spoon. The porridge was timed perfectly; the fish was tender, and the lemon acidity melded beautifully with the savory base. The heat slid down his throat and into his stomach, quickly filling the void.
It was cursedly delicious.
However, this rare moment of comfort lasted only for half a bowl before the phone rang. Shen Yanzhou saw “Shen Xizhi” on the screen and answered. “What is it?”
“Brother, something went wrong at Kwai Chung Bay, Berth Four.” Shen Xizhi’s voice sounded agitated. “Customs just detained the shipment we were sending to Port Klang. They won’t release it.”
“Incomplete paperwork?”
“The paperwork is airtight, but they’re insisting it’s a ‘random inspection.’ They spiked the inspection rate from 5% to 100%. They want every container emptied and scanned.” Xizhi cursed under his breath. “Brother, someone is clearly messing with us. If we don’t clear the gates and get on the ship by 6:00 PM tomorrow, the contract penalty is the least of our worries the streets will start saying the Shen family can’t control the docks anymore.”
“Understood. I’ll be at the pier in an hour.” Shen Yanzhou cut the call and walked quickly to the walk-in closet. A few moments later, he was downstairs in a suit.
He reached the entryway. Just as he was about to lean over to change his shoes, a large shadow loomed over him.
The man had followed him. Before Shen Yanzhou could react, the man naturally dropped to one knee before him.
The man’s hands were truly massive. His grip caught the heel of Shen’s foot; when his fingers closed, he easily circled the slender ankle completely within his palm. Beneath the thin black silk sock, Shen Yanzhou could clearly feel the man’s body heat grinding slowly, inch by inch, against his protruding ankle bone through the smooth fabric.
That pressure, that rough texture, and that impossibly hot temperature.
It reminded him again of the shameful dream from this morning. In that dim nightmare, it was also a pair of calloused hands that ruthlessly clamped his ankles, ignoring his struggles to fold his legs and allow that massive body to hold him deeper.
His body reacted with a stress response faster than his brain. But the moment his foot tensed to pull away, the man sensed it and tightened his grip.
“Thirty Million, I can do it myself.”
“Master, don’t move.” The man didn’t look up, his thumb brushing very lightly against the ankle bone. “New shoes have stiff leather. Your hands are precious; don’t let them get strained.”
He kept his head down, fingers weaving through the narrow laces. His movements were slow and deliberate, filled with an inexplicable patience. He tied the last knot and even patted the hem of the trousers before standing up.
When he spoke again, his broken Mandarin was gone, replaced by a deep, authentic, old-school Cantonese:
“Zou di fan lei, ngo dung nei… fan uk kei.” (Come back early. I’ll be waiting for you… to come home.)
Shen Yanzhou froze where he stood.
That phrase it was so familiar. Yet it had been a very long time since anyone had said it to him.
“You…” He parted his lips to ask, but didn’t know where to begin.
“What is it, Master?” The man tilted his head, his eyes full of clear innocence.
The sense of strangeness in Shen Yanzhou’s heart was forcibly pushed down. Maybe… it really is just an illusion.
“I’m leaving,” he said coldly, avoiding those eyes as he pushed the door open.
With his departure, the mansion returned to a deathly silence.
The man slowly turned and walked back to the dining table. He picked up the porcelain bowl that was still warm and placed the spoon Shen Yanzhou had just used into his own mouth. His tongue swirled over the lingering fluids on the handle; his Adam’s apple bobbed violently.
Then, using that same spoon, he ate the remaining, cold porridge, bite by bite, with a sense of profound reverence.
It was like an indirect kiss.
He narrowed his eyes, savoring this secret and perverse intimacy, a satisfied smirk curling his lips.