Falling.

At this moment, Wen Yicong's heart hammered so violently it felt as though it might burst free from her chest any second.

She wanted to retreat, to flee, but the man's fingers—long, strong—held her chin in place. Those thin, cool lips still touched hers.

A cold, mist-like breath descended like a fog, wrapping her whole.

Compared with the deep plunder and frantic kisses of before, Mo Shaoshang now seemed unusually calm. He pressed lightly against her, making no move to go further.

But instinct told Wen Yicong that this tenderness was merely the prelude to a storm.

In the dead-silent space, time slipped quietly past.

Mo Shaoshang's blue-black eyes gazed at her. The dark tide churning in their depths showed no sign of receding—if anything, it threatened to swell. Yet he did not advance.

The fingers gripping her chin loosened.

Wen Yicong, as if granted great mercy, stumbled back a step, her chest heaving, breathing in great gulps. She moved her lips, wanting to speak, but her throat felt blocked—unable to produce a single word.

Mo Shaoshang stood composed in place, his bearing and expression almost describable as 'leisurely and at ease.' He watched her with an unwavering gaze—watched her panicked retreat, watched her quick breaths, watched her trembling. His eyes were calm and focused, as though admiring a deer that had stumbled into a beast's territory, sensed danger, and now struggled desperately.

A moment passed.

Just as Wen Yicong's heart hammered with dread, unable to guess what would happen next, Mo Shaoshang suddenly moved.

Without a word, he turned and walked toward the depths of the Art Studio.

Watching the man's cold, painterly back, Wen Yicong stood rooted, breathing unsteady, uncertain of his intent.

At some instant, the impulse to flee rose in her.

But before she could put the thought into action, a voice drifted down, light as air.

'Come here.'

Two casual words, drifting from the Art Studio, sounded hollow and far within the Mo Manor Cellar—nonchalant, yet heavy enough that no one dared disobey.

Wen Yicong pressed her lips together slightly.

Reason told her she should run.

While his back was turned, while he had not pursued, she should burst out of this cellar without looking back.

But her two feet had taken root, motionless.

As if enchanted by something unseen, the next second Wen Yicong's body seemed to develop a will of its own. She stepped forward, walking toward the source of the sound.

Step by step, she reached the Art Studio door.

The light here was dimmer than outside. Only a single lamp burned, its pale white glow falling on the easel at the center; every other corner was swallowed by darkness, as though soaked in thick ink.

And a tall figure stood with his back to her, motionless before the easel—unknown what he looked at, unknown what he thought.

Wen Yicong's heartbeat grew more urgent.

Her face burned, her body was hot, every inch of flesh and every nerve tingled, soaked in an inexpressible tremor and stimulation.

Just then, Mo Shaoshang spoke again without turning, his tone flat: 'Sit.'

'...' Both of Wen Yicong's palms were soaked with sweat. Hearing this, she lowered her eyes instinctively.

She noticed a single sofa behind the easel. Deep black, matte texture, the pure black leather reflecting a dim, dusky sheen in the low light.

Seeing this sofa, Wen Yicong froze, and in an instant, the stormy night from days before flashed through her mind.

He sat upon it, locking her firmly on his lap, bending to kiss her. She had gone soft all over like a puddle of water, her thoughts muddled, her face flushed, utterly crushed and pulled apart by him, her body and soul scoured by an unprecedented tide...

Wen Yicong's face flared with heat. She stood in place, unmoving.

At the other end, seeming to sense the young rehabilitation therapist's hesitation, Mo Shaoshang turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on her once more. Calmly, he said again: 'Teacher Wen, please sit.'

Their eyes met. Wen Yicong started slightly.

Wen Yicong was certain she had never seen such a gaze on any living creature.

Beneath a cold layer of ice, scorching flames burned—contradictory to the extreme.

Whether cowed by his austere, overwhelming presence or for some other reason, Wen Yicong's chest tightened. She could only brace herself, step forward, and sit at the edge of the sofa.

The leather was smooth and soft; the cool seeped through her dress into the skin of her hips and thighs, making her shiver faintly.

