The sedan jolted along.
Jiang Sheng, hands and feet bound, couldn’t move at all, bounced until he nearly vomited.
It wasn’t a proper grand wedding, but it was still a marriage bestowed by the Empress Dowager—yet the North-Guarding Prince’s Manor hadn’t even hung a single red lantern, making it plain they couldn’t care less about this Young Master Jiang.
Only a steward came out to receive him. Perhaps he’d taken the Jiang Family’s money, because he actually had the gall to have servants carry the man straight into the Prince’s bedchamber.
Jiang Sheng’s feet were bound; he couldn’t walk, so two servants simply hoisted him up.
Even now he had the presence of mind for gallows humor: why did this feel exactly like one of those TV dramas where the consort gets delivered for the night?
In his imagination, the North-Guarding Prince was some hulking, blood-drinking brute.
Having a man like that touch him… the mere thought made Jiang Sheng want to vomit.
He closed his eyes, fingers tightening around a silver hairpin—slyly palmed while the Jiang Manor was dressing him up.
Worst case, they’d die together!
Unfortunately, Jiang Sheng’s heroic resolve was quickly dashed. Even having taken the money, the servants were careful; they patted him down and found the hairpin in his hand with ease.
The servant snatched it away with a sneer. “Young Master Jiang, don’t do pointless things. With those skinny arms and legs of yours, you couldn’t hurt our Prince if you tried—you’d only die more miserably. Why bother? Serve him well, win the Prince’s favor, and you might keep your life.”
Serve him?
In his dreams!
Jiang Sheng spat, hard.
The servant shrugged indifferently. “If you insist on dying, no one can save you.”
Nearly two days without food—only a couple bites at the Hunter’s—left Jiang Sheng weak with hunger, and now the hairpin was gone too. Utterly dispirited, he let them manhandle him, and when they finally dumped him in the room, he curled into a limp heap in the corner.
The door opened and shut.
The vast bedchamber held only Jiang Sheng now.
Listening until all was quiet, he cautiously raised his head and looked around—until his gaze locked straight onto the table.
Several plates of pastries, exquisitely made at a glance. Jiang Sheng swallowed hard. He was starving, front pressed to back, and at this moment any earth-shattering matter was forgotten; only the food on that table remained in his eyes.
If he must die, he’d die a full Kitty!
The problem was… his hands and feet were tied!
Jiang Sheng cursed Jiang Yuan furiously in his heart, but in the end his growling stomach won. Gritting his teeth, he made his butt the pivot point and bounced up off the floor.
What a useful butt!
Straining to keep his balance, he hopped toward the table like a little jiangshi zombie. With no hands, he could only bend over and stretch his neck—and just as he was about to bite into a pastry, movement sounded outside and someone pushed the door open.
The sudden noise startled Jiang Sheng; he jerked backward, lost his balance, and toppled straight onto the floor.
Thud.
Lu Yan, one foot through the door, heard the sound and his face went cold. He tilted his head. “Who is in this Prince’s hall?”
The servant beside him smiled obsequiously. “It’s the Jiang Family’s young master. Just delivered.”
Cheng Jing drew a sharp breath.
Anyone with eyes could see how much the Prince despised this Jiang Family young master—and yet this servant had dared, on his own initiative, to deliver the man right before the Prince.
Truly tired of living.
Sure enough, Lu Yan’s face showed nothing at the words, but he abruptly laughed, asking with apparent interest, “How much silver did the Jiang Family give you?”
The servant froze, then dropped to his knees, shaking all over. “This slave didn’t—Spare this slave, Your Highness, spare me!”
Lu Yan lifted his chin slightly; the guard beside him moved at once, gagging the man and dragging him out.
Knowing there was something filthy inside, Lu Yan’s mood turned foul. He snapped, “Throw him out and deal with him!”
If something this filthy touched him and Shengsheng got angry and stopped entering his dreams, what then?
The more he thought, the more irritated he grew, his face darkening terribly.
Cheng Jing didn’t dare delay. He answered and pushed the door open.
