Ming Yuhe harbored feelings of man and woman toward the figure in the painting. That figure was Luo Xinci.
Although Luo Xinci and Ming Yuhe shared no blood relation, she was living under the identity of Ming Niansheng. In his eyes, she was his sister, bound to him by the same bloodline.
Luo Xinci shrank into the corner, covering her face in despair. Before entering the capital, Ming Niansheng had told her that this elder brother was a favored son of heaven, far beyond her reach, and she had little memory of him. But she reassured Luo Xinci: though Ming Yuhe might not care much for his younger sister, as long as she did not provoke him, he would not make things difficult.
Luo Xinci had believed her. Now, curled behind the narrow bookshelf, recalling Niansheng’s words against the reality she had seen since arriving in the capital, she realized everything had been overturned—except perhaps Princess Shao’an’s character.
Most of all, Ming Yuhe was utterly deranged!
His obsession with “Ming Niansheng” was, in Luo Xinci’s eyes, no different from Luo Yizhou’s twisted desire for her.
Just imagining Luo Yizhou behaving like Ming Yuhe—caressing her portrait with tender eyes in the dead of night—made her shudder. She now suspected Ming Yuhe’s murder of Marquis Wuling was not born of father-son enmity, nor of righteous vengeance, but of sheer madness. She had heard of such people: born with a frenzy in their veins, compelled to do what society forbids, chasing the thrill of transgression. That madness flowed through bloodlines, passed down generation after generation, without end.
Behind the bookshelf, Luo Xinci could not recover from the thunderbolt she had just endured. The more she thought, the more terrifying Ming Yuhe seemed.
Meanwhile, in the study, Ming Yuhe sat calmly at his desk. His gaze drifted to the silver lotus-shaped candlestick at the corner, its polished petals reflecting the room in the candlelight. He noticed the hem of a garment peeking out from behind the shelf. His lips curved in delight. Then he spread a fresh sheet of paper and leisurely began sketching his “beloved.”
When Luo Xinci finally regained her senses and saw his serene, unhurried manner, it struck her like another blow.
A son of heaven, a noble of the capital, outwardly dignified and elegant—who could imagine that within he was foul, a beast who scorned kinship and human bonds!
Unable to face such a warped sibling affection, Luo Xinci longed to abandon everything, pack her bags, and return to Linzhou, even to exchange back the heart she had borrowed from Ming Niansheng.
But first she had to escape Zhaixing Pavilion.
Ming Yuhe had killed Marquis Wuling, disguising others to cover his tracks; he hid his feelings for “Ming Niansheng” from the world, soothing himself only with her portrait in the dead of night.
“Close at hand, yet I cannot touch.” He had said this before. He knew his desires were unspeakable, and he still possessed reason.
So long as she pretended ignorance of his sick obsession, he would continue to suppress it and would not act out against her.
With this plan, Luo Xinci felt a little steadier, waiting patiently for her chance to leave.
Time blurred. At last, Ming Yuhe rose, once more caressing the painted figure with deep affection. He sighed, lifted the candlestick, and walked toward the stairs.
He was leaving! Luo Xinci’s spirit jolted awake, and she straightened quickly. All this time she had been cautious, silent even under shock.
But at the final moment, disaster struck. As she shifted her waist, a piercing numbness spread from her shinbone. Her legs seemed to vanish beneath her, and she toppled forward. Instinctively, she clutched at the bookshelf beside her.
The golden nanmu bookshelf could not withstand the sudden weight and shifted several inches. Besides books, it held incense burners, inkstones, and other ornaments. As the harsh scrape echoed across the floor, a tall, wide-mouthed porcelain vase at the top began to wobble.
*Crash—!* The porcelain fell and shattered, its thunderous crack splitting the silence of the night.
Luo Xinci gasped sharply. Through the gaps between books and incense burners, she saw Ming Yuhe turn, raising the candlestick. “I hadn’t realized this study hid something. Is it a person or some stray little cat?” His voice was soft, tinged with amusement, and it made Luo Xinci’s hair stand on end.
Regret flooded her. Her legs, numb from long stillness, could not support her. One hand clutched the gauze curtain, the other braced against the shelf, while her terrified eyes fixed straight ahead. In her panic, she even considered meowing like a cat to bluff her way out.
But Ming Yuhe lifted the candlestick higher, slowly advancing toward the shelf as he spoke: “Tonight I’ve laid bare many secrets that must never be known—patricide, deceiving the throne, plotting usurpation, harboring desire for my own sister. Each one is condemned by the world… so why fear one more wild cat? Don’t you agree?”
Shame and fury nearly killed Luo Xinci. If not for that last revelation, she might still cling to survival by standing firmly at his side. But now, with this twisted affection exposed, what could she do? To know his secrets yet reject his feelings—surely Ming Yuhe would kill her. Accept him? Luo Xinci would rather die.
