Chapter 27: A Six-Inch Wound
Ji Qian’ang froze for a beat, then draped Tang Yu’s arm over his shoulder, wrapped an arm around his waist, and steered him through the corridor.
Once Tang Yu knew it was Ji Qian’ang, he let himself be half-dragged along without the least struggle.
His forehead rested against the side of Ji Qian’ang’s neck. He had never known a human pulse could beat so fast.
Footsteps soon gave chase down the corridor behind them. Not knowing what that crowd wanted, Ji Qian’ang pulled Tang Yu closer and quickened his pace.
He didn’t know the yacht’s inner layout well and could only turn by instinct. The port-side corridor grew darker and darker, until it ended at a small viewing platform jutting out beyond the hull, walled on three sides by a railing waist-high.
Outside, the night lay deep; the dark blue sea stretched past the reach of sight. There was nowhere left to go.
Tang Yu’s brow knotted tight. He leaned against the railing, breathing hard, trying to steady himself—and the instant his hand touched it, the railing swayed with a sharp metallic creak. “This…”
His voice was hoarse. “Doesn’t it feel a little—”
He never finished. Lin Juefei’s voice shot up an octave. “A-Yu! Behind you!”
Tang Yu’s heart clenched. A man came barreling at him out of nowhere, slamming into him with full force.
Ji Qian’ang’s grip missed by an instant. Tang Yu was thrown forward; the railing gave a dull crack of splintering, and his upper body pitched out over it, his whole center of gravity suddenly hanging in empty air.
Sea wind rushed up from below. Tang Yu looked down at the black water, the wake churning white foam more than ten meters off at the stern.
His already groggy mind went black in an instant.
Ji Qian’ang gripped the side railing hard, one hand shooting out from the dark to seize him by the back of the collar.
The fabric bit into the flesh of his neck; the knuckles of that hand pressed against the bone at the back of his neck.
Breathing strangled, Tang Yu hung half outside the hull, his waist jammed against the gap of the broken railing, Ji Qian’ang hauling him back by the collar.
He heaved him up in one fierce motion, caring nothing for what the yacht’s fittings did to him—his arm tearing open with a rend—and using the leverage of his elbow, hauled Tang Yu back over the gap in the railing.
Tang Yu crashed back onto the deck, knees banging painfully, the skin scraped from his palms.
He lay there gulping air, the sea wind buzzing in his ears. In less than three minutes, he had been to the gates of death and back.
The man who had charged him bolted. Lin Juefei tried to grab him and had his hand stomped hard instead, the whole wrist flaming red-purple at once. “Who—who pushed the Young Master!?”
Tang Yu looked up. Ji Qian’ang was half-kneeling beside him, a deep, long gash running across his right hand from the web of the thumb to the wrist, the flesh at the edges curled back, dark red blood welling down in streams.
At the sight of that terrible wound, the last of the haze was driven from Tang Yu’s head. His throat bobbed hard. “Your hand…”
“Shut up.” Ji Qian’ang drew the hand behind his back to keep the blood from dripping in front of him, and turned his head toward Lin Juefei, standing a short distance away.
Lin Juefei’s face was white with panic, one hand clamped over his wrist, explanations tumbling out, thick with guilt. “A-Yu, I’m sorry—I tried to hold you and I couldn’t—that man came out of nowhere, I panicked! And this railing—”
He didn’t get to finish. Black-suited bodyguards swarmed out of the dark, sealing the not-so-spacious platform off completely.
In the dimness He Zhuokun came striding fast, his eyes finding Tang Yu first. He dropped into a half-crouch before him, one hand supporting Tang Yu’s arm.
Even behind the half-mask, the anxiety on his face was plain to see. “Xiao Yu—how are you feeling?”
Tang Yu lifted his eyes with difficulty and shook his head. “The railing was loose. Ji Qian’ang pulled me back.”
He tilted his chin toward Ji Qian’ang. “His… his hand is bleeding.”
He Zhuokun’s gaze swung to Ji Qian’ang’s blood-soaked arm, and the men behind him moved at once to support Ji Qian’ang.
The ship’s doctor came hurrying with his medical kit. One look at Ji Qian’ang’s hand and his brow drew tight. “Mr. He, this wound is serious. I need to take him inside and dress it.”
He Zhuokun nodded and rose, gesturing that Tang Yu be brought in as well.
Ji Qian’ang and He Zhuokun exchanged a look—Ji Qian’ang’s seemed to be appraising him. This solicitude for a man he’d met only tonight was more than a little excessive.
Ji Qian’ang’s gaze shifted to Lin Juefei, not far off. Then he was led away by the attendants.
Lin Juefei looked at He Zhuokun, eyes rimmed red, voice choked. “Someone just lunged out of nowhere—it scared me half to death… I nearly lost my grip on A-Yu.”
He Zhuokun crossed to him in a few strides and crouched down, dark eyes fixed on him until Lin Juefei’s own eyes skittered everywhere and his head sank of its own accord.
The ring on He Zhuokun’s finger tipped Lin Juefei’s chin up, forcing their eyes to meet—one gaze dark and cold as a snake’s, the other panicked, a fish in a pot.
“Take Juefei below.”
“That man. Search for him. Now.” He Zhuokun looked straight ahead as he spoke; the orders, stripped of all warmth, were meant for the others.
