Then, gently, he removed his hands and spoke.
"Okay, open it."
Yao Ziyang's heartbeat quickened, his breath catching softly as his fingers slowly unraveled the velvet wrapping, every fiber of his being alight with anticipation. His hands hovered in anticipation once the final wrapping was gone, but when he finally saw it—what greeted him wasn't silk, lace, or leather.
It was a music box.
Elegant. Intricate. Carved from rare mahogany wood and inlaid with delicate silver filigree. Inside, a miniature glass ballerino and his partner spun in a tender waltz atop a mirrored stage, the music delicate, haunting, and beautiful. It was clear this was not just any music box—this was antique, likely custom-made, something priceless.
Yao Ziyang could hear the faintest sound of old craftsmanship in the inner gears, the tune soft and melancholic. It reminded him of moonlight and still ponds, of open-air ballrooms and gentle night winds.
His smile faltered—not in disappointment, but surprise. He blinked down at it, stunned.
He had expected something… bedroom-related, given how the night had seemed to be going. But this?
This was something pure.
Something precious.
He looked up at Dong Yingming, and his heart ached a little in the most beautiful way.
"…It's beautiful…"
Yao Ziyang whispered, stroking the polished lid.
"I love it. I'll treasure it forever."
Dong Yingming's shoulders relaxed, the smugness leaving his face and softening into a rare kind of warmth. His caramel-toned hand reached out to brush Yao Ziyang's cheek.
"I'm glad you like it…"
He murmured.
"You should take a bath before dinner."
Yao Ziyang nodded, already believing that this—this gift—was just the prelude.
'The night was young, after all.'
In his mind, the true gift, the consummation of their "marriage," would come later.
He rose to his feet with grace, placing the music box with care on the right side of the bed, his side, on the nightstand. He looked at it a moment longer, smiling softly to himself, before disappearing into the ensuite bathroom.
***
Inside, the room was still fragrant from the herbal steam baths he had prepared earlier before his hospital visit. Yao Ziyang walked over to the sink first and caught the edge of his creation in the corner of his eye. His reflection in the mirror flushed—not from vanity, but from sheer mortification as he turned fully to witness the embarrassment of his own doing.
There it was.
The nest.
Blankets balled at odd angles. Towels mounded at the edges. One of Dong Yingming's shirts, he assumed, folded almost reverently at the center like some sacred relic. It was warm, soft, comforting… but Yao Ziyang's face stayed crimson.
He rushed forward in a flurry of delicate limbs and quiet panic, tearing the nest apart like a scandalized bride caught before the ceremony.
"This—this is humiliating…"
He whispered to himself, dragging the used towels back into the hamper.
"What was I thinking—?!"
He folded the blankets with precision, smoothing their edges with brisk efficiency, stuffing them back into the cabinets. He hesitated only once—at the unfamiliar shirt. It was black, silk-blend, far too big for him.
'Brother Dong's maybe? Wait, did he see this? Gods just kill me please.'
His heart fluttered. Still, he tossed it into the hamper with the rest, refusing to let himself linger on the feeling. He had work to do.
Once the bathroom was spotless again and the tub was empty, he turned on the water and began to wash himself, slowly and thoroughly. His hands lingered at his hips, down the arch of his back, smoothing oils into his skin. He exfoliated, rinsed, repeated. He brushed his teeth again and used a gentle mouthwash. He soaked in warm, sweet-smelling water for a full fifteen minutes. Everything had to be perfect.
His thoughts drifted as he soaked, eyes unfocused.
'That fever. The one that nearly killed me. It hadn't been just an illness, I now understand…'
Yao Ziyang slinked further into the warm bath water as his thoughts churned.
'No. It had been a heat—my first one.'
He recalled, from his past life, what a soft heat was:
The earliest sign an omega had reached physical maturity. It usually came quietly, subtly—warm skin, increased appetite, a mild flush, a strong desire for closeness.
But for this body—a body from a world where secondary genders didn't exist—it had been too much. His soul had experienced many heats before, across his former life, but this body… it didn't understand what was happening. His glands, his organs, even his mind had spiraled trying to keep up. The result had been terrifying:
Sudden collapses, fevers, nosebleeds. A body caught between identities.
'I could've died…'
He thought, shivering despite the warmth. He leaned his head back, letting the water lap up to his jawline.
