Stepping out of the underground confinement, Ye Mochen instinctively narrowed his eyes, unaccustomed to the light outside.
He buried his face even deeper into the hollow of Ran Weiyi’s neck, greedily drawing in that scent that brought him peace.
The fragrance slipped into his breath like the strongest sedative, instantly soothing the emotions that hovered on the brink of collapse. His tall body leaned closer to hers.
That complete, unquestioning trust made Jiang Pei’s eyes sting.
He had followed Master Mo for so many years—had seen him cut through gunfire without hesitation, had watched him dominate negotiations like a god of war—yet he had never once seen him this… docile.
This was not the tyrant who would tear everything apart.
This was clearly a giant dog that had been lost for three days and nights and had finally been brought home.
The carpet was so soft it swallowed all sound, leaving only a gentle sensation beneath their feet.
Ran Weiyi led him to the massive black leather sofa in the center of the living room.
He didn’t resist. Not even for a second.
She told him to walk—he walked.
She told him to stop—he stopped.
She lightly pressed his shoulder, and he followed her guidance, sitting down on the soft couch.
The deep cushions caught his exhausted body, yet he still clung tightly to her hand, refusing to let go.
Standing a short distance away, Jiang Pei opened his mouth, his voice carrying a faint, barely noticeable choke.
“Miss Ran…”
Ran Weiyi didn’t turn back. Her gaze never left Ye Mochen.
“I need a first-aid kit,” she said calmly.
“Clean warm water and towels.”
“And a bottle of strong liquor—for disinfecting.”
Her voice remained steady as she issued each instruction.
“Yes! I’ll get them right away!”
Jiang Pei practically jogged toward the storage room, swift and efficient.
Soon, only the two of them remained in the living room.
Ran Weiyi lowered her eyes and used her free hand to touch his other hand, which hung limply at his side.
His wrist was covered in red marks left by metal shackles during his struggle. In some places, the skin was broken, tiny beads of blood seeping out.
How much strength had he used to struggle like that?
She couldn’t even imagine it.
Her fingertips brushed lightly—slowly—along the edge of the injured skin.
Ye Mochen’s body stiffened again.
Not from pain.
But from an unfamiliar sensation—being treated gently, for perhaps the first time.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked softly.
Ye Mochen didn’t answer.
He simply stared at her with those eyes, dark and bottomless.
Those eyes that had once burned with crimson flames were now clean, like obsidian washed by rain, clearly reflecting her worried expression.
After a long while, he shook his head—very slowly.
The motion was stiff, yet unmistakably clear.
That small shake made Ran Weiyi’s heart soften.
She knew he wasn’t without pain.
He just didn’t know how to express it anymore.
Or perhaps… he had long forgotten how.
Because no one ever cared.
Jiang Pei soon returned with the first-aid kit and warm water, setting them carefully on the coffee table before retreating several steps and lowering his head, not daring to intrude.
He knew better than anyone how strong Master Mo’s territorial instincts were.
Especially in this state.
Ran Weiyi wrung out the warm towel and carefully wiped away the blood and grime from his wrist, bit by bit.
Her movements were light and unhurried, as if she were handling a priceless treasure, afraid she might break him.
Ye Mochen’s gaze shifted from her face to her hands as she cleaned his wounds.
Warmth spread from his wrist, carrying that soothing medicinal scent.
The violent urge to destroy everything was completely smoothed away by such tenderness.
“It might hurt a little.”
She switched to a cotton swab dipped in strong liquor. A rich, sharp scent instantly filled the air.
She reminded him softly.
“Bear with it.”
She didn’t act right away. Instead, she gently covered his clenched fist with her other hand, using her body heat to calm him.
“It’ll stop hurting soon,” she promised.
The alcohol-soaked cotton swab finally touched the torn skin.
A soft hiss of breath escaped him.
Ye Mochen’s body tensed abruptly, every muscle line standing out in sharp relief.
He didn’t cry out in pain.
He only tightened his grip on Ran Weiyi’s arm, squeezing harder and harder.
He stared at her as if only by looking at her could he withstand the pain surging through him.
Ran Weiyi paused for just half a second.
She didn’t even look at her arm, now aching from his grip. Instead, she lifted her gaze to his clenched jaw.
Cold sweat had formed at his temples, his lips pressed into a pale, tight line.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said, her voice growing even softer, coaxing.
Standing at a distance, Jiang Pei pinched his thigh hard.
Not a dream!
Afraid? Pain?
Good heavens!
Back then, when someone had tried to assassinate Master Mo and he’d taken a knife to the abdomen, the doctor disinfected the wound with alcohol—he hadn’t even blinked, only complained that the doctor was too slow.
So what was this now?
Clutching Miss Ran’s arm because it hurt?
No—that expression was wrong.
Jiang Pei studied it carefully. That look Master Mo was giving Miss Ran… rather than enduring pain, it looked more like— asking for her sympathy?
An absurd thought popped into Jiang Pei’s mind.
This wasn’t pain at all.
Master Mo was… acting spoiled.
“I’ll blow on it. If I blow on it, it won’t hurt anymore.”
Without caring whether he understood, she really did bend down, leaning close to his mangled wrist.
Warm breath brushed over the alcohol-burned wound, again and again, gentle and light.
The gesture was childish—almost ridiculous.
From a short distance away, Jiang Pei stared.
Blow… on it?
Was he seeing things?
The Master Mo who showed no mercy even under torture… needed someone to blow on his wound?
If this got out, all of Shencheng would have their jaws on the floor!
Jiang Pei felt his worldview being rubbed raw against the ground. What he was seeing today—was this even the same Master Mo?
Ye Mochen’s tense muscles visibly relaxed, bit by bit.
The strength in his grip faded, though he still didn’t let go—his hold turning loose, almost absent.
An entirely defenseless trust.
Ran Weiyi continued, carefully applying ointment to every wound, her attention unwavering in each movement.
Jiang Pei stood in the distance, back straight.
He watched the man who had always regarded others as dust—who even he could not easily approach—now gentle like a tamed beast.
Allowing that petite woman to tend to his most savage wounds at his most wretched moment.
Ye Mochen’s gaze never left her face.
Light spilled down from above, edging her lashes with a soft golden glow.
In those eyes, usually calm and unreadable, was now a clear reflection— of the injuries on his wrist.
Only his injuries.
That realization made his heart, barren for twenty-eight years, feel— for the first time—almost full.