Volume One, Chapter 7: Wicked Thoughts
Chu Xingzhi had no idea what he’d crashed into, and for a long while he couldn’t get up. Seeing this, the crowd immediately gathered around him, voices overlapping in concern, “Young Master Chu, are you alright?”
The man didn’t spare Chu Xingzhi a single glance; instead, he helped Song Qingyu to her feet.
Only then did they get a clear look at the man’s face. His expression was like the shadow from the depths of hell—grim and terrifying—sending a cold shiver through everyone present. Yet when he looked at Song Qingyu, his features softened. “Are you alright?”
Song Qingyu hadn’t expected to see Pei Jingmo here. She shook her head slightly. “I’m fine.”
Chu Xingzhi’s face was as pale as paper as he staggered to his feet. Song Qingyu looked at him, anger and desolation mingling in her gaze. This man, who claimed to love her, had, in front of so many people, torn at her clothes and trampled her dignity underfoot. If Pei Jingmo hadn’t appeared, she really...
Nothing is more sorrowful than a dead heart. She stared at Chu Xingzhi with an expressionless face. “He is my husband. From now on, there is nothing left between us.”
With that, Song Qingyu turned to Pei Jingmo. “Let’s go.”
Pei Jingmo nodded. As he led Song Qingyu away, he glanced back at Chu Xingzhi. That look—
Cold as death, as if he were gazing at a corpse.
Chu Xingzhi watched their departing figures, then looked down at the blood welling from his palm, cut by shards of glass. He stood there as if his soul had left his body, mumbling under his breath.
“Qingyu, I’m bleeding…”
Before, even the slightest injury would send Qingyu into a panic, but now...
She’d walked away with another man.
She really didn’t want him anymore.
—
Outside, at some point, rain had begun to pour, fierce as if the sky itself were weeping, tears streaming down. Song Qingyu shivered in the cold wind. Suddenly, a coat was draped over her shoulders, carrying the clean scent unique to Pei Jingmo.
The biting wind was blocked by his tall, slender frame.
She glanced up at him. Because of the shadows cast by the lights, Pei Jingmo’s face was unclear, but she could sense the tension in him.
“How are you here?” she asked.
Pei Jingmo wrapped her tightly in his coat, leaving only her bright eyes visible. “Part-time job.”
It was only then that Song Qingyu noticed Pei Jingmo was dressed in the staff uniform of the club: a crisp white shirt, black vest, and signature black bow tie.
Her expression shifted. “You just got in a fight—can you go back to work?”
“Offending Young Master Chu, I doubt I can.”
Song Qingyu pressed her lips together, her face darkening. “I’m sorry.”
Pei Jingmo wanted to pat her head but restrained himself, afraid she might be startled.
“The car’s here. Let’s go home first.”
Song Qingyu nodded. She was about to step down the stairs when suddenly she was lifted into his arms.
“Hey…”
“The ground’s dirty. Don’t soil your shoes.”
Song Qingyu was embarrassed. “It’s fine if they get dirty. It doesn’t matter.”
“They do matter.”
Pei Jingmo said no more, carrying Song Qingyu into the car.
The rain was relentless. Pei Jingmo shielded Song Qingyu in his embrace, his clothes and back soaked through, yet not a single drop touched her.
When they arrived home, Pei Jingmo carried Song Qingyu through the door. Despite her protests, he wouldn’t relent. Song Qingyu realized for the first time how stubborn Pei Jingmo could be.
Once inside, Pei Jingmo set Song Qingyu on the sofa, ignoring his own drenched state, and knelt in front of her to examine her injuries.
On her slender wrist, the marks of fingers were stark against her pale skin, the bruises shocking in their intensity.
Perhaps because of his fierce appearance, Pei Jingmo, unsmiling, was intimidating.
Song Qingyu knew he meant no harm, and seeing his concern, she smiled to reassure him. “These little wounds will heal soon.”
Noticing how soaked he was, she quickly said, “Shouldn’t you change your clothes and take a shower first?”
