Ji’an sat on the opposite bench, her legs crossed, aggressively separating the stems of the Iron-Threaded Saffron.

She was hyper-focused on the task, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Xiao Yichen sat in the center of the U-shaped bench, perfectly positioned to observe her.

He wore a dark crimson silk robe today, the collar dipping low enough to reveal the smooth, pale expanse of his chest.

His long legs were stretched out, one arm resting lazily on the back of the velvet cushions behind Ji’an. He watched Ji’an’s hands move about.

He watched the way her dark hair, haphazardly tied up, allowed a few damp strands to stick to the nape of her neck.

He let the silence stretch until it became heavy, thick, and almost unbearable.

"You are going to snap the stems if you grip them with such hostility, Royal Uncle," Yichen purred, his voice a low, melodic vibration that easily cut through the sound of the rain.

Ji’an didn’t look up. "I am applying the exact amount of pressure required to separate the fibrous sheath, Your Highness. Kindly do not critique my prep work."

"I would not dream of it," Yichen smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. "I am merely observing a fascinating phenomenon. A chef who cooks as if he were marching to war. Care to tell me, Royal Uncle ... what exactly are you running from?"

Ji’an’s hands paused for a fraction of a second. She resumed sorting, slightly faster now. "I am running from nothing. I am an active participant in the Official Sect Martial Ranking, maximizing my time out of the sect to gather resources."

"Liar," Yichen whispered.

The word was so soft, so intimately delivered, that it made the hairs on Ji’an’s arms stand up.

"You are running from the silence," Yichen continued, his dark eyes locking onto the side of her face, refusing to let her hide. "You are running from the fact that your beloved sworn brother locked himself in a frozen cave, entirely content to abandon you to the wolves while he pursues his own selfish power. You are cooking yourself to the bone because if you stop for even a moment, you will realize how profoundly empty your little ’sworn brotherhood’ truly is."

Snap!

Ji’an accidentally broke a stalk of saffron entirely in half.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, her customer-service patience finally cracking under the weight of his psychological warfare.

She slammed the wooden tray down onto the carriage floor and turned to face him, her dark eyes flashing with genuine, unadulterated anger.

"Do not talk about him like you know him so well," Ji’an warned, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous hiss. "Wangchen didn’t abandon me. He is cultivating and preparing for the tournament. And unlike you, he actually has the decency to not psychoanalyze his friends for sport and amusement."

Yichen’s smile vanished. The mask of polite, mocking amusement shattered, replaced by a flash of raw, dark resentment that was so intense it actually made Ji’an flinch backward.

"Friends," Yichen repeated, the word tasting like poison on his tongue.

He moved.

He didn’t just lean forward, but uncoiled like a striking viper.

In a fraction of a second, Yichen shifted his entire body, sliding across the velvet bench until he was directly in front of her.

Ji’an instinctively scrambled backward, her back hitting the plush crimson wall of the carriage. But there was nowhere to go.

Yichen planted his left hand on the velvet cushion right beside her head as his right hand came down on the other side of her hip.

He trapped her completely, caging her between his arms, his imposing frame blocking out the dim light of the carriage lanterns.

The proximity was absolute, terrifying, and overwhelmingly sensory.

Ji’an gasped, her breath hitching as her chest suddenly pressed precariously close to his, so that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

The scent of dark lotus incense and dangerous, suppressed magic enveloped her completely.

"What does he have that I do not?" Yichen demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, ragged whisper that sent a violent, searing jolt of electricity straight down Ji’an’s spine.

"Yichen, back off while I’m still being nice," Ji’an stammered, her heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against her ribs. She pressed her hands flat against his solid chest, trying to push him away, but it was like trying to push a mountain.

Her newly condensed Dao of the Iron Wok strength was useless; she couldn’t strike him without hurting him, and his sheer physical leverage kept her pinned.

He didn’t back up; instead, he leaned in even closer than before.

His dark, bottomless eyes traced the panicked lines of her face, dropping to her lips, and then moving lower.

Because Ji’an had thrown herself backward so violently, the collar of her white Inner Sect robe had shifted.

The fabric gaped open just a fraction of an inch, revealing a sliver of her pale collarbone and the very edge of the tight binding she wore across her chest to maintain her male disguise.

Yichen’s gaze locked onto that sliver of exposed skin.

A profound, suffocating heat flared in his dark eyes. His breathing grew shallow and ragged.

The sociopathic prince, the man who controlled every variable in his life with cold, calculating precision, was suddenly drowning in a wave of raw, unfiltered desire that he could not suppress... for another man.

He only cared about the heat of her skin, the frantic pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat, and the agonizing, desperate hunger gnawing at his own soul.

"Why him?" Yichen whispered, his face hovering mere inches from hers, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. The vibration of his voice made her tremble. "He looks at you with cold, dead eyes. He expects you to wait for him in the dark. But I am here, Royal uncle. I am right here, and I see exactly what you are."