Page 98 of The Immortal’s Mark

Dumpling’s ears perk up at his name. He turns from his window-judgment to fix Tianlong with the patient, unblinking stare of a predator who has all the time in the world.

Tianlong’s tail twitches.

“The understanding,” he says with great dignity, “is ongoing.”

Same room. Same bed. Same ancient dragon bickering with my cat. Everything different.

Ren stands near the door, hands clasped behind his back in the posture I’ve come to recognize as his default—control, containment, careful distance. But there’s something uncertain in the set of his shoulders now. Something that wasn’t there this morning.

“I can take the floor again,” he says.

“You’re the emperor. Your spine is a national resource.”

“That is not—”

“Just get in the bed.” I hear the words coming out of my mouth and want to recall them immediately. Too late. “We’re adults. We can share a bed without—” I stop. Regroup. Try again. “Without making it complicated.”

He looks at me. I look at him.

Neither of us mentions that we made it very complicated approximately one hour ago against a market stall in front of the Heavens and everyone and possibly a fortune teller who definitely saw the whole thing and is going to have opinions.

“This is going to be a disaster,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Get in the bed anyway.”

He does. I do.

We lie side by side, still in our traveling clothes, staring at the ceiling. The bed is not large. It might have been large enough for two strangers who had never kissed in a crowded market square. It is not large enough for us.

Not touching. Very aware of not touching. The space between us could fit a whole other person, but it feels like nothing at all. I can feel the heat of him. Hear his breathing. Smell the faint remnant of jianbing grease and road dust and something underneath that’s just him—sandalwood, maybe, or whatever it is emperors smell like when they’re not being emperors.

“I enjoyed today,” he says quietly. To the ceiling.

“The part where you traumatized a rice merchant, or the part where a jianbing made you question your entire existence?”

“The part after.”

I don’t ask which part after. I know which part after. My lips still feel the ghost of it.

“Me too,” I say. And then, because I can’t just leave it there, because vulnerability without armor is a wound waiting to happen: “This is still a terrible idea.”

“I am aware.”

“We have a mission. There’s an ancient evil hunting us. We’re pretending to be married as part of an investigation into a conspiracy that’s already claimed three noble houses.”

“I am aware of all of this as well.”

“So we should probably be professional.”

“Probably.”

Silence.

“Ren.”

“Yes.”