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Blood roars in my ears. The rain, the willows, the soft conversation of the girls, all peel away from me.

A sewing kit.

The information strings everything together: fragments of memories I have not paid heed to until this very moment.

A seamstress. His cajoling tone as he tried to tease out my past life. Did I guess true?

No. I just like to sew.

I thought it was part of the magic of this realm that gifted me a sewing kit. But I remember the night we went out to the sea, how I felt his gaze on the gloves I’d sewn for Méi’zi, the way he guided me to walk on water. Can you think of it as sewing? Each current of energy is a thread being stitched, and you simply have to stitch the opposite way, in tune.

This is the part of me that I haven’t even shown to Méi’zi or Mā or Bà after our kingdom fell, for fear of disappointing them—that they would think for a moment I was unhappy in giving up my needles and threads to learn to protect them. Somehow, in a few short weeks, Yù’chén has glimpsed the girl who once wished to sew oceans.

For the crime of theft. Jǐng’xiù’s voice echoes in my mind. The crack of each lash against Yù’chén’s back, the silence in which he bore them. The slight movement to his hands as he searched for something to hold on to afterward.

The Spring of Healing Essence is in the remotest corner of the gardens. The downpour of rain roars in my ears as I run, but I don’t care. I know where I’m going.

I round an outcrop of jagged rocks, and the hot spring comes into view, its waters steaming gently despite the rain and the cold. Red petals are strewn across its surface, gilded by the lambent light of lanterns in a nearby pavilion.

Beneath a cluster of willows and flowering cherry trees, Yù’chén leans against a boulder, his eyes closed. Steam curls his hair, and he has shed his crimson cloak and black shirt to bare his skin. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his back. Between his corded muscles, the flesh is shredded and red. The lash wounds are already closing, perhaps from the healing energy of the spring and the demonic magic that runs in Yù’chén’s veins.

He opens his eyes as I approach, but he doesn’t look at me. His expression is walled off as it was back in the Hall of Radiant Sun. “Come to tell me I deserved it?”

A hundred questions and words tumble through my mind, yet I know that if I speak them aloud, everything between us will come crashing down.

“I came to ask if your crane reached Méi’zi,” I say. My voice is tight, my fists clenched.

His lashes flutter. He looks exhausted.

“What do I get if I tell you?” His voice is low, harsh, and he tips his head back, closing his eyes with a sigh. “What can you offer me, little scorpion?”

I swallow, thinking of the first time he spoke those words to me. What could he want that I wouldn’t give? I would give my flesh and blood to ensure Méi’zi’s safety. I would give my soul to save hers.

But I realize that this isn’t just about Méi’zi anymore.

I owe him. I owe him more than I can imagine.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” I whisper.

Yù’chén’s eyes crack open a sliver. They flash red as he assesses me. Through the steam, I can make out traces of darkness threading his skin: his demon’s ichor, running through his veins, likely helping him heal.

Abruptly, he says, “Your life energy. I’ll take some of your life energy to help me heal faster.”

I swallow. “Fine,” I say. “First, show me.”

He reaches for his cloak, laid out on the bank, and pulls out a feather that seems to shimmer between silver and shadow. He blows on it.

The feather dissolves into light and darkness, swirling together to become an orb. Within, a scene forms, and I bite down a gasp. It’s my house! Everything is slightly stretched and fuzzy, and I realize I am looking through the crane’s eye as we soar down to the front door. My breath catches, and I actually reach forward, as though I can step into the feather’s magic and transport myself back home.

The shadowcrane lands. In the predawn light, I see the gleam of the wards that I’ve put up around the house. The bird cocks its head, then turns to the old plum tree. Carefully, it places my gloves next to its trunk.

Then it flies behind the tree and settles in to wait.

The sun’s glow lights up the sky. The front door opens, and Méi’zi steps out, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She’s in the pajamas I gifted her, the ones with the pink plum blossoms in my unrefined stitching. I notice Shield strapped to her hip.

She glances around; then her eyes go to the gloves at the base of the tree. Tentatively, as though not daring to believe it, she creeps over and picks up the gloves. She stares at them, studying them as she runs her fingers over the stitches, discerning the signature to the patterns and weaves.

Suddenly, she breaks into a smile and her eyes fill with tears. “Jiě’jie,” she whispers and hugs the gloves to her chest.

“Méi’zi,” I gasp, but she’s turning around and going back into our house, and she can’t hear me—“Méi’zi! Chūn’méi —” My voice cracks.

The magic of the feather is spent, and the memory dissolves, and I’m left looking into Yù’chén’s face. He’s watching me now, his eyes burning deep crimson.

My cheeks are wet as I whisper, “Tell me it’s real. Tell me that wasn’t a lie you made up.”

“It’s real,” he says.

