Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 38

Qin Song’s hair glimmered faintly with a thin layer of white light. Hearing the words Li Chu had just spoken, her expression grew uncharacteristically complicated.

The reason she had never pierced her face was because she knew this face alone could bewitch countless frivolous people. When Qian Fang was young, she was one of the great beauties of Nancheng, and besides, there was no such thing as an ugly face in the Qin family.

Her looks meant little to Qin Song herself, but who doesn’t love beautiful things and people? Even in her sickly, deranged, and antisocial state, there were always people who would throw themselves at her for that face.

Her striking appearance had become her greatest advantage. She understood perfectly how much her looks could attract, how many things they could accomplish, including in her daily work.

The art of transactional exchange was something Qin Song had picked up from Zheng Chengfeng—absorbed through osmosis, as it were.

And precisely because it was something that belonged to Zheng Chengfeng, Qin Song both made use of it and resented the way others’ gazes lingered on her beauty. She felt that everyone approached her only for her face—never out of true sincerity.

But now, Li Chu was looking into her eyes, saying with unwavering sincerity that she wanted to establish an intimate relationship.

Qin Song could not tell if it was a lie or the truth. “Reason.”

“Huh?” Li Chu froze. “There has to be a reason for this?”

Had she said it too vaguely?

Qin Song folded her arms, leaning half a shoulder against the bathroom tiles, and repeated slowly, “Your reason.”

This time, Li Chu understood. “Do you need a reason to like someone? Your looks, your habits, your personality…”

Yet the first thing she listed was still “looks.” Qin Song’s lips curved up without warmth. “I don’t think my personality is good.”

“…” It was the first time Li Chu realized how exhausting communication could be. She didn’t want to argue anymore. Tilting her chin upward with some difficulty, she finally brushed her lips against the corner of Qin Song’s mouth.

Unnaturally hot, yet soft—so different from the person herself.

Half push, half pull, they ended up by the bed. Li Chu parted her legs, sitting down on Qin Song’s lap, gazing down at her from above.

Qin Song’s pink hair spilled behind her, a strand falling across her slender pale neck, veins visible, making her appear fragile.

Li Chu raised a hand and undid the first button of her shirt.

She wasn’t heavy—almost light, even. Two bodies pressed together through fabric, sweat starting to form where their hips rubbed. Qin Song simply pulled off her long stockings.

When skin touched skin, Li Chu clung tighter.

The waist beneath her was so slim it felt nearly nonexistent, forcing her to hold Qin Song even closer, inevitably brushing against the most intimate places.

She reached for the second button.

And undid it—only to have Qin Song intercept her in an instant. Rising quickly, she reversed their positions in a dizzying motion, pinning Li Chu’s wrist.

“What are you thinking?”

In Qin Song’s hand was suddenly a small iron band—like a collar, but sized exactly for a wrist.

Li Chu realized it fit her wristbone perfectly.

The next second, it snapped closed around her. The warmth of Qin Song’s fingertips vanished, leaving only the icy bite of metal.

Qin Song gazed at her lazily, completely at ease. Her shirt collar had slipped off one shoulder, strap sliding down the curve of her arm.

Li Chu was now chained to the bedframe—regretting, for the first time, ever buying an iron bed.

Who would have thought the bars would make things easier for Qin Song? She bound Li Chu’s other wrist in the same place.

Li Chu had no escape. Her skin flushed a soft pink, like the redness at the corners of her eyes—beautiful beyond words.

That was the posture in which she welcomed Qin Song.

As Qin Song moved, her cuff slid down to her wrist. When she pushed it back up, it carried with it the salty tang of seawater. Finally, she shrugged off her shirt entirely.

It was the first time Li Chu saw Qin Song without a single piece of fabric on her. Kneeling forward, she radiated the illusion of solemn devotion.

The blood-mark tattoos traced her body like moving knuckles, breaking through defenses. Li Chu fell into several long minutes of dazed dissociation, her spine arching like a crescent moon in the sky.

From urgency to gentleness, then from calm to a surging tide—even her kisses carried heat, seeping deep into the stirred ocean, boiling it to steam.

Li Chu stared at the pink-violet tips of her hair brushing her toes, unable to make a sound for a long time, lips parted, dry with heat.

When it ended, the first thing she did was grab a bottle of mineral water, twist it open, and gulp down more than half. Then, without thinking, she handed it to Qin Song. “Here.”

It was instinctive—her and Lin Zhiyan’s way of sharing. They were close friends; often they’d drink from the same bottle without a thought. She hadn’t realized she’d done the same to Qin Song.

A little embarrassed, she was about to retract her hand when Qin Song took the bottle. Her pale throat bobbed before Li Chu’s eyes as she drank.

After finishing, Qin Song naturally lit a cigarette. Her smoking hand still dirty, she switched to the clean one before heading to the bathroom.

Only when the sound of running water came from inside did Li Chu glance at the nearly empty bottle left on the table. Her heart thudded uncontrollably.

They had reached the most intimate of acts—but it was the small details that mattered, proof that Qin Song was accepting her, protecting this seemingly fragile bond.

Li Chu pressed her hand over her mouth, but her eyes curved uncontrollably with a smile.

Qin Song had tracked down Zheng Chengfeng’s mistress: a kindergarten teacher from a poor family, even four years younger than herself.

Following this lead, she waited in an alley on a rainy night, long hair drenched into dark strands by the downpour.

Zhou Qingchun had just taken out her keys to unlock the door when a shadow loomed behind her, startling her into a scream. “Who’s there?”