Seeing her seated, Mo Shaoshang withdrew his gaze, taking something from a small cabinet beside the easel.

Wen Yicong noticed his movement and looked closely.

She saw it was an ink-black porcelain jar.

Small and exquisite, fit for one hand. The jar's body was smooth and gleaming, with faint dark patterns visible on its surface—unknown what.

Just as Wen Yicong felt puzzled, she saw Mo Shaoshang, holding the ink-black jar, walk toward her.

Then, before her, he dropped to a half-kneel.

This posture brought their heights instantly to the same level.

He lowered his eyes to look at her, his austere features betraying nothing, while she gazed back, bewildered and flustered, her crystalline eyes flashing with curiosity.

Their gazes met, mere inches apart.

'Do you know what this is?' he asked softly.

Wen Yicong shook her head.

Hearing this, Mo Shaoshang curved his lips slightly, said nothing, and merely opened the jar's lid at will.

In an instant, a strange fragrance spread.

A very particular scent, cold and lonely—like wind in the depths of a pine forest after snow, or the first drop of water from a melting glacier... It was familiar: the rime-cold fragrance that clung to Mo Shaoshang.

But it seemed richer still.

Beyond the rime's chill, the fragrance carried another note—warm, sweet, soft.

After two seconds of careful sniffing, Wen Yicong's eyes flickered.

Was it an illusion? This sweet, warm scent somehow resembled... the smell of her own bedding and wardrobe?

Two utterly different scents intertwined thus—strange yet harmonious.

Blending like water and milk, inseparable.

At this moment, Mo Shaoshang studied her flushed little face and spoke again. He asked her: 'Does it smell good?'

'...Mm.' Wen Yicong nodded honestly. 'Such a special fragrance.'

'I blended it,' Mo Shaoshang said again, in a tone so casual it was almost careless. 'Took two months.'

The words landed, and Wen Yicong froze.

Two months?

Two months ago, she had only just arrived at this Manor House, becoming Airi's rehabilitation therapist.

Which meant he had begun, from that time...

'The scent on you is very sweet.'

As he spoke, the man's fingertip moved slightly, drawing out a thread of milky-white balm from the jar. The balm was fine and smooth; warmed by his body heat, it slowly melted on his finger pad. 'I smelled it once, and the impression was especially deep.'

Even as he spoke, without warning, Mo Shaoshang gripped her slender ankle.

The man's five fingers were cold and hard, the touch vivid, a stark contrast to her slick, soft skin. Added to the suddenness, Wen Yicong trembled all over, instinctively wanting to pull her leg back.

But the other's hand was like an iron band, fixing her firmly, not budging an inch.

'Don't be afraid.' His blue-black eyes watched her. 'I won't hurt you.'

'...' Every hair on Wen Yicong's body stood on end.

In her memory, Mo Shaoshang had said this to her more than once.

With a touch of soothing, a touch of indulgence, in a soft voice.

But truly kind and gentle normal people—who would hang the words 'I won't hurt you' on their lips and repeat them over and over?

What did he mean to do?

Wen Yicong was panicked and confused, wanting to say something, but the white balm had already been applied to her leg.

The coolness struck, and Wen Yicong nearly cried out softly.

At a distance of mere inches, the man's lids lowered slightly as he carefully spread the balm over her body.

Long, strong fingers, carrying the white balm, began at her ankle and moved upward, bit by bit.

The top of her foot, her calf, including the sensitive hollow behind her knee. He applied it one by one, stroking gently, his finger pads lingering long at each spot, rubbing in circles.

Whether illusion or real, Wen Yicong could even feel that, beneath the man's patient and meticulous movements, the balm seemed to seep into her body, her very blood.

Her face flushed completely. She bit her lower lip hard, trembling without cease.

The cool, fine balm, carrying its cold fragrance, soaked into her skin inch by inch beneath his fingers' kneading. The process brought no pain, was not unpleasant, could even be called comfortable. Yet she could not help trembling.

As though a complete ritual of her body.

Mo Shaoshang's movements were slow, gentle, his expression focused to the point of obsession.

