The child squinted. “She said you can fix fever and sore throats. Can you fix knees, too?”
“That depends. What’s wrong with your knees?”
“I fell out of a tree,” he declared proudly, lifting his trouser leg to reveal a spectacular scrape.
She laughed. “Ah. I see the tree won.”
As she cleaned the cut and wrapped it, other villagers began edging closer, their initial wariness easing—still curious, but now laced with warmth. The girl’s mother from before emergedto hand her a cup of tea brewed with mountain thyme and honey.
“Will you come again?” another woman asked.
“If you’ll have me,” JingYi replied.
Conrad leaned against a wall, arms folded, observing from a respectful distance. When she glanced his way, he waved and grinned. Heat rose in her cheeks—lower, in her chest, too.
Then, the sound of the street thinned. Conversations slipped, one by one. Faces turned—not to her, but past her. A child edged behind her mother’s skirt.
A voice, honeyed and cruel, lilted through the clearing.
“Well. What a charming little tableau.”
CHAPTER 20
JINGYI
JingYi turned to find LánYàn standing at the edge of the gathering, embroidered plum cloak lined with sable, chin tipped just high enough to season the air with disdain. RenHua and Mei Yün hovered behind, both dressed in their fine travelling coats.
“Oh, Princess,” LánYàn crooned in Xûengua. “How devoted you are, tending to villagers’ scrapes like a good little country wife. Lord Wulfbane must be proud.”
JingYi straightened, careful not to glance at Conrad, who’d come to stand beside her. His posture was taut and ready, though he couldn’t comprehend the words.
LánYàn’s smile sharpened. “Your noble husband looked so overcome when the veil lifted. Was it delight, I wonder, or disappointment?”
Conrad growled, “We’ve heard enough. I don’t even need to understand the language to know it’s cruel.” He asked LánYàn. “Aren’t you supposed to leave today?”
She patted her hair. “We are, thank the gods.”
“Don’t worry,” RenHua added. “We won’t spend a moment longer than necessary. Just waiting for the carriage to be readied.”
JingYi lifted her chin. “Then, don’t let us delay you. I bid you a pleasant journey.”
She turned toward the villagers to continue her work, but LánYàn stepped in and yanked her back.
“I haven’t dismissed you, Ugly,” she hissed.
LánYàn’s fingers flashed at Jing Yi’s waist—a twist, a sharp tug. Jing Yi’s hand swung to her belt a heartbeat too late, seeking the familiar pouch of her Heat suppression herbs. Her pulse kicked hard.
“My, what’s this?” LánYàn mused, dangling the pouch high. “A secret little remedy?” Laughing, she yanked it open with a vicious jerk, spilling its contents, and ground them beneath her heel. Stems snapped. Petals split—every careful ingredient Wu Ma and Feng had prepared, crushed to nothing.
The world fractured around Jing Yi. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears, and the vibrant green of the village square greyed at the edges of her vision. The scent of crushed angelica and fennel rose from the mud, only to be swallowed by the stench of wet earth and dung.
Dread coiled low in her belly. It wasn’t just medicine they’d destroyed. It was her defence. Her autonomy. The fragile wall between her and the terrifying surrender of her Omega nature. Without it, her biology was laid bare—scent unmasked, instincts raw, her next Heat a tidal wave she could no longer delay or soften.
And with Alexander so near, an Alpha whose very scent was now a physical pull she could no longer buffer against?—
“Princess?” Conrad’s voice was low, uncertain. He glanced between her and the giggling women, then down at the crushed herbs.
JingYi kept her hands at her sides, chin high. She would need a replacement quickly—perhaps from the castle garden. Less effective, but it would have to do.
