MW CH48

Chapter 48: There’s Still Time to Regret

He’s got the wrong idea.

I replayed our chat in my head—yep, some wires crossed. Wanted to clear it up, but facing Mochuan’s pissed-off glare, a devilish itch took over.

“If that’s the case, what’re you gonna do about it?” I glanced at our linked hands. “Up late just to hold my hand?”

He’s too good at bottling it up—gotta push him to spill something.

“…What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?” He echoed, each word heavy, fuming—like he couldn’t believe I’d ask.

Suddenly, he yanked me out.

Thought he was kicking me out—dropped the teasing. “Kidding, kidding!”

He ignored me, dragged me toward the temple’s back.

Cenglu must see great in the dark—this pitch-black path was a blur to me, but Mochuan strode like it was daylight, no hesitation.

“Mochuan, I’m serious, just joking…” His strides were huge—I stumbled after him, wrist aching from his grip, panic creeping in.

Where’s he taking me? Not so mad he’d beat me up in the dark, right?

“I’m sorry, really sorry…” No shame—I owned it fast. “Don’t be mad, I was talking nonsense.”

He didn’t turn, like my voice was muted. At the farthest corner from the hall, he kicked open the woodshed door, pulled me in.

Outside had some faint light—this was pure black, hand-in-front-of-face nothing.

Swallowed hard, used my free hand to pat his iron grip. “Mochuan, what’re we doing here?”

Soft fabric brushed my hand—then I was shoved face-down onto a table.

Not dusty or cold—something scented with temple incense. Hit me: Mochuan’s outer robe, cushioning me.

Weirdly, right then, fear melted.

He’s mad, sure—but not “beat me” mad. Why else pad me with his clean Yan Guan robe?

A creak—the door shut behind us. Total dark, just footsteps closing in.

Seconds later, they stopped. I strained to see—eyes wide, nothing focused, just gray-black blobs.

“Mochuan, it’s so dark.” Tried to push up—barely moved before a hand pressed me back.

“Don’t move.” His voice cut the silent black, icy.

Heard that chill—I froze. Then warmth hovered over me—not fully on, just close, braced behind.

His hand slid from my shoulder, down my side, to my front.

Metal grazed metal—small zipper sound, usually nothing, now loud enough to make my scalp tingle.

His hand was cold—shivered when it touched me.

Head hit the table, gripped the robe, bit my lip hard to stifle weird noises.

Some pleasure, yeah—but mostly pain.

Like a rookie who’s tried ramen twice, doesn’t love it, forced to learn it anyway. Kneading the dough with grudge—yanking, pulling, venting fury, no care for the dough’s feelings.

Calmed down too soon—he’s totally punishing me.

You like ramen? Eat it—however I make it, choke it down till you puke, till it’s a nightmare.

“Mochuan…” Tried prying his hand—couldn’t budge it in the mess. “I’m sorry, I’m going back… to work, not what you think…”

“You Xia folks—endless sweet talk.” Unfazed, he gripped harder.

Not ramen—knife-cut noodles now. Keep this up, I’m done for.

“Mochuan, it hurts, I’m scared…” Couldn’t break free—switched tactics, reached for his face.

Pain eased—worked a bit. Fumbled—brow, eyes, cheek, soft lips.

Sudden bite on my finger—jumped, pulled back. He chased, kissed my palm, nibbled the base gentle.

“You were so good as a kid—grown into a jerk.” Voice bitter, lips at my palm, bit down to my wrist.

Two pulse points pinned—for a split second, felt like he might actually kill me.

But love won out—he let my wrist go, eased off the overworked, soggy dough.

His touch softened—words stayed cold. “You can flip-flop, do whatever—you’re like that, I’ve known it. But I’m not my sister—she waited till she died. I won’t…” Lips at my ear, venomous. “You don’t come back, I’ll forget you.”

His worst revenge is forgetting me? Thought he’d go full wuxia—abandoned saintess hunting the cad to the ends of the earth.

Like this, how could I not come back?

“I’ll come back, I swear, I promise… won’t break my word…” Struggled to finish—mind blank. Propped up, shook hard, collapsed back into the robe, gasping.

His scent at my nose, warmth at my back—rubbing the fabric, like soaking in a hot spring, all warm and lazy.

Snapped out of it—felt his state behind me, cleared my throat, sheepish. “You haven’t… I’ll help.”

Hand blocked before I touched—he stepped back, pulled me up to sit.

“No need—I don’t need it.” Then he closed in, wedged between my legs.

“Wait—I just…” Tried to stop him—too weak, dragged along by his fingers to heaven or hell.

Once, twice, three times… till nothing left. When he lifted me off, my legs buckled—nearly knelt.

“Enough?” He steadied me, asked.

Blanked—then got it: enough ramen? Nodded fast. “Enough, enough.”

Even good stuff can’t be gorged like this—I like eating with him, not the ramen itself.

“Can’t walk.” Grabbed his hand, weak. “This time, not faking.”

Legs shaking—doubted I’d make it back to the institute without tumbling down steps.

Mochuan said nothing—wrapped me in his robe, scooped me up, carried me from the shed to his room.

Bright light hit—squinted, burrowed into his chest.

Soft fabric under me—I peeked from the robe. On his bed.

“Sleeping here tonight?” Patted his quilt.

He tossed the dirty robe aside, poured water, handed it over. “Then you’d leave by five—back door. Otherwise, people see, they’ll talk.”

I’d lost a lot—gulped half the glass. “Too much hassle. I’ll rest, then go.”

“Being with me’s always a hassle.” He turned, opened the wardrobe, flat-toned. “You can still regret it now.”

If your grip on that door wasn’t so tight, I’d buy you’re really giving me an out.

Stood—legs steady after a breather.

Hugged him from behind, arms around his waist. “Liking me’s a hassle too—you regret it?”

His muscles tensed, relaxed fast. “I don’t regret my choices.” Pulled a green card from a drawer, slipped it into my hand.

Puzzled, I let go—bank card.

“What’s this?”

He faced me, eyes on it. “My salary card.”

Shock. “You get a salary? Why give it to me?”

“Your money’s gone, right? Not much—maybe a hundred grand. Drop in the bucket for you, but it’s all I’ve got.” Glanced at the colorful beads on a shelf. “Those are Yan Guan heirlooms—not mine, just holding them. Can’t give you those.”

He explained—old temple took offerings. Poor or not, folks gave what little they had to the Mountain Lord. By his time, it was a fortune.

Unlike the old Yan Guan, he’d seen the world—knew Cuoyansong’s lag. Over objections, he teamed with the government, set up a fund. Past and future offerings went there—for Cuoyansong’s growth.

This card? His pay as fund manager.

“You give me everything, what about you?” Hugged him again, chin on his shoulder, thumb rubbing the card—sweet and sour inside.

He’s really giving me all he can.

“Don’t need much anyway.” He raised his arms, hugged back slow.

“I’ll take it—pay you back with interest.” Squeezed tighter, kissed his earlobe—decided then: all my earnings, his.

Not just money—cars, houses, jewels. All his.

Good men hand cash to their wives—I’m no exception.