Wen Yicong bit her lip tightly, feeling every inch of skin he touched grow hot, boil, burn—all passionately memorizing the shape of his fingertips...

One leg finished, then the other.

The same slow gentleness, the same obsessive focus.

Then her arms...

This time, not just her cheeks—Wen Yicong's ears and neck were all stained a smoky pink.

Her lips moved several times, trying to use proper communication to break this suffocating silence, but the words rolled to her lips and could only be swallowed back.

What could she say?

Compliment this employer on his excellent perfume-blending skills, call him an all-around talent?

Or rebuke him for not asking her consent and applying the balm directly to her without a word?

Most importantly, which screw had come loose in her, that she had obediently listened to him and walked herself into this Art Studio?

In the midst of Wen Yicong's shy frustration, Mo Shaoshang had already finished applying balm to both her arms.

His movements paused briefly. His blue-black eyes looked at her through his lenses.

'There's still here,' he said suddenly.

Wen Yicong was stunned for a moment, before she could react, she felt the man's finger touch her collarbone.

Extremely light pressure, long fingertips carrying residual balm, slid slowly from one end of her collarbone to the other, the motion practiced and elegant, as though using a brush to trace a swan's neck.

Wen Yicong tilted her head back slightly, instinctively holding her breath.

The next second, she felt the man's finger travel upward along her collarbone, brushing past her slender neck, and finally stopping just below her soft, delicate-red earlobe.

The most sensitive side of her neck.

'...Mm.' Wen Yicong's lips parted slightly, a soft moan escaping.

Mo Shaoshang's fingers wandered, gently kneading this slender, beautiful, and fragile stretch of neck in his palm, feeling the girl's pulse hammer wildly.

That rhythm, disordered to the point of frenzy, excited him, fascinated him.

A layer of viscous darkness gradually surfaced in his eyes. Mo Shaoshang gazed at the Eastern girl beneath his palm, his look obsessively burning, like a beast king boldly examining a fawn delivered to his mouth.

Then, he bent down.

Thin lips drew near the girl's burning-hot ear, and he whispered: 'Heart beating so fast. Is it fear, or pleasure?'

Wen Yicong bit her lower lip hard, saying nothing.

Receiving no answer, Mo Shaoshang did not press further, merely laughed very softly, then once more drew balm from the jar.

The balm was applied in turn to Wen Yicong's collarbone, chest, the hollow of her throat, the back of her neck.

The man's fingers threaded through her hair, boldly caressing the soft flesh at her nape.

Wen Yicong wanted to resist, but her body could not lie.

Beneath the repeated gentle stroking, purely instinctive, her eyes gradually welled with moisture, misty, and she involuntarily tilted her head back under his palm, utterly like a kitten enjoying a massage.

Mo Shaoshang took in every physical reaction of the girl.

After applying the last spot, he capped the jar, tossed it aside, then lowered his head, his high-bridged nose pressing close to her fragrant, soft, warm neck hollow, sniffing—a beast sniffing its own territory.

He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes.

A moment later, the corner of his mouth curved into a faint arc.

'I'm very pleased,' his tone remained calm, but his voice was noticeably hoarser than usual. 'From today on, you will forever carry my scent.'

'...'

Those few words pierced her eardrums, and Wen Yicong instantly sobered. Her eyes widened, her face full of astonishment.

'Don't try to wash it off.'

As he spoke, Mo Shaoshang slowly opened his eyes, his blue-black gaze settling firmly on this pretty little face. 'With your body temperature, it will seep into your subcutaneous tissue, enter your bloodstream.'

'From now on, Teacher Wen, every breath you take will carry my presence.'

'...' Wen Yicong stared blankly at Mo Shaoshang, her mind a blank.

She didn't even know how to react. She only knew that her whole body now smelled of this man.

The sharp, cold rime fragrance, tangled with her own scent, already indistinguishable from each other...

In the moment she was lost in thought, a pair of long fingers gently pinched her small chin, tilting it up.

Wen Yicong's long lashes fluttered lightly, her misty eyes half-startled, half-bewildered.

'Enough,' he said flatly. 'Next, we begin properly.'