The rain is a deluge, roaring down through the canopy of flowers and willow leaves. I’m completely drenched, kneeling on the muddied banks of the hot spring, just an arm’s length from him. Steam wafts between us, coiling through the red petals drifting in the bloodied water. Something has shaken loose inside me; my walls are breaking, and it’s too late to salvage.

I lift my gaze and break through the last of it. “Why did you steal the sewing kit?”

He stares at me; his lips part in a breath. I see it, that momentary slip to his expression before it locks up again.

“To gain your trust,” he replies. “To get close to you.”

I stare at him. “Why?”

He lifts a hand and crooks a finger at me. My muscles lock. He’s going to take some of my life energy.

I am afraid, but I refuse to run. The only path to him is through the water.

I slip into the spring. The water is hot, but I’m trembling, cold sluicing through my veins. With each step I take toward him, a memory grows clearer inside me: the image of that beautiful red-lipped woman, drinking my father’s life energy, lips pressed to his as though in a lover’s kiss.

I feel sick. I draw to a stop before Yù’chén, breathing hard, my crescent blades in my hands. He’s splayed against the bank in the water, watching me with narrowed eyes. Slowly, he stands, water sluicing from him as he leans over me.

“Why?” he repeats. “So you can be indebted to me. So you can willingly proffer your flesh and blood to me, wicked demon that I am.”

My heart’s pounding wildly, but I force my hands to be steady as I raise Shadow to my palm. “If you’re going to take it,” I say, “then just do it.”

Yù’chén catches my wrist just as my blade arcs toward my flesh. He brushes my hand aside. His eyes are as dark as pools of blood as he trails a finger up my neck. I feel my life energy stirring in my chest, following the stroke of his finger, welling up in my throat.

When Yù’chén’s hand comes to grip my jaw, it takes every ounce of my willpower to hold still.

He is not going to consume my life energy through my blood. He is going to drink my life energy the way the Higher One drank my mother’s soul nine years ago.

His finger trails to the soft curve of my throat. He pauses, eyes flashing as he meets mine. His thumb presses against the flutter of my pulse.

“Do you fear me?” he murmurs.

“No,” I lie. “I hate you.”

“Good,” he says, and then he lowers his lips to mine.

We don’t touch. Instead, I feel the soft caress of his breath against my cheek, the cold of his inhale. My life energy wells up from my throat and pours from my lips to his, faintly golden like scattered sunlight. I’m shaking, but whatever I’m waiting for—pain, helplessness, the feeling of my soul slowly being drained from me—doesn’t come. Around us, the rain continues to fall, steam billows from the hot spring, and Yù’chén merely draws in another breath.

His grip has loosened, and his eyes have fallen shut, eyelashes sweeping dark crescents against his cheekbones. His fingers cup my jaw, his thumb tracing strokes against the crook of my neck. Like this, he looks as though he might be asleep; like this, he looks exhausted. Blood from his wounds darkens the water around us.

Why did you steal the sewing kit?

He’s stopped drinking my life energy, I realize. He stands in place, swaying slightly, his thumb caressing my throat in slow, circular motions as he coaxes my life energy up. As our breaths tangle, he cracks his eyes open. His pupils are dark, dilated, and I’m transfixed by the golden glow of my life energy reflected within them. They roam up my face before trailing back down to my lips.

Yù’chén doesn’t take another sip. Instead, his other hand comes up to hold the small of my back. Slowly, he dips his head. His gaze flicks up, meeting mine. Holding it.

When I don’t move, he finally brushes his lip against mine.

His touch is electric, a spark that roars into a fire surging through my veins. Before I know it, I’m kissing him back, my hand reaching for his cheek, twining into his hair. I hold him, the way I wished to and the way I should have back in the Hall of Radiant Sun. His mouth is hot, near feverish, and he tastes like salt and blood and a hint of midnight sweetness.

Yù’chén exhales, as though finally surrendering himself. His fingers tighten around my waist, and he pulls me closer. Asking for permission.

I give it.

He pulls me against him with a splash. I gasp—the water is hot, the rain cold against my skin, and with his fingers digging into my waist and his mouth against mine, my body is a tumult of sensations. That all settles into an intense focus as he leans against the jagged rock and draws me so I’m positioned over him.

I hook my legs around his waist and give a shaky exhale at the hard fit of his body against mine, his head lifted to gaze up at me as though in supplication. His eyes are dark, endless pools, and I feel as if I’m falling into an eternal night as I lower my face and kiss him again.

He’s slow, soft this time, his lips moving down my jawline and my neck as his fingers move up the bare skin of my leg. My dress drifts around my waist in the water, exposing the crescent blades strapped to my thighs and the thin sheet of undergarment between my legs. The rain and water have made my dress translucent, and I close my eyes as his mouth moves down my collarbone, then lower. I clench my fingers against his chest and he makes a noise low in his throat.

