Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 40

After showering, Qin Song didn’t fall asleep. Instead, she went downstairs to stand in the hallway and smoke, replaying the passion from not long ago in her mind.

Her unplaceable possessiveness and urge to control had all turned into the strength of her thrusting fingers, tangling people’s hearts until they were exhausted.

Li Chu had cried as she begged for mercy, but the more she did so, the more her reddened eyes carried a shattered kind of beauty that drove Qin Song into madness.

At the peak of passion, she grabbed Li Chu’s hand and pressed it against her freshly tattooed wound. That line of English letters carved under her skin felt as if it had been burned into her heart.

Pain fueled desire, so Qin Song simply lifted her into her arms and carried her upstairs—her hand still not withdrawn, drenched in heat all the way.

By the time they both collapsed onto the quilt, Li Chu stumbled toward the corner of the room, but Qin Song caught her and bound one of her feet to the iron bedframe with the rope left at the bedside.

Li Chu’s helpless, pitiful struggle only made Qin Song more eager. Pity had no place in her way of loving—what she cherished was control and pain.

She even pressed Li Chu’s other foot down on top of her name.

The thin flesh over the collarbone carried pain straight to the nerves, and Qin Song seemed to bite Li Chu’s ankle bone as well.

When she bit down, Li Chu’s nails dug into the sheets. Softness and hardness intertwined—it was her body’s involuntary response.

Exquisite.

Qin Song took a drag of her cigarette, the faint salty taste still in her mouth reminding her that what had just happened wasn’t some fantasy.

The moon slipped out from behind the clouds, its beam landing on her fingers holding the cigarette. The water stains had dried up, but not into purity—only into a fine layer of powder.

If this was what intimacy meant, Qin Song thought for a while—it wasn’t entirely impossible. At least both sides had found pleasure.

By noon the next day, Li Chu was awakened by the sound of ringing. Half-asleep, she realized it wasn’t her own phone. Looking carefully, under Qin Song’s pink hair, she saw a phone screen flashing with an incoming call.

She was still debating whether to wake Qin Song when the latter opened her eyes and, with perfect accuracy, reached for the phone. “Speak.”

It was an instinct formed by years of work—efficient and sharp.

Li Chu felt a twinge of heartache. Qin Song could’ve been a carefree heiress, but was instead forced into this state.

Zheng Chengfeng was the root cause. She wanted to ask how Qin Song planned to deal with him, but before the words formed, a low “Get up” cut her off.

After hanging up, Qin Song was instantly awake, her eyes carrying a rare trace of languidness. “Go downstairs and open the door.”

“Who’s here?” Li Chu asked, confused, but still obediently got up, washed, and changed—though her body was weak.

Supporting herself against the wall, she walked to the sink. In a daze while brushing her teeth, she opened Baidu to search: What happens if you overindulge in lust?

Halfway through reading, she realized how silly it was, and closed it.

The saying “lust makes one muddle-headed” fit her perfectly.

When the two went downstairs, Li Chu discovered the visitors were workers installing surveillance cameras. For a shop of just sixty square meters, they installed four cameras, covering every angle except the bathroom.

The banging went on for over two hours. After they left, Li Chu finally asked, “So this is the ‘safety risk’ you were talking about?”

The cameras weren’t even linked to her phone, but to Qin Song’s.

After inspecting the software for a while, Qin Song flipped her phone over. “It’s better to take precautions than to have nothing.”

Looking at the feed on the screen, Li Chu’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t speak.

Precaution—or surveillance? She didn’t dare ask.

But soon, she had her answer.

That afternoon, Qin Song returned to her apartment. With few customers on weekdays, there was a long lull after one group left. Li Chu, unable to find anyone to test her new pigments on, paced around the room.

Then Qin Song’s voice rang out of nowhere: “What are you doing?”

Coming from the surveillance, her voice was mechanical and cold, far more impersonal than usual. Li Chu jumped. “Who?!”

After a pause, Qin Song said flatly: “Is this the intimacy you wanted? That you can’t even recognize my voice?”