Through the gap she saw the hem of his robe. His strides were long, yet unhurried, each step like a drumbeat pounding against her heart.
The candlelight grew brighter. Ming Yuhe drew closer. Just as he reached the shelf, about to face her directly, a shrill cry rang out from outside: “Fire! Help—!”
Ming Yuhe halted, glancing toward the window.
Luo Xinci recognized Lianxing’s voice. In that instant, inspiration struck. Summoning all her strength, she shoved the bookshelf outward, then curled up and covered her ears.
The shelf toppled, ornaments cascading like water. Books thudded, porcelain shattered. The gust stirred by the collapse flickered the candle flame twice before it sputtered out.
The study was plunged into darkness.
Luo Xinci seized the moment and dashed out.
At the instant the candlelight went out, she deliberately glanced at Ming Yuhe’s position. If she was fast enough, she could brush past his arm and slip around him. She remembered where the staircase was—run down, hide behind the rockery, then pretend she had only come out of Yunshang Residence after hearing the commotion. Ignoring the ache in her calves, she sprinted forward. A faint trace of incense clung to Ming Yuhe, so close it seemed only inches away. Her heart pounded, but luckily, whether distracted by the chaos outside or unsettled by the sudden darkness, Ming Yuhe made no move. She managed to skim past his arm and crashed against the wall. Following the wall forward, she found the stair rail. Fearing he might relight the lamp, she dared not pause—drawing a deep breath, she charged along the rail.
Just as she judged she must be near the stairs, a voice suddenly breathed against her ear. “A girl.”
The tone was low and lingering, ghostly in the dark. Hot breath brushed the back of her ear.
Luo Xinci shuddered violently and bolted without looking back. Unable to see her footing, she missed a step. Her balance broke, and she was about to fall—when her waist tightened abruptly. A strong arm looped around her from behind, hauling her up. Her heels lifted off the ground as she was swung half a circle back onto the landing. Her scream rose to her throat, but the thought of Ming Yuhe recognizing her—and what might follow—forced her to swallow it down.
“Runs quite fast,” Ming Yuhe remarked with a note of approval.
Pinned against the wall in pitch blackness, Luo Xinci could see nothing. Yet she felt his breath on her forehead. He released her, standing before her, head bent in scrutiny. His arm braced at her waist, a silent warning: move, and he would seize her again.
“Come, let me see who dares so boldly.”
Though the room was utterly dark, she dared not lift her head. Her breath came quick and shallow, palms slick with sweat, and she fought to steady it lest he recognize her by sound alone.
“No words?” Ming Yuhe clicked his tongue. “I may scorn propriety and morals, but when it comes to affection, I am steadfast. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? My devotion to Niansheng runs deep. Unless necessary, I will not touch another woman.”
Pressed against the wall, Luo Xinci’s head spun. Such ‘steadfastness’—better never to have it!
“But every rule has its exception,” he mused. “Catching a thief to know her face is no intimacy. At worst, I’ll kill you afterward. Niansheng won’t mind if I’ve touched a dead girl.”
As his words fell, Luo Xinci felt something brush her cheek. The instant of contact told her it was his fingers. He meant to identify her by touch. She knew his intent, but could not stop the memory of him caressing the painted figure not long ago. Now she was the painted figure, about to be stroked the same way.
A nightmare come true.
Her scalp prickled. She jerked her head aside, seized the hand at her cheek, and without hesitation sank her teeth into it.
“—Tss!”
Taking advantage of Ming Yuhe’s pain, Luo Xinci flung off his arm and bolted headlong down the stairs.
On the first flight, she misstepped again, but luck was with her—she caught the railing and avoided a disastrous tumble. Her footsteps drummed down the stairway like a sudden summer storm, echoing away into the distance.
Ming Yuhe did not pursue. Instead, he moved to the window, pushed it open, and saw flames rising from the nearby garden, servants and maids rushing in panic to put out the fire.
Closer by, in the glow of the blaze, he caught sight of a slender figure staggering out of Zhaixing Pavilion. From behind the flowering trees, someone quickly emerged to support her.
A guard lurking in the shadows glanced up at the window. Ming Yuhe shook his head, allowing the pair to vanish behind the rockery. He lingered at the window for a while. Then a guard came in to light the lamps.
Turning back, Ming Yuhe’s gaze fell on the portrait of Luo Xinci, still unrolled. After a moment, he lifted his forefinger and tapped her painted forehead, his tone gentle, almost intimate: “Good sister, are you satisfied with tonight’s visit?”
As he spoke, his eyes dropped to the bite mark on his palm. The mark was small but deep, blood welling up, still damp with her saliva.
Ming Yuhe’s face darkened. His voice turned cold as he ordered: “Bring water!”