'But now that it's over… my next one shouldn't be so hard.'
If it followed the same cycle—like in his old world—then his next full heat would arrive in about two months. Which, ironically, was exactly when the original Yao Ziyang's sentence was due to end.
He smiled faintly at the thought.
'What a coincidence.'
But it wasn't the end of a sentence he was waiting for.
It was the beginning of something else.
Something only Dong Yingming could give him.
***
Dong Yingming stood in the quiet suite, the door still reverberating faintly from Wei Jiang's exit. A thick silence blanketed the room, but it wasn't peace that filled the space. It was tension.
His eyes landed on the strewn clothing, and the smile that had once curved his lips—the one he'd worn when Yao Ziyang ran into his arms and opened his gift—was gone. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed.
Wei Jiang had been here.
On the bed.
With his man.
Touching the clothes Yao Ziyang had worn. Maybe helping him pick them out. Maybe watching him change.
Dong Yingming's fists clenched. He paced slowly around the room, meticulously gathering each piece of clothing scattered carelessly on the floor. His movements were deliberate, controlled, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
Piece by piece, he began picking up the garments, his movements precise, deliberate. Each silky top, every short and revealing pair of bottoms—he folded them with care, not out of gentleness but out of wrathful reverence, as if sealing away evidence of a crime.
With each item he handled, he felt a scene play out in his mind—imagined glances, coy laughs, that bastard Wei Jiang sitting too close, breathing the same air as his Ziyang. The soft scent of the boy lingered faintly on the fabric, and it made Dong Yingming's stomach twist.
His caramel-toned hand tightened around a tank top too sheer for its own good. He lifted a delicate tank top, the fabric whispering through his fingers. His jaw tightened. It felt like he was erasing something—a shared memory, a stolen intimacy between his man and Wei Jiang. The mental image haunted him, gnawing and clawing relentlessly at his heart, each bite feeding his growing rage.
By the time nearly all of the clothing had been folded and returned to its drawer, Dong Yingming's expression had darkened completely. The dim lighting cast deep shadows across his handsome face, emphasizing the sharpness of his jaw and the old scar slicing across his cheek. His rage had turned quiet, deadly.
'How dare Wei Jiang try to touch what's mine…'
He folded the last pair of Yao Ziyang's shorts, eyes distant, gaze darkening into something bitterly cold. The thought of Wei Jiang's gaze lingering on Yao Ziyang's pale thighs, those soft curves, that fragile waist—it filled his veins with ice. His hands clenched, knuckles whitening, imagining how effortlessly he could snap Wei Jiang's neck, silence him forever, and—
Knock. Knock.
A knock at the door snapped him out of the spiral. He turned sharply.
"Dinner, sir."
Said the voice of a guard from outside. Dong Yingming snapped out of his murderous reverie. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself calm. He opened the door sharply, startling the young guard who'd come to deliver dinner. The guard quickly bowed, Dong Yingming collected the tray, gave a dismissive nod, and closed the door as the guard retreated swiftly.
Dong Yingming sighed, turning toward the room again. He placed the tray of food down on the small dining table—a piece of furniture they'd never actually used before, since Dong Yingming had always lovingly hand-fed his man while he was confined to their bed. Usually, feeding Yao Ziyang from the comfortable spot nestled against his chest or wrapped in his arms like a precious doll. It will be their first time ever using it.
Tonight, however, would be their first meal together seated properly at a table, now that Yao Ziyang had finally begun to recover.
He carefully set down the plates. The one placed beside him for Yao Ziyang carried decent, nourishing food:
Soup, steamed vegetables, white fish, a bowl of rice porridge, and steam-fried dumplings—light but nutritious. Simple but high-quality food. Enough to fill Yao Ziyang's belly without burdening his still-recovering system. Dong Yingming wouldn't dare feed Yao Ziyang anything heavy yet, afraid of upsetting his recovery.
From his pocket, Dong Yingming drew out a sleek white bottle and the single pill he had separated from it earlier and placed both on the table. His eyes dropped to the small bottle then to the pill:
The libido suppressants.
Colorless, odorless pills. Fast-acting, short-term.
