Zong Zhengheng set Qiao Shuyi down and straightened her clothing, which had nearly slipped to her waist.
“Shushu…” His voice was hoarse. “It’s raining. We should go back.”
After helping her dress properly, he tidied his own robes as well.
The earlier loss of control was gradually tucked away by him.
But Qiao Shuyi did not move.
She leaned leisurely against the tree trunk, tilting her head back, allowing the cold rain to fall on her face.
The rain blurred her eyes and brows.
“Zhi Gui, don’t you like the rain?”
Zong Zhengheng stood a few steps away, watching her.
“I do, because the rain clears our minds. Shushu… today, I overstepped.”
Rain can bring clarity.
Rain can also wash away many things—like blood, on oneself or others, and those unspeakable impurities.
So he truly liked the rain.
But Qiao Shuyi laughed.
“Overstepped?”
“Zhi Gui, I love defying conventions and despise following rules. I want to shock the world, not put on a respectable facade.”
Zong Zhengheng’s gaze flickered slightly.
“What are rules? They’re made for servants. What are proprieties? They’re chains to leash dogs.”
“And we—we are above others. We are the ones holding the leash.”
She looked at him, her glass-like eyes shining brilliantly, like two flames ignited in the rainy night:
“I hate restraint, I hate decorum, I hate propriety.”
“These are for others.”
She walked up to him, tilting her head to meet his gaze:
“Between you and me, we should overstep.”
Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on her toes, and leaned close to him.
“The world wants us to uphold propriety, but I insist on breaking the rules. Just like earlier, when you held me with murderous intent, I felt alive in that suffocation.”
Zong Zhengheng’s pupils contracted slightly.
She had sensed his murderous intent?
But why wasn’t she afraid?
Why could she still smile?
As if oblivious to the astonishment in his eyes, Qiao Shuyi raised her hand to caress his face:
“Zhi Gui, I love rainy days, and I love even more… those who go mad with me in the rain.”
Zong Zhengheng gazed at this fairy-like face, at these eyes brimming with madness—so contrary to her appearance—and felt wave after wave of turmoil rising within him.
Loving madness?
What a coincidence.
He loved it too.
Worldly conventions, rules, proprieties—he loathed them to the core.
But he was the Emperor.
He had to abide by them, endure them, and be the “enlightened ruler” in everyone’s eyes.
Yet why, as the Emperor, did he live less freely than she, a woman?
Zong Zhengheng lowered his gaze.
When he raised it again, the gentleness in his eyes had completely vanished.
In its place was the madness he had hidden for twenty-three years—his true self.
Then—
He pressed her against the tree trunk once more.
The heavy rain poured down, drenching them both, washing over their intertwined lips and scorching skin.
But they paid no heed.
They were reckless.
Reckless to the point—
Their clothes were shed at some point, soaked by the rain, lying in disarray at their feet.
Reckless to the point—
His hands traced every inch of her skin, every curve, every softness.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, tilting her head back.
Allowing the rain to pour over her face, allowing his hands to roam her body, allowing his scorching breath to brush against her neck.
And at this moment, Zong Zhengheng actually wanted to make her his woman in broad daylight, in the pouring rain.
What ordinary woman would ever agree to this?
Who doesn’t dream of a wedding night, of a grand procession with eight bearers, of the most formal ceremony transforming a maiden into a woman?
Yet she was different.
She wanted only this moment, only him, only to follow her heart’s desire.
Just as the two were about to cross that final boundary—
“Miss—!”
A voice pierced through the curtain of rain, calling from afar.
“Miss, are you and Zhigui Gongzi there—!”
It was Qing Yan.
Qiao Shuyi lifted her gaze, meeting Zong Zhengheng’s deep, dark eyes.
The madness within them was gradually receding because of Qing Yan’s call.
But this time, she did not stop him.
It was her first time.
It was also his first time.
If they were to give each other their first time in such circumstances—the one who would ultimately suffer physically would be her.
She gently pushed against his chest and climbed down from him.
Bending over, she picked up the rain-soaked garments, putting them back on one by one.
Her movements were composed, her demeanor calm and collected.
Zong Zhengheng silently gathered his own robes, his movements stiff as a marionette.
He lowered his eyes, his handsome face betraying no emotion, as calm as stagnant water.
Yet his heart was roiling with turbulent waves.
Absurd!
Utterly absurd!
How could he… how could he have almost… with her, in broad daylight?
How could he have allowed himself to reveal such a side?
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled.
Qiao Shuyi did not look at him, only lowered her head, unhurriedly tying a knot in her waistband.
But the corners of her lips curved slightly upward.
She knew only one thing—
Zong Zhengheng was the same as her.
She was well aware of Zong Zhengheng’s experiences from the book.
He had been bullied and neglected since childhood; later, even with power, he was bound by “rules” and “propriety.” Eventually, when he became Emperor, he was constrained by that position.
Who wouldn’t want to go wild without restraint, just once?
Ten days had passed.
From locking him in the Water Dungeon, to slapping him, to now entangling with him in the rain—
She had been waiting for this moment.
Waiting for him to teeter on the edge of losing control, for the undercurrents surging in his eyes to break through the dam, for his ruthless desire to devour her to show itself without concealment, for her to hear his burning gasps.
She was taming him.
And also assimilating him.
Letting him taste a flavor of unprecedented, unrestrained freedom.
Once tasted, it could never be forgotten.
Zong Zhengheng, can you still go back?
Can you still look upon the world with those restrained eyes as before?
Can you still continue to act out that affectionate facade for your white moonlight?
The rain blurred her vision, but it could not blur the determined light in Qiao Shuyi’s eyes.
Today, she was very satisfied, and also… excited.
Because she, too, enjoyed this madness, this loss of control, this moment teetering on the edge of reason.
When Qing Yan hurried over holding an umbrella, she saw two drenched figures from afar.
Her heart tightened, and she rushed forward, handing the extra umbrella to Zong Zhengheng while shielding her mistress with her own.
“Miss, the rain came so suddenly. It was my fault for arriving late, letting you and Zhigui Gongzi get soaked like this.”
Qiao Shuyi glanced meaningfully at Zong Zhengheng and said:
“Not late at all.”
Qing Yan continued her actions while lowering her voice:
“Miss, someone from the manor just came.”
“They said… Concubine Song has suddenly fallen gravely ill, unable to even leave her bed. Several physicians have taken turns examining her, and they all say… she won’t last more than three days. The Prince wants you to return to the manor immediately.”
Qiao Shuyi listened, her expression showing no hint of fluctuation.
She raised her hand to adjust her sleeve, her tone casual:
“Mm, let’s return then. It’s about time.”
Zong Zhengheng stood a few steps away, holding an umbrella, his brow slightly furrowed.
For these three days, he had hardly left her side.
She had not met with any outsiders, sent any messages, nor even released a single carrier pigeon.
If Song Chengyin’s “critical illness” was related to her, it could only mean she had arranged everything before leaving the palace.
To what extent, then, did her control over the palace reach?
A sudden chill crept up his spine.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
This woman was far deeper than he had imagined.
Qiao Shuyi.
He silently repeated the name in his mind.
Such a woman should not be kept.
How could someone who could so easily sway his emotions be allowed to remain?
Yet deep within his heart, a trace of fear he himself refused to acknowledge began to spread.
He was not afraid of her methods, nor of her schemes.
What he feared was—his own sinking, and his unwillingness to save himself.