Lu Yan was honestly torn between rage and laughter at his wife.
He bent slightly and simply gathered the man up from behind, hands under his knees.
Jiang Sheng, mid-chat: “Eh?”
He was still in his squatting position, hoisted into the air utterly bewildered.
Lu Yan’s voice was silky and sinister by his ear. “Having a nice chat?”
Jiang Sheng turned to him, the picture of innocence. “I was just asking what’s fun in the Capital.”
“Which led to the Male Brothel?” Lu Yan’s gaze lifted mildly to the three men, his smile perfectly pleasant. “Whose excellent idea was that?”
Three heads ducked like quails, shoving the blame back and forth.
Finally Jiang Sheng bravely raised his hand. “I asked.”
Lu Yan shot him a glare and murmured by his ear, “Wait till we get home.”
He cast the three a light, warning glance, then carried Jiang Sheng off.
The moment they were gone, three heads knocked together and the gossiping resumed.
“No beating with the paddle?”
“You want a beating?”
“The Prince really has gone gentle?”
“Maybe he’s just performing because the Master’s here?”
“You dare say that to the Prince’s face?”
Jiang Sheng was carried back like a kitten by the scruff.
Lu Yan’s foul mood wasn’t unjustified—Jiang Sheng had a record.
Jiang Sheng had always held himself to generous standards and others to strict ones.
A trace of someone else’s perfume on Lu Yan could flip the heavens—yet he himself had once sneaked off with college classmates to a bar to watch male dancers.
When Lu Yan hauled him home, he’d whined the whole way.
Back home, bent over Lu Yan’s lap for two swats, he’d wailed to the heavens about domestic abuse. Lu Yan hadn’t indulged him—after the spanking came the other thing, leaving Jiang Sheng without the strength even to cry. Finally, obedient.
Back in the main hall, the moment Lu Yan let go, Jiang Sheng scampered off, hands covering his backside, eyeing him warily. “I was just asking, that’s all.”
Lu Yan snorted and opened the food box on the table: a freshly made bowl of Iced Milk Curd.
Like a cat summoned by the crinkle of a plastic bag, Jiang Sheng, seeing Lu Yan holding a bowl that was obviously something delicious, crept obediently back and asked politely, “Is that for me?”
Lu Yan said flatly, “No. Watch me eat it.”
Jiang Sheng: “…”
Pouting: “Don’t joke about food with me.”
Lu Yan surrendered, handing over the spoon. “It’s too cold. Half only.”
Jiang Sheng took a bite—icy and sweet, basically ancient-times ice cream.
He nodded happily, not taking the warning seriously in the slightest.
Lu Yan paused. “Tomorrow morning I go to court. Wait for me at home like a good boy. If you want to go out, wait till I’m back and I’ll take you.”
Going to court.
What quaintly ancient words.
Jiang Sheng’s head shot up. Chewing on the spoon, he asked around it, “Husband, I’ve been meaning to ask—isn’t being a prince kind of hard?”
Lu Yan frowned. “What are you saying?”
Jiang Sheng swallowed his mouthful of Iced Milk Curd, tongue numb from the cold. “Being a prince, being Emperor—none of it can be simple.”
He leaned close, tilting his head up, speaking with utter seriousness. “Lu Yan, honestly, keeping me doesn’t cost much. We finally found each other again. All I want is for us both to be okay.”
Lu Yan’s thin lips pressed together. A long moment passed before he smiled faintly, reaching up to ruffle Jiang Sheng’s hair. “Don’t overthink. This isn’t a drama—no melodramatic plots here. Don’t worry. I can handle it.”
He bent and kissed his mouth. “Too cold. No more.”
The man plucked the spoon from Jiang Sheng’s hand.
Jiang Sheng kicked him in displeasure; Lu Yan, pretending not to feel it, polished off the remaining Iced Milk Curd in three big bites.
Jiang Sheng watched, dying inside.
Not one bite left for him!
Lu Yan had the dishes cleared, then gathered Jiang Sheng up to coax him. “The weather’s turning cold. Don’t eat so many cold things, or your stomach will ache.”
Two sentences of coaxing, then a mild threat: “It’s not like before, when there were pills to take. Here it’s only bitter herbal medicine.”
At that, Jiang Sheng behaved at once.
Ancient life was, frankly, boring.
Especially the nightlife.
Roughly nonexistent.
No electronics—no TV, no games. Jiang Sheng rolled around the bed in boredom until Lu Yan came in carrying a basin to wash his feet.
Thank goodness no other servants were present, or the sight would have scared them out of their seven orifices.
Jiang Sheng was used to being waited on by Lu Yan and saw nothing odd about it; he deliberately stamped the water, splashing everywhere. Lu Yan didn’t scold, letting him play.
When the fun was over, Jiang Sheng self-consciously decided to perform his duty as Princess Consort, saying gently, “Husband, come up on the bed. I’ll apply your medicine.”
Lu Yan toweled his feet, and holding his wife’s ankle, couldn’t help bending to kiss it. “What medicine? I’m the one who applies yours.”