He picked it up—stared at it in his palm, turning it over thoughtfully—hesitation clear in his eyes. Would he really need them tonight? Did he even need them at all? Maybe he'd underestimated himself—one the other hand—just one glance at Yao Ziyang and he already felt the pull, the burn. The image of those bare thighs gliding over the bed—
The bathroom door clicked open softly behind him.
Dong Yingming turned instinctively, looked up—and froze.
All thought stopped.
There, standing in the doorway, shyly shifting on his bare feet, with a faint mist behind him, was Yao Ziyang—dressed in nothing but one of Dong Yingming's oversized black T-shirts. The fabric hung off one shoulder, baring one delicate collarbone and the graceful curve of his throat. The hem of the shirt fell loosely around his small frame, stopping mid-thigh and skimmed just below the curve of his ass, revealing glimpses of long, porcelain-pale legs every time he moved and the faint shimmer of lotion on his skin. Damp platinum hair framed his delicate face, cheeks flushed pink from the steam, eyes wide and bashful.
Dong Yingming's throat dried instantly. His blood thundered in his ears. His resolve cracked instantly. Every fiber of his being screamed to cross the room, to claim him right there, to prove without question that Yao Ziyang belonged only to him—
Before he could act on his impulse, Yao Ziyang blinked at him, playing coy and spoke, voice dripping with pure cadence.
"Ah, I forgot to bring in clean clothes into the bathroom earlier…"
He said with practiced innocence.
"This shirt was the only thing I could find in the bathroom, so I wore it… I hope you don't mind, darling?"
Dong Yingming stared at him. Dead silent. His jaw tensed. His nostrils flared and his breath hitched. His heart thudded wildly in his chest, oblivious to the subtle, playful calculation behind those angelic eyes. It never crossed Dong Yingming's mind that Yao Ziyang had intentionally created this alluring moment—crafted this delicate, irresistible temptation just for him.
"It's fine."
Dong Yingming managed hoarsely, turning quickly toward the dining table, snatching the bottle of libido suppressants and stuffing them into his pocket, clutching them tighter than ever.
Neither suspected a thing.
As Yao Ziyang approached, his soft footsteps padding across the wooden floor, Dong Yingming quickly opened the bottle from within his pocket with a click and took out another pill. Then, very quickly, he took the other pill left on the table and popped both into his mouth, swallowing hard and silently praying they'd take effect quickly.
Yao Ziyang moved gracefully to the table, sitting beside Dong Yingming as he took his seat, closer than necessary—so close their thighs nearly brushed. He gave a soft hum of delight at the spread of food, eyes sparkling with innocent affection.
Then he picked up his chopsticks.
With delicate fingers and a small smile, he began placing food onto Dong Yingming's plate. Choice pieces of fish, crisp vegetables, and small scoops of rice went onto Dong Yingming's plate one by one. The movements were intimate, gentle, utterly tender. Then, without hesitation or warning, he lifted one dumpling with his chopsticks to Dong Yingming's lips intending to feed it directly to Dong Yingming's like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Dong Yingming stared at it for a beat, utterly powerless against such tender affection, parted his lips and ate obediently, allowing Yao Ziyang to feed him.
Yao Ziyang smiled brilliantly, a look so dazzling Dong's heart stuttered again.
It was over.
Dong Yingming reached into his pocket under the table, without Yao Ziyang noticing, and quickly popped two more libido suppressants into his mouth, swallowing dry.
It wouldn't be enough. Not even close.
Because Yao Ziyang, with his soft voice, warm eyes, and smooth thighs, was unknowingly an Incubus, sent to torment him. And right now, he was the picture of domestic bliss, happily eating with him, feeding him from the same chopsticks and humming contentedly.
Dong Yingming had murdered men with less provocation than this—but tonight, he wasn't a killer.
He was a man in love, desperately trying not to defile the one person in the world he wanted to worship.
The boy continued calmly, casually using those same chopsticks—still carrying Dong Yingming's warmth—to pick food for himself, placing it into his own mouth. The action was so simple, yet scandalously intimate.
Dong Yingming could feel his pulse rising, heat pooling dangerously low. His thoughts blurred at the edges, his hands gripping the table edge beneath. In a panic, he discreetly slipped another two pills into his mouth, swallowing it quickly. His rational side doubted even a handful of suppressants would be enough to control himself in front of this man—this delicate, mischievous, impossible creature whose very existence seemed crafted to unravel him.
