Xue Lian's composure lasted exactly as long as it took to close the door to Lan Yue's chambers behind her.
The moment the heavy wood clicked shut, she leaned back against it, a full body shudder wracking her frame. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic, wild rhythm that was entirely at odds with the calm, controlled medic she had just portrayed.
What in the nine hells was that?
She had gone in there intending to be clinical. A physiological intervention. A strategic application of energy. She had a plan, a script, a persona the cool, helpful, slightly amused Empress bestowing a practical favor.
And then she had touched her.
The moment her skin had met Lan Yue's, the plan had evaporated. The tremor in Lan Yue's hand, the raw vulnerability in her usually impassive eyes, the heat radiating from her… it had short circuited something in Xue Lian's brain. The clinical touch she'd envisioned had become something else entirely. Something… intentional. Something reverent.
She could still feel the ghost of Lan Yue's pulse under her thumb, the frantic beat slowing to a calm, trusting rhythm under her touch. She could feel the exact points where tension had melted away under her fingers. She could hear the soft, helpless moan that had escaped Lan Yue's lips when she'd found the knot at the base of her skull.
A hot flush, entirely separate from any external heat, swept up Xue Lian's neck and burned across her cheeks. She, the unflappable Demon Empress, was blushing. Profusely.
She moaned. I made her moan. And I liked it.
The thought was a lightning bolt. This was not part of the plan! The plan was to be charming, to be clever, to build rapport and trust until Lan Yue saw the inevitable logic of their alliance. The plan was not to give her captive a… a massage that left herself feeling flustered and overheated.
She pushed off from the door and began to pace her own rooms, her formal court robes suddenly feeling constricting. She fumbled with the fastenings, her fingers clumsy.
She was an Omega, yes, but a defective one. Her own cycles were so weak as to be nearly nonexistent, little more than a faint, background whisper she easily ignored. She'd never been affected by another's. She'd never wanted to be.
But Lan Yue's distress… it hadn't just been a scent or a sound. It had been a spiritual broadcast, a wave of raw, potent need that had resonated with something deep inside her, something she usually kept locked down tight. Her own dormant biology had stirred in response, not with a mimicking heat, but with a fierce, protective urge to soothe. To provide the counterbalance.
And in doing so, she had discovered that Lan Yue's skin was impossibly soft. That the line of her shoulders was elegant and strong under her hands. That the sound of her breath catching was the most fascinating sound in the world.
"This is bad," she muttered to herself, finally managing to shed the heavy outer robe. "This is very, very bad."
She had gotten too close. She had allowed the line between strategy and genuine feeling to blur, and now she was on the wrong side of it, feeling things she had no business feeling. She was the one in control. She was the one who was supposed to be unmoved, the master tactician watching the pieces fall into place.
Not the one blushing in her bedroom like a novice after her first kiss.
She splashed cold water on her face from the basin on her dresser, the shock of it helping to clear her head. She stared at her reflection in the polished obsidian mirror. Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes overly bright. She looked… flustered. Young.
Get a grip, Lian, she ordered her reflection. This changes nothing. It was a medical procedure. It worked. The objective is still secure.
But the memory of Lan Yue's complete, trusting surrender under her hands was a brand on her mind. The captive had gotten under her skin, and the walls around her own heart felt dangerously thin.
She had to regain control. Of the situation, and of herself.
She took several deep, steadying breaths, forcing her pulse to slow, willing the blush to recede. She was Empress Xue Lian. She had faced down rebellions and court intrigues. She would not be undone by a pretty celestial with a vulnerability for cool compresses and shoulder rubs.
By the time a servant arrived to inform her that Archduke Jin was requesting an audience, the mask was firmly back in place. The flush was gone, replaced by a cool, regal composure. The frantic heartbeat was a secret she alone could hear.
She was in control.
Even if, deep down, she knew it was the most fragile control she had ever wielded. The calculus of her plan had just introduced a terrifying new variable: herself.