No sooner had she spoken than Pei Jingmo’s long fingers reached toward her. Instinctively, she shrank back.
Pei Jingmo curled his hand into a fist and withdrew, leaving without a word.
His expression was truly terrifying.
Song Qingyu took out her phone and used the camera to check her neck, finding a red scratch—likely caused by Chu Xingzhi’s nails during her struggle.
Pei Jingmo returned with a medical kit. He took out cotton swabs and disinfectant. “Lift your head.”
Song Qingyu wanted to say she could handle such minor injuries herself, but seeing Pei Jingmo disregard his own discomfort to help her, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse.
Her graceful neck was elegant as a swan, skin whiter than snow, glowing faintly beneath the light. The gentle curve of her neck complemented her delicate jaw and graceful collarbones. Pei Jingmo’s gaze grew shadowed, a wicked urge rising within him; he wanted nothing more than to bite down, consequences be damned.
As he applied the medicine, they were very close.
As soon as Song Qingyu opened her eyes, Pei Jingmo’s face was right before her. His body radiated heat, even his breath was warm.
When the disinfectant stung her wound, she instinctively shrank back.
A soft breeze brushed her skin, easing the pain.
Only then did she realize Pei Jingmo was blowing gently on her wound. Her heart raced uncontrollably.
“Is it... is it done?”
“Almost.”
Seeing Song Qingyu’s flushed cheeks, Pei Jingmo clenched his jaw, suppressing his inner turmoil, daring not to tease her further.
If he pushed any more, before he could win her over, he’d explode himself.
Afterward, he took out medicinal wine and tended to the marks on her wrist.
“These bruises need to be massaged. It’ll hurt; bear with it.”
Song Qingyu breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright.”
Pei Jingmo’s movements were skillful—clearly used to treating injuries. His hands were calloused, likely from hard labor.
As the calluses brushed her wrist, there was a tingling sensation, but it didn’t really hurt.
Looking at Pei Jingmo’s cropped hair, Song Qingyu murmured softly, “Thank you for today.”
She hadn’t expected Chu Xingzhi to lose control. If not for Pei Jingmo, she wouldn’t have known what to do.
Pei Jingmo looked at her. “I am your husband. Protecting you is my duty—there’s no need for thanks.”
Song Qingyu froze. “But we are—”
“I know this is a contractual marriage. But as far as I’m concerned, we’ve registered our marriage, and even if it’s just for a year, you’re my wife.”
Pei Jingmo’s gaze was deep, his tone gentle yet persuasive.
“I also know why you married me—so others believe we’re a real couple. If you want them to believe it, you have to treat me as your genuine husband. If you yourself don’t believe we’re married, how can anyone else?”
His words were so reasonable, Song Qingyu could not refute him.
“You’re right.”
—
Chu Xingzhi refused to believe Song Qingyu had married so suddenly. He immediately ordered an investigation.
The results came back: Song Qingyu, once single, was now registered as married.
“Impossible!”
In a rage, he swept everything off his desk, like a trapped beast, roaring and repeating, “Impossible!”
“Mr. Chu…”
Lin Tiange rushed to embrace the frantic Chu Xingzhi from behind. Seeing him like this, her heart ached and tears streamed down her face. “Mr. Chu, don’t do this.”
Hearing Lin Tiange’s voice, Chu Xingzhi’s fury reached its peak.
He yanked her arm aside and hurled her onto the sofa, gripping her throat, eyes bloodshot.
“It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t insisted I take you to see the new apartment, Qingyu wouldn’t have found out, and I wouldn’t have lost her—”
Lin Tiange’s face reddened rapidly from lack of oxygen, her breath labored. Yet she gently stroked Chu Xingzhi’s hand, trying to comfort him. “It’s my fault. If my death could bring Miss Song back to you, I would gladly die—”
Staring down at the agonized woman beneath him, Chu Xingzhi flung her aside in disgust. “Your death is worthless, but I won’t become a murderer.”
Ignoring her painful coughing, he turned coldly to his assistant. “I want every piece of information on that man!”