Yao Ziyang tilted his head innocently.
"Darling, are you alright? Your face seems flushed."
Dong Yingming exhaled slowly, forcing a composed smile, though inwardly he was certain he was losing his mind. He reached out, playfully pinched Yao Ziyang's cheek gently.
"I'm fine. Eat more."
Yao Ziyang happily obeyed, eyes glittering in anticipation.
Dong Yingming watched him quietly, convinced beyond doubt that he had truly fallen in love with an Incubus disguised as an angel—and he was utterly, willingly lost.
***
Dinner slowly came to an end and the plates were nearly empty. The quiet, gentle clinks of chopsticks against porcelain had faded, replaced by the low hum of intimacy filling the cell like a rising tide and the warm glow of soft lights filled the suite, wrapping both Dong Yingming and Yao Ziyang in a quiet, intimate cocoon.
Dong Yingming watched Yao Ziyang through his lashes—how the boy leaned his elbow on the table and tilted his head slightly to the side, like he was posing for a portrait. The oversized T-shirt—the one Dong Yingming usually wore to bed when he needed to feel grounded—now clung to the youth's frame like a whisper of fabric, revealing the slope of his bare thighs every time he shifted.
The night was winding down but Yao Ziyang, wearing only Dong Yingming's oversized black shirt, had other plans. He sat with his knees turned slightly toward Dong Yingming, his eyes glittering under the soft lamplight, his lips stained the faintest cherry-red from the pickled plum he'd eaten for dessert. His bare thighs brushed together beneath the oversized black shirt—which hung off his frame like it had always belonged to him.
It was unbearable.
Across the table, Dong Yingming sat unnervingly still. The pills had dulled the roar in his blood, but only slightly. His body still pulsed with restrained tension, his jaw set hard, hands resting on his knees in a desperate attempt at discipline. But Yai Ziyang's mere presence was a test of his every limit.
He had taken four suppressants. Four. And still, the heat low in his gut had not abated. The tension in his shoulders held like a coiled spring, his fists tight under the table.
Then Yao Ziyang stretched.
He leaned forward gracefully, the shirt slipping slightly off his shoulder, revealing a little more of his porcelain skin and the elegant curve of his collarbone. And then with perfectly feigned deftness that could've passed as clumsiness or an accident, he reached across the table while aiming for a dumpling and "missed," knocking over the bowl of dipping sauce before Dong Yingming could react.
Yao Ziyang's delicate fingers had successfully "accidentally" tipped the sauce bowl, sending the glossy liquid trickling across the table until it reached the edge and over in slow, warm rivulets.
A thick, silky ribbon of soy-based, glossy brown sauce—sticky and sweet—slid languidly as it drizzled off and landed squarely on his inner thigh just beneath the hem of the shirt with a wet plop. The dark liquid trailing along the pale expanse of skin of his inner thigh like a wicked caress, leaving an enticingly sweet-smelling trail that dipped between muscle and groin, disappeared under the hem of the oversized shirt, just out of sight.
"Ah—oh no…"
Yao Ziyang suddenly gasped, voice as light as a feather he murmured softly, just convincingly enough.
Dong Yingming's eyes snapped to him, his pupils dilated and his breath hitched. The Omega's glanced down in dismay.
"I spilled…"
Yao Ziyang murmured, blinking down at the mess like a kitten who'd just knocked over a vase. He made no move to wipe it away. Instead, he brought his fingers to his lips, his voice trailed off into an innocent and delicate pout. Then those large, expressive eyes lifted to Dong Yingming's and widened in mock embarrassment.
"Oh, how awful, what a shame! How absolutely terrible—wasting food like that, I hate wasting food, it's such a waste to spill food, you know..."
He glanced sideways at Dong Yingming, feigning guilt and fluttering his lashes in a way that made his intentions anything but pure.
"Darling, should I go clean it… or… you could help me clean it?"
He asked sweetly.
"…Lick it off for me, darling? With your mouth, maybe?"
He let the thought trail off, lifting his gaze to Dong, a picture of coy mischief. His voice dropped lower to a honeyed whisper, turning gently coaxing as his fingers shyly tugged the shirt slightly higher, exposing even more of that delicate thigh. His dark eyes locked onto Dong Yingming's, gaze soft, shy, and yet utterly provocative.