Sulfur steam thickened like conspirators' breath. Jun Mulin studied the girl—Could she truly purge the poison? Madness or mastery? His skin showed no blisters where she'd touched him, only thermal flush. A miracle, for his flesh had always rebelled against women's contact. Since boyhood, any female beyond three paces made him sneeze; a brush of skin raised rashes like battlefield scars. Only the Empress Dowager and Princess Jun Lingxi were exempt.
Yet this stranger—clutched, collided, entangled—left him unscathed. Unthinkable.
"Well?" Bai Heran snapped, needles weeping crimson down her sodden robe. "Deal or no deal? Cease dithering like a fishwife!"
No one had ever called Jun Mulin dithering. His amethyst gaze swept over her: twelve or thirteen, drowned in a drab gown fit for a washerwoman. Hair plastered to her skull, face cadaverous pale—yet defiance sparkled in her eyes like frost-fire. A winter rose blooming in sulfur hell, he mused, inexplicably intrigued.
"Turn," he commanded, spinning her roughly. Thirteen embroidery needles pierced her back like a pincushion. Fury ignited in him—Who dared mar such spirit? His hand moved swift as a falcon's strike, plucking each needle free. Blood welled in their wake.
She sighed, flexing her shoulders. "Gratitude." Taking the blood-slicked needles, she flashed a grin—then plunged beneath the water.
Agony lanced through his lower abdomen. He looked down in horror: thirteen needles now encircled his royal scepter like a poisoned crown.