The Eleventh Year of Zhengshi

Huan Xingjian’s hand tightened around the slender curve of her waist. His voice was like a bared blade—cold, yet laced with a lingering, silken obsession. "Now that you are within my walls, tell me: who else would dare claim your hand in marriage?" With every breath she took, she was drowned in the scent of him: the heady aroma of agarwood and the dust of the imperial court; the salt of the riding crop and the ink of the scholar’s brush; the faint fragrance of a single plum blossom from his desk, and the chilling, metallic tang of a ring-pommel saber. Her breath hitched, her eyes shimmering like sunlight on disturbed water. A moment later, she slumped softly against his shoulder, her raven...