The door had been open just now; Jiang Sheng had caught fragments of the sounds outside—the servant’s wailing pleas for mercy, like a great hand clenching tight around his heart.
Trembling, he scooted backward inch by inch, huddling into the corner.
Was this North-Guarding Prince really as terrifying as they said? Was he going to be made into a human-skin lantern tonight?
However fearless Jiang Sheng had acted before the Jiang Family, in the face of death, instinctive terror still gripped him. He bit his lip hard, weeping silently, tears smeared across his face.
The footsteps drew closer.
However much Jiang Sheng hid, he couldn’t hide inside the wall.
A tall figure appeared before him.
In truth, Cheng Jing was in an awkward spot too.
This Jiang Family young master was pitiful enough—crying like this, delivered bound.
But in the North-Guarding Prince’s Manor, sympathy was the most useless thing.
If Lu Yan wanted him dead, who would dare vouch for him?
As the Iron-Armored Guard’s hand reached toward him, Jiang Sheng steeled himself, ducked his head sharply, and bit down hard on the web of his hand.
Cheng Jing hadn’t expected such a small young master to have this much nerve—or such sharp teeth. He hissed through his teeth, abandoned all gentleness, and grabbed Jiang Sheng by the collar to haul him out.
Jiang Sheng struggled with all his might, but his meager strength was nothing in Cheng Jing’s eyes.
In his panic, he cried out instinctively, “Don’t touch me… Lu Yan, Husband, save me!”
The man who had just walked in froze mid-step.
That voice…
And then Jiang Sheng was hauled up by Cheng Jing to be dragged out, face covered in tears—and by chance, his eyes met the man’s at the doorway.
In that instant, he forgot even to cry or struggle.
He blinked his eyes, and asked dazedly, “Hu… Husband?”
Likewise, Lu Yan stood rooted, staring at the person across from him in disbelief.
In that instant everything around them seemed to dissolve; only the person before him remained. His ears rang again—all sound gone. He opened his mouth, but not half a word came out, his throat as if plugged.
Was his eyesight failing? Or was he ill again? No—no, his head didn’t hurt.
Lu Yan’s body swayed violently—and then, actually stumbling over his own feet, he ran forward.
Cheng Jing was startled by his Prince, thinking he meant to strangle this Young Master Jiang on the spot.
He’d just opened his mouth to urge calm—
when the next instant, Lu Yan caught the man in his arms.
Right there in front of him, fiercely, tightly embracing that young master of the Jiang Family.
Cheng Jing: “…?”
Lu Yan had never been so at a loss. Overwhelming joy drowned him, followed hard by panic and helplessness.
Was this real?
In the eight years since transmigrating to Great Gan, he’d had dreams like this so often—he’d hold Shengsheng, and wake to find everything empty, everything false.
Lu Yan loosened his hold slightly, trembling hands gripping the man’s shoulders, dark eyes sweeping over his face inch by inch.
Eyes cried red, lashes still beaded with tears, a small mole to the left of his nose tip, soft red lips…
It was his Shengsheng. Real, alive, warm—his Shengsheng.
At last Lu Yan squeezed two words out of his throat, trembling, hoarse.
“Wife?”
…
Cheng Yu came over and, from a distance, watched his younger brother crouched on the ground pulling at his own hair. “What’s wrong with you?”
Cheng Jing looked up. “Brother, slap me.”
Cheng Yu jumped. “What?”
“I might be poisoned,” Cheng Jing said blankly. “I just saw the Prince hugging Young Master Jiang.”
Cheng Yu froze too, then muttered, “Really is poisoned, huh?”
“No wait… then where’s the Prince now?”
Cheng Jing answered listlessly, “Threw me out, then stayed inside with Young Master Jiang. Probably still hugging.”
“…”
They were, indeed, still hugging.
Jiang Sheng had been crying the whole time, clinging to Lu Yan like a little rice cake, sobbing until he could barely breathe.