'Begin...' Wen Yicong's voice was tangled with alarm, unable to guess what this man still wanted to do. 'What?'

Mo Shaoshang said nothing, merely took her hand and led her toward the giant easel lying flat.

*

That night, Wen Yicong's thoughts were a chaotic blur; she had no idea how she had returned to her bedroom.

She only clearly remembered that every step she took back to her room, her legs were soft.

In a daze, she entered the room and shut the door behind her.

No lights were on in the room. In the darkness, Wen Yicong leaned her back against the door panel, sliding weakly to the floor.

Her heart pounded as if about to break through its limits; her body burned as if about to catch fire.

She raised her hands, covering her burning cheeks.

Scene after scene from the Art Studio gradually rose before her eyes...

Minutes before, after coating her entire body in the specially blended balm, Mo Shaoshang had gripped her wrist and drawn her to the giant easel where he usually created.

Then, that usually aloof and cold employer, with the gentlest motion, the most elegant bearing—

Had removed her clothes.

Reviewing it from the present moment, Wen Yicong only felt absurdity. She had no idea why she had agreed to Mo Shaoshang's outrageously absurd request.

He wanted to paint a picture. On her body.

Looking into those focused, brooding blue-black eyes, almost as if possessed, Wen Yicong had nodded...

*

The girl's pale apricot knit top fell to the floor.

The Art Studio had the heating on, warm as spring, yet Wen Yicong, bare from the waist up, could not stop trembling.

Not from cold. But from nervousness, from shame, from an unspeakable, unprecedented stimulation.

Because the man's gaze was sweeping over her inch by inch, burning as fire.

Following his command, she turned her back and lay upon the easel.

Wen Yicong's heart thundered; she bit her lower lip hard.

The old wooden easel was heavy and stable, easily bearing an adult woman's weight, but Wen Yicong feared falling, so she still pressed her cheek against the cool frame of the easel, not daring to move.

At close range, Mo Shaoshang lowered his eyes, looking down at the girl before him.

This posture left her entire back fully exposed to his gaze.

Slender and graceful, fair as mutton fat, her shoulder blades slightly hollowed, the dimples of her lower back deep, her waist so slim it seemed it could not fill a grasp.

Beautiful.

Seductive and alluring, fallen into his easel, a one-of-a-kind treasure of the Creator, a gift from God to him.

At this end, Wen Yicong lay prone on the easel, hearing slight sounds from behind, as though something had been undone.

Then, a large hand touched her spine.

A tingling itch spread from her shoulder blade; Wen Yicong involuntarily tensed all over, holding her breath.

Mo Shaoshang used his fingertip as a brush, tracing out the contour of the girl's back drop by drop. The arc of her shoulder blades, the hollow of her spine, and the two cute dimples at her lower back.

Wen Yicong could not help curling her toes, her face flushed crimson, burying it in her arms.

Not long after, the man's lips descended.

Pressed to her nape.

Wen Yicong's body jerked, as if struck by electricity.

The man's kiss traveled down along her spine—the soft curve of her shoulder, the center of her back, the small, fetching dimples of her waist. His thin lips pressed against those hollows, gently grazing.

Wen Yicong's bite on her lip grew tighter.

A sensation, strange and intense, surged up like a tide, nearly drowning her.

She did not know how long passed before his lips finally left.

The bowstring-taut nerves in Wen Yicong relaxed slightly; before she could breathe a sigh of relief, she felt something cool and soft touch her back.

A paintbrush.

The brush tip, dipped in pigment, carrying a slight cool dampness, fell from her shoulder blade, sketching, tracing—like a snake's tongue, sticky, damp, cold, yet incredibly gentle, slowly licking her, tasting her.

After a while, Wen Yicong felt it was somewhat hard to bear.

Feeling itchy, she could not help twisting her waist slightly, a very subtle movement.

'Don't move.' The man's deep voice came from behind, hoarse and terrible.

'...' Wen Yicong froze instantly, not daring to move again.

Suppressing that maddening restlessness, Mo Shaoshang's expression remained calm as he continued his painting.

