The moment Wang Lee is yanked into the shadows between two walls, his body reacts on pure instinct—his index and middle fingers snap together in a lethal arc, primed for an attack. His cultivation flares to life like a coiled spring ready to strike.

  But just as he's about to unleash it—

  "A cultivator too?" Jiyin's voice cuts through the dark,

  A flicker of amusement bleeds into his tone despite the danger of almost being impaled mid-taunt. Wang Lee freezes mid-motion, realizing exactly who has him cornered.

  He lowers his fingers, his breathing heavy more from adrenaline than exertion. The shadows from the nearby torches flicker like fireflies across Wang Lee's face, accentuating the disbelief in his eyes.

  "Jiyin." His voice is tight, somewhere between irritation and surprise. "You can't just grab me like that."

  The words come out as a reprimand, but under the circumstances, they sound less like a scolding and more like a plea. Jiyin remains where he is though, a playful smirk curving his lips.

  Jiyin's grip tightens imperceptibly on Wang Lee's waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of his hanfu—just enough to be deliberate. When he speaks next, it's with a low murmur laced with mocking sweetness.

  "Jiyin?" he repeats, "And here I thought you'd call me 'Your Highness'... unless you prefer something more familiar."

  The unspoken challenge hangs between them like smoke—thick and suffocating. His other hand rises slowly as if considering whether to cage Wang Lee fully against the wall.

  Wang Lee's eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw tightening as the gravity of their positions registers—physically and figuratively. He's almost pressed flat against the stone of the palace wall, his body reacting in small, unconscious ways to Jiyin's proximity. His breaths are still slightly ragged, heart thudding a bit too heavily in his chest. He swallows, trying to maintain his cool even as a hint of irritation seeps into his next words:

  "Don't push your luck," he mutters, voice quieter but edged with warning.

  Jiyin's lips quirk, his gaze flickering over Wang Lee's face like a hawk watching its prey. He notices the subtle shift in his breathing, the tensed muscles beneath his clothes, and it only amuses him more. He takes another step closer, closing the gap between them until they're practically chest-to-chest.

  "Oh? And if I do?"

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  His hand at Wang Lee's waist slides fractionally higher, fingers grazing the edge of his dark blue as if toying with the idea of pulling him even closer.

  Wang lee takes a breath, trying to slow the sudden race of his heart as he responds.

  "You won't like the consequences."

  Jiyin moves closer still, his mouth barely a hair's breadth from Wang Lee's ear. His voice is a rough whisper, each word a dare.

  "But what if I do?"

  His hand slides higher, fingers grazing over the edge of Wang Lee's collarbone.

  Jiyin pulls back just enough to catch Wang Lee's gaze, his smirk still in place but now laced with something sharper—genuine irritation. His fingers pause against the dancer's collarbone.

  "Hmm so where is my thanks?" he murmurs, "Not even for stepping in when Lord Xiāo Háorán had you pinned like a common criminal?"

  The words are light, but there's an edge beneath them—a demand masked as playful teasing. He tilts his head slightly, waiting to see if Wang Lee will finally crack and admit he owes him something.

  Wang lee gaze meets the prince's gaze squarely—unwilling to give him even a hint of satisfaction.

  "A 'thank you' implies gratitude," he says coolly, "Not desperation."

  The air between them crackles at the jab, Wang Lee daring Jiyin to retaliate for that insult. His voice drops lower, almost taunting:

  "Or were you expecting something more personal?"

  Jiyin's fingers curl around the edge of Wang Lee's mask, his touch deliberate—slow. The air between them thickens as he tilts his head slightly, grey eyes dark with something unreadable.

  "Just want to see beneath..." he murmurs, "...it."

  The unspoken "you" hangs heavy in the silence. His thumb brushes against the silk of Wang Lee's mask before tugging it down just a fraction—enough for warmth to rush between their faces, not enough for full exposure.

  Wang Lee's breath catches as Jiyin tugs at his mask, his eyes widening slightly. He tries to keep his expression neutral despite the heat suddenly blooming in his cheeks at the proximity—the air warm and charged. He swallows, his voice coming out a little more breathy than he means:

  "And if I refuse to let you?"

  He's acutely conscious of the way Jiyin's gaze burns into his half-hidden face—like a challenge, like a promise. The moment stretches taut like a wire, ready to snap.

  Jiyin is quiet for a moment, his gaze flickering over Wang Lee's partially veiled face—studying him intently. His fingers, still curled under the edge of the mask, twitch imperceptibly as if fighting the urge to pull it down fully.

  When he responds, his voice is cool, almost detached despite the heat flashing in his eyes.

  "Then perhaps I'll just take what I want."

  Wang lee lets out a quiet scoff, trying to sound as defiant as possible despite the way his heart is suddenly trying to beat its way out of his chest.

  "Try," he challenges, lifting his chin slightly.

  The defiance in Wang Lee's voice and the defiant tilt of his chin send a thrill down Jiyin's spine—a thrill that he hides behind a smirk. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the edge of Wang Lee's mask, thumb gently brushing his cheek.

  "Oh, I will," he murmurs, his eyes dark with a dangerous edge, "After all... I always get what I want."

  His words fall heavy between them like the promise of a storm, and Wang Lee can practically feel the electricity crackling in the air.

  Wang Lee's eyes narrow, his breath catching briefly as Jiyin's thumb brushes against his cheek. His heart is thumping wildly, but he lifts his chin higher, refusing to give the prince the satisfaction of seeing him phased. When he speaks, his words are steady, his voice cool—though the slight hitch in his breathing betrays him.

  "Always?" he drawls. "That's a bold claim, Your Highness. Not everything can be bought."

  Jiyin's smirk only widens at Wang Lee's response—that small hitch in his voice not escaping his notice. He takes a step forward, closing the already small gap between them even more. His free hand moves to Wang Lee's hip, fingers splaying possessively against the silk of his shirt.

  "You're right," he says softly, his gaze roaming over Wang Lee's still-veiled face, "Not everything. But you..."

  He pauses, his thumb tracing the edge of the mask, as if contemplating.

  Jiyin's fingers slide beneath the edge of Wang Lee's mask, his grip firm but not rough—more like a promise than a threat. The silk brushes against Wang Lee's skin as he begins to pull it down slowly.

  "Let me see," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, "...just once."

  The mask shifts another inch lower—revealing just the curve of his jawline now. Jiyin holds him there with that same unreadable intensity in his ey

  es: waiting for resistance, for surrender... or maybe even both at once....

  And finally....

  ...