Jiang Sheng’s injuries weren’t actually serious—his skin was simply too tender, mottled green and purple, ghastly to look at.
Jiang Sheng brought out the little bottle. “You’ve got so many scars. Way worse than mine.”
Lu Yan frowned. “Didn’t I tell you? Those are long healed. Old business. They don’t hurt.”
Jiang Sheng’s little face went stern. “Whether it hurts is for ME to decide, not you.”
Lu Yan, as always, had no counter. He shed his outer robe and sat on the edge of the bed.
Cool fingers, slick with ointment, traced each scar on his back. Strange—these were old, long-healed wounds, yet under Jiang Sheng’s fingertips they seemed to sprout new flesh, itching faintly.
Jiang Sheng’s touch was feather-light. He knew perfectly well these wounds had healed long ago, yet he couldn’t help going gently, as if afraid of hurting Lu Yan.
Lu Yan, back to him, eyes half-closed, voice a little rough. “Baby, really, don’t worry. These healed ages ago. It’s nothing.”
Jiang Sheng murmured, “Healed long ago. Then what about back then?”
Back then, was there anyone to apply your medicine?
Lu Yan turned and caught his wrist, dark eyes fixed on him. “Wife, I promise you—from now on I’ll do my best not to get hurt. All right?”
When he’d first transmigrated, on the battlefield, Lu Yan had fought with utter disregard for his own life. Survive if he could; dying was fine too.
His wife was gone anyway.
The complete picture of a widower.
It was different now. He’d found his wife. Someone’s heart hung on him now; someone ached for him.
He was going to live his days properly with his wife.
Jiang Sheng gave a soft huff and said nothing, pushing at him. “Put your robe back on. Who’s supposed to look at all those scars?”
Lu Yan was silent.
No good. He’d have to have the Divine Doctor brew him some scar-removal salve, or his wife would soon refuse to look at him at all.
Lu Yan silently turned to change.
In the instant he turned away, Jiang Sheng also turned his head aside, lifting a hand to wipe the corner of his eye.
In ancient times there were no lights to switch off—one blew out the candles—and no such thing as scrolling a phone before sleep.
Jiang Sheng burrowed into Lu Yan’s arms, pressed against his chest, blinking—but sleep wouldn’t come.
He hadn’t said a word, yet Lu Yan seemed to sense it, stroking his ear. “Baby? Is something bothering you?”
Jiang Sheng drawled, “Guess.”
Lu Yan: “…”
Transmigrate eight years and still face interrogation?
If he couldn’t answer, was he getting banished to the study again?
Eight years later, Lu Yan once more knew the terror of the study-exile regime.
He ventured, “I ate your Iced Milk Curd?”
Jiang Sheng snorted. “So you think I’m that petty?”
“Wouldn’t do it with you?”
Jiang Sheng was displeased. “So you think I’m that desperate?”
Lu Yan, out of options, sat up. “Is it the room, then? This place can’t compare to home. I’m not picky myself, but tomorrow I’ll have people redo it to your taste. There’s softer brocade in the storeroom, I’ll have them—”
Before he could finish, Jiang Sheng suddenly hugged him hard.
Lu Yan was always afraid of giving Jiang Sheng not-enough.
But Jiang Sheng knew this was already everything.
The manor he lived in, the brocade he slept on—every inch carved out by Lu Yan’s blade.
Lu Yan couldn’t tell what was wrong; he cupped Jiang Sheng’s bottom in his large hand and, the way he’d lulled him to sleep as a child, gently patted his back.
Jiang Sheng had started out sulking—yet within minutes he was patted to sleep… asleep… asleep.
The young Kitty’s gift: out the moment his head hit the pillow.
Lu Yan didn’t sleep. He simply held Jiang Sheng, bitterly thinking: it must be those Jiang Family people, scaring his baby half to death. Truly seeking death.
Jiang Sheng, for his part, slept wonderfully. By the time he woke the next morning, Lu Yan had already left for court.
Husband gone, he was a little put out, burrowing and rolling in the quilts, nuzzling Lu Yan’s pillow, rolling his hair into a bird’s nest before slowly getting up.
Who knew that lifting the bed curtains would startle him so badly the foot he’d just stuck out shot right back.
Outside stood two rows of servants, bearing brocade robes, copper basins, mouth-rinsing tea…
Waiting to attend his morning washing.
Even at home, Jiang Sheng had only ever had Lu Yan waiting on him. He’d never seen such feudal pomp; instantly he flailed himself back into the quilts, leaving only a fluffy head poking out.
He stammered, “You can just… set those down. I’ll do it myself.”
The servants bowed slightly, set everything down, and filed out. Only when they were gone did Jiang Sheng exhale, scramble up, throw on clothes haphazardly, wash in a rush, and push out the door.
There was a second trial waiting.
At the table, the moment his butt touched the seat, the servants who’d been standing with lowered heads moved as if on some secret signal—some ladling soup, some arranging dishes in his bowl, one step short of feeding him by hand.
Extravagance to rival Lu Yan himself.