Qin Song pulled back her hoodie, her voice dull and heavy: “Not here to rob or kill, at least.”

“You followed me? Who are you?!”

Qin Song gave a short laugh. “You don’t recognize me?”

Zhou Qingchun stared for a long moment, her face blanching. “Qin… y-you—you… how did you find me here?”

She looked guilty despite her heavy makeup, eyeliner drawn sharp and precise. It couldn’t hide the sudden pallor of her face.

“That’s not something you need to know.” Qin Song stepped forward, cigarette smoke curling upward. “To be his mistress—doesn’t that disgust you?”

She spoke as though the word “disgusting” weren’t even her true intent.

Zhou Qingchun flushed crimson. “What business is it of yours?”

“Legally, he’s my mother’s husband,” Qin Song replied flatly, giving her a cool glance. “What are you after?”

All throughout, her tone remained detached, her presence pressing Zhou Qingchun into a corner.

Zhou Qingchun clutched her bag to her chest, sneering, “Don’t you know your stepfather? What else could I be after?”

She was only a poorly paid kindergarten teacher—what else indeed?

The cigarette burned only a few puffs before Qin Song tossed it to the ground, crushing it under her heel. “How much did he promise you each month? A hundred thousand? Two hundred?”

Zhou Qingchun faltered. Zheng Chengfeng didn’t send money on a schedule—he simply kept her comfortable, covering her family’s needs.

“You live alone?” Qin Song suddenly changed the subject, glancing at the door. “Do you want to keep talking in the rain?”

In truth, Zhou Qingchun admired her. From snippets in the media, she’d learned of Qin Song’s reputation—always measured, so discreet that not a trace of scandal could be found. Compared to other heiresses, she seemed detached from fame and fortune.

The eldest daughter of the Qin family already had enough status—yet Qin Song never flaunted it. It was almost excessive humility.

Once inside, Zhou Qingchun’s guard eased. She sat casually with a mirror and cotton pads, wiping off her eye makeup.

Without the mature mask, her features looked plain and youthful. About Li Chu’s age, yet her face bore the wear of hardship.

Qin Song had read her file beforehand—two younger brothers, two younger sisters, father deceased, mother scavenging trash to support them all.

Zhou Qingchun, bare-faced, looked at Qin Song in awe. “You’re so beautiful. Even with surgery, I could never look like you.”

“Beauty is external,” Qin Song replied from the sofa, her crossed legs radiating poise. They were worlds apart—from status to looks—the gap was there from the start.

“Easy for you to say,” Zhou Qingchun muttered. “Beauty is capital.”

Qin Song let out a soft, cold laugh. “When you’re excellent enough, beauty is just a bonus—you should know that.”

“Of course I know. But I’m not excellent. I can’t even touch the passing mark for that bonus. You were born with a golden spoon—you’ll never understand the pain of us ‘commoners.’”

Qin Song stared at her silently, gaze so still and hollow it made Zhou Qingchun squirm. “Why are you looking at me like that? Did I say something wrong?”

“Completely wrong.” Her tone remained detached, emotionless. “Zheng Chengfeng has violent tendencies. There’s a medical report in this file. Do you want to see it?”

She tossed a folder onto Zhou Qingchun’s lap. “I suggest you take a look.”

Zhou Qingchun’s hands were greasy with makeup remover, touching the file gingerly. “…Whose medical report?”

“Mine,” Qin Song said.

“Y-you—yours?!” Zhou Qingchun’s eyes nearly popped. “Wait, wait—he actually hit you…?”

She had never seen that side of him.

“You’ll see it soon enough,” Qin Song’s thick lashes shadowed her dark eyes.

Zheng Chengfeng was a master at playing the gentleman. At first no one could guess that such a polished man could be violent. But in time, the mask slipped—victims piled up, one after another.

“You won’t be the last.”

As Zhou Qingchun flipped through the pages, her hands trembled more and more, her chest rising sharply. Qin Song had collected this data at eighteen—only now was she revealing it. Proof of how much power Zheng wielded to keep it buried.

“But… but he’s never laid a hand on me. Not once. He’s never even raised his voice.”

“If you don’t believe me, wait—or try angering him,” Qin Song said calmly, brushing ash from her hoodie. Her features, from that angle, held a shattered kind of beauty.

Somehow, Zhou Qingchun believed her. “Why are you telling me this? Why come here at all?”

The apartment was a mess. Qin Song rose, heels creaking against the wooden floor, as though surveying the place, before sitting down again.

“Two hundred thousand a month. Work for me.”

At last, she spoke like the true heiress she was—cold, exquisite, her face devoid of excess expression, as though stating “today the weather is fine.”

Zhou Qingchun drew a sharp breath, biting her lip. “You know what he’s capable of. Why should I side with you?”

“Leave.” She tossed her used cotton pad into the bin, muttering, “Don’t come again. If he finds out, you’ll suffer. Qin Miss, I do envy you, but I pity you too. So don’t come again. I’m fine now. It’s enough. I don’t want more.”

Qin Song said nothing further, striding to the door. Before leaving, she dropped a paper bag inside. “These are his crimes over the years. If you stay silent, you’ll be another victim. There will be more after you. And if even you won’t speak, no one ever will.”

She rarely spoke this much—but these words had to be said. For everyone. For the chaos at Qin Zhen’s funeral.

Stepping into the rain, she vanished into the alley’s shadows.

Zhou Qingchun left the door ajar, rain stinging her face. She had always envied the lives of the elite, envied Qin Song’s pride and beauty.

But she had also seen the expanse of tattoos across Qin Song’s body. However bright, they still could not hide the scars beneath.

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