The Emperor's favorite lotus

II.

The walls of the room still smelled of blood and terror as the demons finished cleaning, tidying and arranging what had been a dungeon into a room fit for a future concubine.

The Emperor's red eyes followed the lines of gold in the jade decorations on the new shelves, of the patterns in the new stone on the floor, the green of the translucent curtains around the large bed specially made for the many activities that swirled in his dreams. His face barely changed, the smile he never managed to form approving of the closets bursting with clothes of different shades of white and green, of blocks of inks, brushes and blank papyrus. Screens divided the zones in the illusion of intimacy, wicker boxes of the highest caliber with sweet-smelling incense. Bookcases filled with scrolls, books woven with the knowledge to please any scholar for years. Against the silence of the loneliness, one could hear the running of the rivers of the water fountain among fresh bamboos, the last detail to the new prison of that illusion.

It was no wonder that the false Luo Binghe failed to find that Shen Qingqiu. The gates to that part of the castle were jealously guarded by seals the Emperor himself had created. Even in his eagerness to torture his Shizun, he was controlling, possessive. Humiliation was a dish to be enjoyed in public, but his expressions of anguish? The tears wrenched away by whips, by blows? Part of his nights of pleasure were reached with the echo of the teacher screams in the back of his brain, the taste of flesh against his teeth more delicious than that of his multiple wives.

Perhaps it was fate that, now, those four walls would now be unique witnesses to a new kind of pleasure for the half-demon. The last and ultimate humiliation at his fingertips.

The figure in black stepped forward to the table in the central area of the room, there on the carpet of his personal trademark, unique black and red detail just like him. Would Shizun be pleased with that discordant note? Luo Binghe narrowed his eyes, the innocence of the questioning ironic in solitude.

The idea was, of course, mere chink in the relationship with his past master. Shen Qingqiu did not deserve that connotation or weight in his own decisions, but the grip remained on the heart. The edges of his lips trembled as he recalled the fight against his fake self and the gaze full of tenderness that man gave him, the grimace that came to form laden with the dark aura of vengeance. As long as he remained there, Shen Qingqiu was not to forget the purpose of his presence nor the true master of his life.

He would understand that, if he could replace him, his breath would be extinguished as quickly as a candle against the scourge of the hurricane.

The impulse of ideas made Luo Binghe snap his fingers, the mark on his forehead abrasive as the blood that could be read in his pupils. After the instant of an apology, the doors opened with the drama of everything around him. He rested some of his weight on his elbow as he dropped half sideways to the floor, his chin against his hand, the face of apparent gentleness framed in the darkness of his abundant curly hair. His lips half-opened, fangs glistening in anticipation of soon to be thrust into tender skin.

Luo Binghe swallowed as he met the dull jade in Shen Qingqiu's eyes, up there on top of the palanquin meant only for the empress. His figure shrouded in white was ethereal, unreachable, equal to the deities the Demon King had had his fill of dethroning. The black of his hair was the perfect contrast against his masculine yet delicate features, an aura of perfection now that he was clean and clothed again. The expression of deep revulsion arousing in Luo Binghe both uncontrollable rages and desires of the basest kind.

The rhythmic step of the servants was a drumbeat, their faceless forms bowing in time so that Shen Qingqiu would not lose his stability. As he did so, the brightness of the room crept across the man's fingernails, as new and polished as a newborn's, the arms with many pink areas and no scars, smooth to both sight and touch. Equal to Shen Yuan's, the memory of his embrace still searing his skin.