“It’s not too late.” My tone sharpened. “I have not agreed. You are free to make your escape.”

“I will never be free of you.”

Drawn by the warmth in his tone, I tilted my face up to his. He lowered his head, his lips brushing mine tenderly, then pressing harder. His hand cradled my cheek, his fingers threading through my hair. Heat kindled in my veins as he drew me closer. I melted against him, reveling in his touch. Neither of us spoke again but for the language of our tangled breaths, silencing the voices in my mind, burying all thoughts of the perils that lay ahead.

At least for now.

Chapter 8

Our morning meal was a quiet affair with no guests to entertain. The sisters from the Golden Desert had left, perhaps sensing our unease or having heard rumblings of the emperor’s displeasure. I was glad, in no mood for idle conversation. My mother placed a bowl of congee before me, the rice cooked to a silken texture, dotted with crimson wolfberries, tendrils of ginseng, and tender pieces of chicken. Salted egg slices with vermilion yolks adorned the surface, along with a handful of roasted peanuts and shavings of spring onion.

As I lifted the porcelain spoon to my mouth, the wards pulsed in warning through my mind. I stiffened, turning to my mother and Liwei. “We have visitors.”

Liwei set his bowl aside. “How many?”

I pressed a hand to my temple, trying to discern the new arrivals. “A dozen or more.”

“We will make our excuses,” my mother said tersely. “After that fraud ‘Master Gang,’ we will shelter none beneath our roof.”

I had told her of his true identity, and how he had maligned us to the Celestial Court. I did not want her to be caught unaware by his trickery again.

Footsteps thudded along the corridor, growing louder, their stride measured and unhurried. How dare they enter our home uninvited? They either felt entitled to, or did not fear the consequences—my gut twisting at the thought.

The doors were thrown open. Celestial soldiers marched into the room, their swords strapped to their sides. At the sight of them in my home, a coldness descended upon me, of old dread merged with new terrors.

A wiry immortal with a pointed jaw strode forward—Minister Ruibing, a high-ranking Celestial courtier. His pupils were ringed with brown like watermelon seeds, his lips thin and wide. Dark-red brocade robes swished around his shoes, an oblong piece of flat jade gleaming from his ceremonial hat.

My mother’s face paled as she bowed in greeting. “Minister Ruibing, to what do we owe this honor?”