Chapter 3: Sleeping

Chu Xi yanked hard and pulled Zhang Zhao into his arms. With one arm around his slender waist, his fragile wrist in Chu Xi’s grip felt like a flower branch that could snap with a little force. The pain made Zhang Zhao frown, but Chu Xi didn’t let go. In fact, his grip tightened even more until it felt like his wrist might break. Only then did Chu Xi release him and say coldly, “If your hands tremble that badly, don’t bother trying to play courtesan tricks.”

His voice was icy. Zhang Zhao staggered back two steps after being shoved. He knew he’d messed this up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wrist had turned completely red. Pain lingered. For a moment, he was lost.

Chu Xi didn’t look back at him. He turned away and said, “Go rest. I don’t need your service. Don’t ever think of using such cheap tricks again.”

His tone grew even colder. Zhang Zhao’s whole body went cold listening to it. Only after Chu Xi left did he collapse to the ground, drained. No one knew how much courage it had taken for him to go through with tonight’s plan—and now it was all ruined. But his despair only lasted a moment. He quickly composed himself. No matter what, at least Dongli was saved.

A palace maid came in and led him to the East Wing. The room was rarely used and reeked of dampness and decay. The smell made Zhang Zhao’s head spin. He opened the windows, but the air inside was still thick and suffocating. Feeling faint, he rushed to lie down. If he passed out on the floor, he’d surely fall ill.

Meanwhile, Chu Xi had just finished washing up and was about to go to bed when Shao Ning knocked on his door.

“Your Highness.”

Chu Xi yawned ungracefully. “Come in.”

But Shao Ning didn’t enter. His serious voice came through the door, “Your Highness, it’s an epidemic.”

Chu Xi, still sleepy, instantly sobered up. The candlelight burned before his eyes, casting shadows. “Are you sure?”

“Almost certain,” Shao Ning replied, voice low and grim.

Chu Xi frowned. “Keep it quiet.”

That meant covering up Zhang Zhao’s condition. Shao Ning didn’t question his intent, only expressed concern. “Your Highness, I fear Young Master Zhang may also be infected.”

Chu Xi had just been in close contact with him. If Zhang Zhao was infected, Chu Xi would likely be next.

Throwing on a cloak, Chu Xi said, “Check on him. Feng Li, grab the oil. We’re heading to the Southern Wing.”

“Yes.”

Shao Ning tried to stop him. “Your Highness, just send someone else. There’s no need for you to risk exposure.”

But Chu Xi asked back, “Who in this palace is more disliked than me?”

Who else would dare do something like this?

He didn’t wait for an answer. “Just hurry up and figure out a cure.”

“Yes,” Shao Ning replied, then went to the East Wing.

The Southern Wing was where the underage princes once lived. But since Zhang Zhao went “mad,” no prince had lived there. The area had since fallen into desolation.

Aside from two trees at the entrance, all others were dead. Feng Li held a lantern but couldn’t see clearly. Chu Xi doubled back to inspect a tree—its bark was stripped bare, revealing pale, exposed wood. Upon closer inspection, scratch marks from fingernails were visible.

Chu Xi thoroughly inspected the Southern Wing. The further in they went, the more lifeless everything looked. The tiled ground had tufts of dead weeds. In the flower beds, only the tenderest hearts of half-grown vegetable sprouts remained.

After silently taking it all in, Chu Xi ordered Feng Li to pour oil and set fire to the place where Dongli had stayed. Wrapping the still-fevered Dongli in a bedsheet, they lit the fire.

He looked one last time at the place where Zhang Zhao had spent ten years and walked away without hesitation.

Chu Xi led the way. Feng Li followed, carrying Dongli. Behind them, flames roared, reflecting off their tall, steady silhouettes like a banner that would never fall.

The commotion quickly alerted the palace guards. But since the arsonist was Chu Xi, none dared interfere. The guards busied themselves with fire control and reporting the incident.

Back at Ruyi Hall, Shao Ning emerged when he heard the noise. Chu Xi asked, “How is he?”

“Running a fever,” Shao Ning replied. “No known cure yet. Your Highness should keep your distance.”

Chu Xi frowned and ordered all servants cleared from the courtyard. No one was to enter the inner chambers. Isolation was necessary to prevent spread.

Then he asked, “Zhang Zhao only has one attendant?”

Feng Li answered, “Reportedly two, but I’ve only seen one. I’ll investigate.”

“No need,” Chu Xi said. “Don’t go out either. If we can contain it here, all the better.”

Feng Li understood. But if Zhang Zhao’s second attendant was still outside, he’d be a walking source of infection.

Chu Xi had considered this too. “I’ll ask Zhang Zhao.”

Shao Ning tried to stop him. “You should think about yourself, Your Highness. There’s no cure yet. If you catch it—”

Chu Xi waved it off. “I already kissed him. What’s the difference?”