Lu Yan, having recovered what he’d lost, was hardly calmer than Jiang Sheng; his eyes hadn’t left Jiang Sheng’s face, as if terrified the man would vanish if he blinked.
The red silk binding Jiang Sheng’s hands and feet was untied. He hung off Lu Yan like a little pendant, smearing tears all over his neck.
That was enough—any more crying would hurt his eyes.
Lu Yan gently patted Jiang Sheng’s back, voice hoarse. “There, baby, no more crying.”
Jiang Sheng was a little tear-bucket; the tears wouldn’t stop. “Husband, I missed you so much. Husband, I finally found you.”
Lu Yan wiped his tears and bent to kiss his lips. “Baby, I missed you too.”
Missed him half to death.
Lu Yan had never dared imagine that one day he would truly see Jiang Sheng again.
He touched Jiang Sheng’s cheek again.
Not a dream.
“Glub-glub.”
A stomach growled, rudely loud.
Jiang Sheng gazed at Lu Yan pleadingly, lips wobbling. “Husband, I’m hungry.”
The manor’s small kitchen kept only one cook on night duty, but at the North-Guarding Prince’s word, even the cook in his blankets was hauled out. The kitchen roared with activity, straining to produce a full imperial banquet.
Lu Yan held Jiang Sheng in his arms, feeding him bite by bite, but Jiang Sheng was too starved to wait, complained Lu Yan was too slow, took the bowl himself, and ate without lifting his head.
Seeing this, Lu Yan’s heart ached; he quickly ladled him a bowl of soup. “Slow down, baby. Slowly.”
Jiang Sheng, mouth stuffed full, mumbled, “I was starving to death. I haven’t eaten in two days.”
The man’s eyes darkened.
How had Shengsheng come to Great Gan? How had he become Young Master Jiang and been delivered here? How much had he suffered on the way? Who had bullied him…
Lu Yan had so many questions, but said none of them—only held the bowl, occasionally feeding Jiang Sheng a couple spoonfuls of soup.
No rush. He’d found Shengsheng. Everything else could be handled slowly.
At that thought, the man’s face gentled, and he coaxed, “Baby, one more sip of soup, to moisten your throat.”
Outside the door, Cheng Yu and Cheng Jing had begun shoving each other, each hesitating to go look. In the end Cheng Yu was shoved in by his brother, stumbled, and flung the door wide—then saw this scene and recoiled as if he’d seen a ghost.
Interrupted mid-meal while feeding his wife, Lu Yan shot him a dark glance and was about to bark a rebuke—then remembered Jiang Sheng was sitting right there, and swerved, forcibly softening several degrees.
“What is it? Something wrong?”
Hearing the Prince speak so gently, Cheng Yu’s hair nearly stood on end. His lips quivered as he stammered, “N-nothing… this subordinate slipped.”
Lu Yan nodded. “Then get out. If we don’t call for you, don’t disturb us.”
Cheng Yu fled as if granted amnesty.
The moment he stepped out, Cheng Jing swarmed him. “Well? Still hugging?”
Cheng Yu looked dazed. “Little brother… I think I’m poisoned too. I’m going to the Divine Doctor to get my pulse checked.”
Cheng Jing: “…”
It was the most Jiang Sheng had ever eaten; his little belly was round and full, and if Lu Yan hadn’t held him back he’d have kept going.
“Any more and you’ll make yourself sick. It won’t digest well at night either.”
One arm around Jiang Sheng’s waist, Lu Yan’s large hand rested on his little belly, rubbing it in slow circles.
He hadn’t done this in eight whole years, yet it felt as familiar as if he’d done it only yesterday.
Lu Yan exhaled heavily, a feeling like his very blood set alight and boiling.
Then Jiang Sheng suddenly whimpered, “Husband, I hurt all over.”
Lu Yan froze, instantly anxious. “What’s wrong? Are you injured? Let me see.”
Jiang Sheng looked up at him, and all the grievance stored up over these days finally poured out.
“Husband, when you weren’t here, they all bullied me.”