Dread washed through Lin Juefei in waves. He grabbed at the leg of He Zhuokun’s trousers.
“Mr. He…”
“Mr. He!”
He Zhuokun kicked him away and turned to go, not even gracing his back with a second glance.
His wrist dragged along, numb past all feeling. Lin Juefei watched that back grow more distant, then hammered the deck with his other fist, again and again, bringing fresh waves of numbness and pain.
The surrounding bodyguards did not move to seize him at once. A-Chuang, at their head, stepped forward and crouched, leaning close to murmur, “Mr. Lin, the ground is cold. Come with us.”
In the ship’s infirmary, the doctor bandaged Tang Yu’s scraped hands and gave him a quick examination.
Nothing was seriously wrong; the waves of dizziness had likely come from some spice he shouldn’t have breathed in.
Hearing this, He Zhuokun’s brow knotted deep. He asked nothing further and left.
Meanwhile the ship’s doctor, with several accompanying physicians, was dressing Ji Qian’ang’s wound.
Tang Yu stood quietly to one side, not daring to breathe at the sight of his arm.
He had never seen a wound this raw in real life. The few times he had dragged a blade over his own wrist, it had been nothing more than venting an emotion that had boiled over—borrowing the pain to pull his mind off other things.
Even when Tang Yifeng was hit by that car, he had fainted dead away before he ever saw where the impact landed. When he woke again, there was only the news of his death.
So Tang Yu did not stare long at the torn-open flesh of Ji Qian’ang’s arm. He could hardly imagine how much a wound of six inches should hurt.
Standing to one side, he edged a little closer and muttered, “Grabbing bare metal with your bare hand. Of all things.”
Ji Qian’ang sat on the edge of the infirmary bed, his right hand resting at the rim of the sterile tray. He turned his head to look at Tang Yu, mouth tilting. “What, then? Catch it with my face?”
Tang Yu stood beside the doctor, watching the needle pass through flesh. The wound was shallow at either end and deep at the center—deep enough to show red muscle.
One stitch. Two. He counted to fifteen.
With every stitch he watched Ji Qian’ang’s face. From first to last, the man never made a sound.
Only when the doctor snipped the thread and began winding the gauze did Tang Yu look away. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s numb.” Ji Qian’ang gave a scoffing laugh—yet fine beads of sweat had broken out at his temple, and he couldn’t hold back a sharp intake of breath.
Tang Yu’s chest tightened—he couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or guilt. Another fresh wound on Ji Qian’ang, and again because of him.
He drew a tissue from his pocket anyway and edged closer, dabbing gently at the sweat on Ji Qian’ang’s forehead, still turning options over in his head. Then he held his arm out toward him. “If nothing else works… bite me.”
Call it paying a debt. Last time, when he’d lost control of himself and hidden in the tool shed, it had been Ji Qian’ang who came to stop him—and bandaged his wounds after. Somewhere along the way, Tang Yu had begun to feel he owed Ji Qian’ang more and more.
Ji Qian’ang was silent a moment, brow arched, face cold—though a flicker of amusement passed through his eyes. “Hm. Since when does the Young Master comfort his study companion?”
Tang Yu was hardly gentle with the injured, either. He snapped right back, “You meddled, you grabbed me, and you got hurt. If I’m not responsible, who is?”
He yanked his arm back in annoyance—but a sudden strength closed around his wrist and held it fast.
Tang Yu looked down. Ji Qian’ang leaned his neck forward, eyes lifting to fix on him—and then his mouth closed over Tang Yu’s arm, even, sharp teeth sinking into the flesh.
Ji Qian’ang’s scalding warmth passed through the bite into the cold inner side of Tang Yu’s arm. He didn’t bite hard; Tang Yu felt no pain—only numbness, and heat.
The doctor tightened the bandage another turn. Ji Qian’ang’s brow creased, and his bite bore down a little harder.
The scars on his body, great and small, had nearly passed counting: cigarette burns left by Uncle Ji, whip marks across his back, infected, festering skin—every kind, everywhere.
In the Ji family, even the counterfeit concern of a feigned kind word had never once been his. He didn’t know how many barren, unbearable nights he had endured covered head to toe in wounds; every injury, every last of his pains, he had digested alone.
Sometimes Ji Qian’ang even felt a flicker of gratitude for coming to Repulse Bay. So what if his left eye had lost its brightness, or his right hand carried a long scar.
He had even laughed at Tang Yu in private, called him a fool—a single thrown basketball could blind a man completely. Tang Yu had walked straight into his snare, and he had gotten, in the end, exactly what he wanted.
The control he held over Tang Yu should have made him drunk with triumph. But Tang Yu’s guilt had come wrapped together with that distant, offhand care. He had believed he could hold out—unmoved by polite, false concern. Yet no one had ever cared about his scars. Now someone did—and, to his own surprise, he was afraid.
After he had leapt into the swimming pool and pulled Tang Yu out, the other had asked him more than once how the wounds on his back had come to be. He had never said a word—and not long after, tubes of ointment would inexplicably appear on the bedside table in the side quarters.
The long-scabbed wounds on his back finally, at last, healed clean.
Even now, with Tang Yu asking whether it hurt, he felt blank. Such words had only ever flowed out of his own mouth; for a moment he could not find, anywhere in his mind, a fitting answer.
It hurt. Numb and aching both. Well then—biting, and waiting it out.