Stroke after stroke.

Occasionally stopping, bending to kiss the patch of skin that had received color, with the devotion of The Saints, lingering delicately, tasting lightly.

The Art Studio was utterly still.

Both the painter and the painted suffered torment.

For Wen Yicong, tonight's sensations were stronger than any before.

So much so that by the latter half, she could not help slightly parting her lips, gently biting her own index finger.

As if fallen into a vacuum kingdom, every sense grew distant; only the man's lips and the gently falling paintbrush left her mind muddled, dazzled, fascinated.

Every touch, every kiss from the man made her heart pound wildly, made her blood surge, made her crave more...

The brush continued to wander.

The kisses on her back fell unceasingly.

A long, long time—long enough that Wen Yicong nearly forgot where she was, long enough that she nearly drowned in this strange sensory world—when those thin, beautiful lips wandered to her soft pink ear, and spoke softly, Italian mixed with obsessive desire pouring into her eardrum.

Mo Shaoshang said: 'Guarda, tesoro mio. Sei una cattivella, ti piace da morire, vero?'

Look, my treasure. You are a naughty girl.

You love this to death, don't you?

...

The recollection broke off here.

In a dark space, Wen Yicong sat with flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted, expression dazed. She did not know how long she had sat on the floor, nor how long she had been lost in thought.

Perhaps minutes, perhaps half an hour.

When Wen Yicong finally came back to herself, bracing herself against the door panel to stand, preparing to take out clean clothes and go to the bathroom to wash, she belatedly realized there was still a painting on her back.

It was Mo Shaoshang's painting.

It was the 'punishment' that man had given her.

Ten porcelain-white, slender fingers curled slightly. Wen Yicong hesitated in place for a moment, then finally turned on the light, reached out to remove her top, turned around, and stood sideways to the mirror.

Then she slowly raised her eyes.

The mirror reflected the girl's full, alluring body. And on her bare back, a profile had been painted.

A slender neck, rounded shoulders, a face slightly lowered.

Surprised, Wen Yicong could not help leaning closer to the mirror, looking more carefully.

The girl in the painting was enchanting and lush, with a pair of dewy eyes. The corners of her eyes flew red, the rims of her eyes brimmed with tears, unshed teardrops still clinging to her lashes. Her gaze was dazed and fragile, like a wounded small animal, or a jasmine drenched by rain.

This was... her?

In no time, Wen Yicong recognized it as herself.

Her breath caught for a moment, then she slightly furrowed her brow, sensing something off.

This painting was her, yet not entirely. Because the eyes of the painted figure were blue.

She was a pure-blooded Chinese, black hair and black eyes, her pupils bright and dark. But the eyes in this painting had been tinted a faint blue.

That gloomy, obsessive blue spread across the whites of her eyes and the edges of her pupils, faint yet present.

Like Mo Shaoshang's eyes.

Like his world.

In just a few seconds, Wen Yicong's heart gave a heavy lurch.

He had painted her, yet given her a pair of his eyes. What did this mean?

She raised her hand, her fingertip lightly touching the blue eyes in the mirror. The mirror's surface was cold to the touch, yet her heart burned terribly.

Her thoughts, like a runaway horse, uncontrollably recalled those hidden, restrained kisses in the Art Studio, recalled the tenderness of his brushstrokes, recalled the obsessive infatuation in his blue-black eyes.

Wen Yicong closed her eyes, her forehead pressing against the mirror.

That feeling surged up again.

Fear, shame, trembling...

And the obsession she had never dared admit, the one she could not control.

Outside the window, the night breeze blew softly, tree shadows swayed.

The crescent moon in the sky had at some point hidden behind the clouds, and the Manor House sank into a deep darkness.

This man was elegant, obsessive, lonely, twisted—beneath his aloof exterior hid too many other sides unknown to others. He was truly terrifying.

So terrifying she had nowhere to flee.

So terrifying she had fallen into it, and even... no longer wished to flee.

-----------------------

Author's note: Mo Mo: Today I rubbed oil on wifey, painted a painting, happy

——————

Random 100 red packet~