The inner drink hall had been closed since noon.
No disciples lingered nearby. No servants passed the corridor. The lanterns inside were lit early, their glow softened by silk shades that warmed the air and blurred the edges of the room. Incense burned steadily—amber and musk, heavy enough to cling to skin and settle into breath.
Seo Yerin stood beside the low table.
She was not dressed to dine.
A single layer of silk covered her, thin and pale, cut loosely enough that it followed the shape of her body rather than hiding it. The fabric clung where the air was warmest—beneath her chest, along the inward curve of her waist, around the gentle fullness of her hips. The hem brushed her thighs when she moved, whispering softly with each step.
She wore no undergarments.
That had been made clear.
Her husband sat at the head of the table, posture relaxed, one arm resting against the lacquered surface as if this were any other private feast. Jin Muyeon looked composed tonight—hair neatly bound, robes immaculate, expression calm in a way that bordered on detached.
This was not shame.
This was preparation.
"Pour," he said.
Yerin lifted the wine jug and knelt.
The motion drew the silk tight across her thighs, the fabric riding higher as her knees touched the floor. She poured slowly, wrists steady, head bowed. Wine splashed softly into the cup, its scent rising thick and warm.
When she straightened, Muyeon's gaze passed over her without pause, the way one looked at something already decided.
"Good," he said.
The doors opened moments later.
Elder Kang Seoryeong entered without ceremony, his presence filling the room with practiced ease. His eyes moved first to the table, then to Muyeon—and finally to Yerin.
They did not leave her.
She bowed properly, but did not retreat.
Kang Seoryeong smiled faintly as he sat. "You are generous hosts."
Muyeon gestured lightly. "We welcome worthy guests."
Yerin poured again.
As she leaned forward, the silk at her shoulders loosened, the narrow ties slipping apart with deliberate ease. The fabric slid down her arms, baring smooth skin to the lanternlight. The upper curve of her chest was exposed now, breath lifting it gently, warmth gathering where air touched bare flesh.
No one told her to stop.
She let the garment fall further, until it rested low against her waist, her body uncovered above it—soft curves, pale skin, the subtle tension in her posture as she knelt between the two men.
Kang Seoryeong's gaze sharpened.
"This is… thoughtful," he said.
Muyeon lifted his cup and drank. "Hospitality should be."
Yerin reached for the jug again. As she poured, the elder's hand came to rest lightly against her side, fingers pressing into the softness at her waist, thumb brushing the curve of her hip as if assessing quality rather than seeking permission.
She did not flinch.
The hall felt warmer.
The incense thicker.
When she finished pouring, Muyeon spoke again, his voice even. "Serve him well."
It was not a request.
Yerin rose.
As she stood, the silk slipped completely free, sliding down her hips to pool at her feet. She stepped out of it without haste, standing naked between the table and the lanternlight. Her body was unhidden now—full breasts heavy with warmth, waist narrowing cleanly before flaring into rounded hips, thighs smooth and unmarked.
She felt the elder's eyes on her openly.
She felt her husband's gaze only briefly, confirming, approving, then withdrawing.
Kang Seoryeong stood. "Come."
She followed.
Bare feet against polished floor. Warm air against exposed skin. The door to the guest chamber closed behind them with a soft, final sound.
***
The lantern was placed deliberately.
Not high.
Not low.
Just enough that the light struck her front directly, leaving no angle unobserved.
Yerin stood naked beneath it, feet planted, shoulders drawn back by nothing more than awareness. The warmth in the room gathered against her skin, clinging where her body curved inward and pooling where it softened. Her breasts were heavy in the open air, the skin taut, nipples darkened and unmistakably tense, responding not to touch but to the simple fact of being left uncovered and unshielded.
She did not cross her arms.
She did not shift her weight.
Her posture was still, composed—chin level, spine straight, stomach drawn in slightly without conscious effort. Each breath lifted her chest subtly, the movement slow enough to be followed, slow enough to be anticipated. The rise and fall created its own rhythm, a quiet display of control held under strain.
Kang Seoryeong watched.
He did not approach her at once.
He let the silence stretch, let the heat settle, let her body continue responding on its own. The longer she stood there, the more apparent the small signs became—the faint sheen gathering along her skin, the way her breathing deepened despite her restraint, the slight tension that appeared at her thighs as she held herself steady.
"Do not move," he said.
She obeyed.
He circled her slowly, eyes level with her body rather than her face. He stopped behind her and remained there, close enough that she felt the warmth of him at her back, close enough that the space between them felt occupied even without contact.
His breath brushed her shoulder.
Her nipples tightened further.
Not from cold.
From proximity.
From anticipation without fulfillment.
His hand lifted and hovered near her waist, close enough that she felt heat radiating from his palm, the faint disturbance of air against her skin when his fingers shifted. He traced the air along the curve of her body without touching, following the inward sweep of her waist, the outward fullness of her hip, pausing just short of contact as if testing how long she could remain still.
Her breath caught—only for a moment.
She corrected it immediately.
That, too, did not go unnoticed.
"Good," he murmured.
He moved to stand in front of her again.
Close.
Not touching.
She could feel his presence filling the space between them, her skin reacting as though it already had been. The lanternlight made no effort to soften her—every detail was visible, every response laid bare. The faint tightening beneath her breasts, the subtle contraction of muscle along her abdomen as she held her posture, the way her chest rose higher now with each inhale.
He raised two fingers.
Held them just beneath her breast.
Did not make contact.
The distance between skin and skin was no more than a breath's width.
Her body reacted anyway.
A deeper inhale.
A slight lift of her chest that brought her closer without permission.
He smiled faintly.
Only then did his fingers touch—barely—just the lightest brush beneath the curve, enough to acknowledge warmth without pressing, without grasping. His thumb passed near the hardened peak, not grazing it, not quite.
She exhaled slowly through her nose.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
Her shoulders did not slump. Her knees did not weaken. She remained upright, offered, aware of every sensation that came from restraint rather than release.
His hand withdrew.
He leaned closer instead, his breath warm against her throat. She tilted her head a fraction—not an invitation, not refusal—exposing more skin simply because the posture demanded balance.
He lingered there.
Long enough for heat to build again.
For awareness to sharpen.
For the stillness to become effort.
When he finally stepped back, the absence of his presence felt as tangible as contact would have.
"Come," he said quietly.
He did not need to touch her to guide her forward.
She followed.
The curtain parted, lanternlight dimmed beyond it, and the air changed—heavier, closer, waiting.
The curtain fell shut behind them.
And the rest was no longer meant to be seen.
***
Later, water steamed gently in the bath.
Yerin washed herself slowly, palms gliding over skin that still held warmth, rinsing incense from her hair, from the hollow at her throat, from the curves her silk had traced earlier. She did not rush. There was no need.
When she returned to the marital chamber, she wore only a thin robe, loosely tied. Damp hair spilled over her shoulders, the fabric clinging faintly where moisture remained.
Muyeon was waiting.
He looked at her openly now, eyes calm, assessing—not her body, but the result.
"Did he leave satisfied?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
He nodded once, as if confirming an exchange completed properly. There was no apology in his expression. No hesitation. Only calculation and quiet satisfaction.
She stood before him, composed, still, her presence filling the room.
She had married him months ago—an arrangement made for convenience, sealed without tenderness. Tonight merely clarified what had always been understood.
She inclined her head in acknowledgment.
Nothing more was required.