But that night, when she lay in her hut, staring at the ceiling, the image returned.
Bai Yue's head tilted back, her lips parted, that low, breathy moan.
Zhāo Yàn's muscular back flexing, his claws pressing into her thigh.
The sound of their bodies moving together, the creak of wood, the rustle of bedding.
Zhǐ Ruò pressed her palms to her eyes and groaned.
I am never going to sleep again.
~
The morning sun had barely crested the treetops when Zhǐ Ruò heard the first whisper of rebellion.
It came in the form of Shé Yì's voice, carrying across the clearing like smoke through dry grass. "This is boring," he was saying to a cluster of cubs near the edge of the school space. "All we do is sit and listen and trace letters in the dirt. When do we get to do something fun?"
Zhǐ Ruò's hand tightened on the smooth stone she had been about to use for the morning counting lesson.