Feng Li and Shao Ning exchanged stunned looks. A kiss? After just a few hours? They had thought their cold-hearted prince would never fall for anyone. But the moment was too serious for gossip.

Chu Xi ignored Shao Ning and entered the East Wing.

The air inside was still moldy. Zhang Zhao lay on the bed, eyes closed, face flushed and sweaty. Chu Xi called his name.

No response.

He poured a cup of water over Zhang Zhao’s face. Immediate effect—Zhang Zhao’s eyes flew open. When he saw Chu Xi, his guarded gaze softened. He sat up quickly. “Your Highness.”

Chu Xi stopped him from getting out of bed. “You and Dongli have the plague. Who else has been in contact with you?”

Zhang Zhao’s eyes widened in horror. He thought Chu Xi was joking, but then remembered where he was. If they caused an outbreak in the palace, there would be no saving their lives.

Sick and terrified, he looked at Chu Xi helplessly. “I… I didn’t. I really didn’t. I’m just tired.”

“Can you stop crying?” Chu Xi was irritated by his tearful face. “I burned the Southern Wing. They won’t trace this back to you for now.”

Zhang Zhao felt slightly calmer. He wiped his face, surprised to find tears. He thought he had no tears left.

“There’s still Qingyuan,” he said. “He brought me eunuch clothes this morning.”

This was clearly suspicious—where had he come from? But Chu Xi had no time to question that. “Where is he?”

“With Steward Xiao.”

Zhang Zhao’s tone shifted. Chu Xi could already guess the rest. “When I passed West Wing, I got mad and dragged you all back. Then I set that place on fire too. I’ll have Qingyuan brought in. Know what to say—and what not to say.”

“Yes,” Zhang Zhao obediently replied, wide-eyed and tear-streaked.

Chu Xi frowned. This little fox really was enchanting. He wanted to kiss him again.

Chu Xi stepped closer, and Zhang Zhao shrank back, nervously covering his face and clutching the blanket. “Your Highness, if I’m sick, you should stay away…”

Seeing the blush creeping up his ears, Chu Xi resisted the urge. “Is your clothing still damp?”

Zhang Zhao flushed deeper and shook his head quickly.

Amused, Chu Xi wiggled a finger. “Come here and give me a kiss.”

Zhang Zhao’s eyes widened in shock and he rapidly shook his head.

Chu Xi realized he enjoyed seeing him frightened. “I heard fevers make people softer. Come over, let me feel.”

Zhang Zhao curled into a corner, pulling the blanket up over his nose, eyes wide and wet like a startled kitten.

Tempted, Chu Xi decided to go easy on him—for now. “Not today. Save it for next time. Get some rest. The staff are gone. Call Feng Li if you need anything.”

Still stunned, Zhang Zhao didn’t move.

“Did you hear me?” Chu Xi asked.

“I heard,” Zhang Zhao replied with a soft voice.

Chu Xi found his voice strangely sticky-sweet, like red bean mochi. He licked his lips and asked, “Who do you call if something happens?”

Zhang Zhao blinked—he was too nervous to remember.

Chu Xi sighed. “Small things, find Feng Li. Big things, find me.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Zhang Zhao’s hands clenched tighter.

Chu Xi looked at his long neck, pink skin, and suddenly changed his mind. “Forget Feng Li. Just find me.”

Zhang Zhao didn’t know what Chu Xi meant, but he agreed to everything he said.

Chu Xi left, instructing Feng Li to find Qingyuan.

Just then, the Emperor’s attendant came with a summons. The eunuch didn’t dare get close and called out from afar. “Your Highness, the Emperor summons you.”

Chu Xi sneezed hard. “Can’t. Might have caught a chill. Don’t want to infect my royal father. Tell him I’ll come tomorrow if I’m better.”

The eunuch didn’t push and left.

Chu Xi yawned and tried to sleep, but once he closed his eyes, all he could think about was the kiss—the soft lips, the floral scent. His body grew hot.

Hot?

Touching his forehead, he realized—he was feverish.

Without hesitation, Chu Xi flung off his blanket and rushed to the East Wing.

Zhang Zhao had just lain down when the door was kicked open. He panicked, thinking palace guards had come to arrest him. But it was Chu Xi, flushed and striding toward him.

Zhang Zhao nervously sat up. Chu Xi grabbed his hand and pressed it to his forehead. “I’ve got a fever too.”

Zhang Zhao paled. So he really had infected him. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know I was sick.”

Chu Xi ignored him. His gaze fell on Zhang Zhao’s moist lips, glossy and red. He imagined the little tongue inside and felt his fever rise.

Still holding Zhang Zhao’s hand, he said, “Move over. I’m sleeping here.”

Zhang Zhao was shocked. “Your Highness, this isn’t right. I’m sick!”

“I’m sick too,” Chu Xi said, staring into his eyes. “And I want to kiss you.”