Year thirty-one of the Yuanzheng reign, first day of the ninth month.
It was the fiftieth birthday of the Dowager Princess of Prince Yan’s household. Nobles from across the prince’s domain filled the city to offer their congratulations. Song Yinghuai, Prince Yan, held a grand banquet for his mother; no one in the residence dared slacken their step.
Goblets of gold, cups of jade, and an endless parade of delicacies flowed to the tables like a bright river. In the kitchens, Lu He found Caiyu. “The men are in the Jade Dew Terrace,” she said. “Madam Yu wants us all to attend there.”
Caiyu glanced once at the pan of wine-braised lamb on the stove, answered and hurried to the storeroom to fetch serving bowls. She had just set a plate down when a shadow slipped through the window and landed behind her.
Arms like iron closed around her waist from behind, pinning her; the plate of lamb smashed to the floor, steaming wine scent spilling into the cramped room and thickening the air. The man spun her around and pressed her back against the wall. A pair of eyes, black as the deep ocean, bore into her.
Those eyes now flared as if molten rock had been stirred inside them—so hot that Caiyu shivered. One of his hands pinned hers above her head; he leaned in until the side of his face pressed to her skull. Heavy breaths rasped in her ear.
She smelled sweetness on his skin, a quiet lotus scent that should have been cool and clean, but under his gaze it felt fierce and consuming, and heat pulsed through him like wildfire.
Caiyu tried to cry out; another hand clamped over her mouth. “Don’t make a sound,” the man murmured at her ear. “I don’t want you dead.”
His mouth moved against her skin. He held her hands fast at her crown; with a small shift of strength he drew her fully into him. Their bodies were muffled against the coarse linen of their clothes, yet the warmth that passed through was hotter than any winter hearth. His breath was damp; his fingertips trailed from her lips down over the smooth whiteness of her throat and the hollow of her collarbone. When his fingers brushed lower, a sudden electric fizz ran across Caiyu’s skin and she trembled.
She fought with desperate, noisy kicks and clawed at him. “Let me go! You lecher!” Her voice tried to be steady but broke on a wretched sob.
For a heartbeat the man drew his hand away as if he’d been woken, but still kept one iron grip on her wrist. His breath was close enough to chill her lips; sandalwood-scented and fogged with heat, his eyes were shadowed and his hair clung to his face with sweat. In the dim light his face was handsome but flushed, untidy hair lending his beauty something feral—like a man surfaced from a burning sea of desire.
Caiyu sucked in a breath. This man was clearly under the influence of an aphrodisiac—the kind used to drive men mad. Her scalp prickled. Madam Yu’s words rang sharp in her mind.
“Your body belongs to the Prince. Only by dragging him to ruin can the master clear the Lan family’s name.”
She could not let this stranger have her. Her family’s lives were balanced on her chastity; it did not belong to her, nor any stranger, but to Prince Yan alone.
She tried to cry out again while the man hesitated. Before the sound escaped, his lips covered hers, silencing her with a devouring, hungry kiss.
Her hands flailed; her struggles were pitifully weak against hands of steel. Realizing she could not overpower him, she remembered the other lesson taught by her mother: the more a woman struggles, the more feral a man becomes. Compliance could buy a man’s trust—and his slumber.
Caiyu lowered her resistance. She made her limbs go soft and let herself be guided. The man’s breath hitched; surprise flashed through him. Women had tried to seduce him in a thousand ways, but few had made him lose control like this. When his assault eased, Caiyu drew in a breath of relief.
She clung to his sleeve with one hand, lifted her chin and let the practiced, honeyed voice she had spent three years learning slip from her lips. “Sir, don’t be hasty. You’ll hurt your maid.”
Her trained cadence sliced through the last of Song Yinghuai’s remaining restraint. Lust returned in blunt, sovereign waves. He rasped, a sound half command, half plea. “Continue.”
Caiyu stiffened. He wanted her to take the lead. Her cheeks burned with shame for the trick she was forced to play, but she forced herself on. Her fingers, soft as heat, traced down his cheek to his jaw and over the proud throat at the hollow of his neck. Wherever she touched, his attention tightened like a drawn string, and his entire body seemed to shiver to the rhythm of her fingers.
She kept the smile she had practiced until it felt like part of her bones. Her hand slid down lower. The man’s body snapped taut; his Adam’s apple bobbed beneath his skin. He lifted her chin with one finger and, with a small, arrogant laugh that tasted of possession, kissed her again—this time slow, almost tender. He no longer relied on brute force but consumed her with patient, deliberate hunger. Foreheads pressed together; kisses were planted at the edge of her hair and on her brow.
He slipped his arm under her waist and lifted, drawing her legs up around him. Caiyu clung to his sturdy hips with one hand. With the other, hidden inside her sleeve, she gripped the small pouch of soporific powder she’d been carrying—the drug she must never be found with as a servant of the Prince. Discovery meant she’d be branded a spy and killed.
But right then it was her only chance. The man was drugged, his mind fogged—when he was drugged enough, he would remember nothing of the night. A bead of sweat slid from Caiyu’s temple to the tip of her nose, then fell into his open mouth as he bent. He recoiled as if burned, his kisses coming heavier down the ivory slope of her throat.
This was the moment.
Holding a single breath, she flung the powder from her palm into his brow.
He jerked as if stung. His grip faltered; Caiyu tore free and ran. In the scramble someone yanked the jade pendant from her waist.
Fifteen minutes later she came into the Jade Dew Terrace empty-handed, lungs burning. Madam Yu stood among the serving girls, guiding them with practiced fury as they carried bowls and trays into the hall. The older woman grabbed Caiyu by the sleeve, eyes sharp as needles.
“Where were you? Where are the dishes?”
“I tripped on a garden pebble,” Caiyu answered, lowering her head and keeping her voice calm. “Has the Prince entered the hall?”
She had not come merely to serve food—she had come to be noticed by Prince Yan at the banquet. If he saw her tonight, everything might begin to shift.
Madam Yu shot her a look but did not press. A shadow crossed her face. “The Prince sent word—he’s retired to meditate tonight. He won’t attend. The male guests at the Jade Dew Terrace are under General Zhang Ce and General Zhu Xiao tonight. You’ve no chance this evening.”
A complicated heat rose in Caiyu’s chest—disappointment braided with relief. Madam Yu went on, softer but no less firm. “Do not be discouraged. His lordship sets much store by you. You only entered the household the day before yesterday; you have a year to accomplish the task. Make sure you seize your chance.”
“I understand.” Caiyu’s voice was small.
Madam Yu waved her away to rest. Watching the lithe figure move, the older woman’s face shifted into a look of calculation and, oddly, hope. “She does resemble Lady Lü, the Crown Prince’s favored consort—three parts to one,” she murmured. “It seems the fate of our case may very well hinge on this girl.”