“Never without your blades, little scorpion?” he murmurs, his hand playing on one of my straps.

I slide Poison into my palm and hold it to his throat. “Never,” I whisper.

He pushes against the blade, testing, as he takes my lips again, and I do nothing to stop him. His throat is at my knifepoint, my blade digging into the corded muscles of his neck, but he leans forward and I yield, yield, until I feel my dagger’s hilt against my own chest, my frantic, pounding heart. His hands trace up my bodice, caressing circles against my breasts and igniting a desire low in my belly. His breath hitches as he shifts his hips, the rough scratch of his pants pressing deeper between my legs. The ache inside me builds, and I inhale sharply, gripping the back of his neck and burying my fingers in his hair.

“àn’yīng,” he murmurs against my mouth, and I dig my nails into his skin. He makes another noise in his chest, then suddenly, he flips us so that I’m splayed against the edge of the spring and he is pinning me to the banks with his body. I gaze up, and between the sparks of pleasure misting my senses comes a bone-deep, instinctive stab of fear. I have been in this position before, trapped and helpless as prey.

Yù’chén blinks slowly, studying me. In the next breath, he pulls me up, straightening us so we are face to face, my crescent blade curving between our chests. He is gentle again, his hand around my wrist, placing my blade to the soft curve of his throat. Putting me back in control.

“àn’yīng,” he repeats, my name like a supplication on his lips. Through the flutter of my lashes, I see that his eyes are on me, dark, heated, and hazy. There is a frantic edge to the way he kisses me now, cupping my face in his palms as though he’s afraid I’ll vanish. As his fingers brush my cheeks, my jaw, the nape of my neck, I can’t help but think of how he held me back on that island of nightmares.

Of that prone, lifeless body the huà’pí showed him as his worst fear.

“Yù’chén,” I whisper against his mouth. “What did you see in the forest?”

He draws a swift breath; his eyes fly open.

And then he pushes away.

I blink, frustrated, desire still pulsing through every nerve of my body. He’s breathing hard, his hair in tangles over his chest. The water between us is red with blood and dotted with petals.

“No,” Yù’chén says, his voice ragged. There is a wild, haunted look to the way he gazes at me, as if I am a ghost. The moment of terror passes, and his expression steels.

I stare at him, my heart pounding. “What did you see in the forest?” I repeat.

Yù’chén’s eyes darken. Then he’s gone, walled up and shuttered with that same stony expression he had back at the Hall of Radiant Sun tonight. “You should go,” he replies, turning his face away.

“What did you see, Yù’chén?”

He looks at me again. “Nothing that concerns you.”

I curl my hands into fists by my side, humiliation stinging my cheeks. “You saved me. You were there because of me. And then you told me to leave. You gifted me that sewing kit, and you bore the punishment for it without telling me.” We’ve been dancing the same dance all along: drawing closer to each other before pushing away. I’m tired of it. “Why?”

Yù’chén tilts his head away from me. His jaw is tight. “?‘Why?’?” he echoes, and when he looks at me again, I can’t make out the expression he wears. “àn’yīng, you told me I disgusted you. That you didn’t want to think of me as anything more than a monster. I would be remiss to force you to spend any more time with me than necessary.”

In the past, I might have convinced myself this was all a ruse: helping me, showing me qīng’gōng, even stealing the sewing kit…but tonight, back in the Forest of Nightmares, something between us changed irrevocably. The way he held me at my most vulnerable moment has broken through the last of my defenses.

“I’m sorry, Yù’chén.” My voice is soft, because I owe him those three words. And then, because tonight, in that forest, he protected the softest, deepest part of me, I give him a truth. “I want to know you. Who you are.”

His lips part; I cannot read the expression on his face, but it’s gone the next moment. He grips the ledge of the pool, locks of his hair hanging over his face. “No, you don’t,” he says at last. “Don’t forget, little scorpion, that this is all a game.”

The cold steals in between us with the rain. My dress clings to my bare skin, and I think of how his hands on me earlier did not feel like the touch of someone who didn’t desire me.

Worse, I think of how I crave it.

I hoist myself out of the water and wrap my arms around myself. I’m exhausted, physically and emotionally; the illusions from the Forest of Nightmares have drained me entirely, so there is no fight in my voice when I reply. “I’m not playing your games, Yù’chén. The trials are enough as it is.” I cast a glance back at him. He’s still standing at the edge of the spring, rigid, as though locked in place. His eyes are dark as he gazes at me.

I touch my hand to my lip. “With all the life energy I gave you, I’ll consider my debts paid.”

Then I turn away and walk through the Celestial Gardens, the rain cold against my skin.