Since Li Chu had once used that phrase, Qin Song often repeated it, as if to remind her of something.

Realizing the truth, Li Chu, paint in hand, put her fists on her hips and faced one of the cameras. “Why are you watching me? Shouldn’t you be sleeping—or working?”

“I’m not a machine. I can’t operate 24/7.”

“Then go sleep!” Li Chu turned to face the right camera this time. Their eyes locked across the distance. After a few seconds, Qin Song asked: “Answer me. What are you doing?”

Li Chu looked down at the paint in her palm. “Testing colors.”

But the line went silent. No matter how many times she called out, there was no response. Crestfallen, she slumped onto the counter.

Some time later, the wind chimes jingled—Qin Song had come in.

Her outfit was casual: a long white T-shirt tucked into black cargo pants, her hair tied back in a ponytail. The sharpness in her demeanor had softened.

Li Chu straightened instantly. “Why did you come?”

“Not just testing colors,” Qin Song stepped closer, “but testing me.”

Li Chu thought—testing you is far too dangerous.

Yet the scene felt like that of clingy young lovers who couldn’t stay apart. Her ears flushed red as she looked down, silent.

“Let me see the colors.” Qin Song tossed her phone aside and gestured with her chin. “Bring them out.”

Normally, she only used red. But today, she asked for other shades. Li Chu pulled out the box, asking warily: “Not using red anymore?”

Qin Song sorted through the inks casually with one hand, her other resting on her knee. Though she was usually the picture of elegance, her manner now was careless.

Something was off. Once all the tools were ready, Qin Song stood, turned on the tattoo machine, and fiddled with the switch as if testing its weight.

Li Chu grew uneasy. “What are you doing?”

She watched as Qin Song dipped the needle into pearly lavender, the pigment dispersing across the tip, spattering faintly when powered on.

“Come here.” Qin Song beckoned.

Li Chu understood instantly and backed against the wall. “I’m not getting a tattoo!”

She was terrified of pain—so many times she had nearly fainted when working on clients. How could she endure it herself?

Like doctors not treating themselves, tattooists didn’t tattoo their own skin.

“No! Really…”

But Qin Song only stared at her blankly, her dominance pressing down. Li Chu turned her head away, hair messy.

“This works too.” The warmth of the other’s body burned her reason. “You’ll like it.”

Like it? Never! Li Chu screamed inside, mustering the courage to push Qin Song hard.

Caught off guard—or lost in thought—Qin Song staggered back half a step. When she looked up again, her eyes were dark, lifeless.

Before Li Chu could flee, she was seized by the throat and slammed against the chair, breath cut off.

This Qin Song resembled the one she’d first met—the one who had warned her not to test her. Past and present overlapped, her face cruel, deranged.

In her daze, Li Chu’s hands were bound with a pink ribbon from the cabinet. Its soft color only made the bruises more stark.

Her cries and tears spilled together as her legs kicked at the table, knocking over bottles of pigment, scattering them in colorful blotches.

Qin Song remained unmoved, her tall shadow looming like a storm cloud about to break.

The buzz of the tattoo needle made Li Chu’s scalp prickle. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting—but the pain didn’t come.

Peeking open, she dared to hope Qin Song had relented.

But no. Qin Song had only thought of a better spot. She lifted one of Li Chu’s legs.

Li Chu’s heart clenched painfully as she stared in disbelief.

The root, the inner thigh—was it here? Qin Song touched lightly, then bent down as usual. Only this time, Li Chu felt no ecstasy—just searing agony, so sharp her nails scraped paint off the wall.

Each prick was torture. By the end, her voice was gone, her breathing weak, her fingertips smeared with blood and crimson scratches carved into the wall.

When it was finally over, Qin Song stroked the wound gently. The heat of her fingers made Li Chu shudder again.

Then she was released, only to have her chin lifted.

Qin Song’s eyes burned with fierce yet desolate emotion. Unexpectedly, her kiss on Li Chu’s forehead was tender. She asked softly: “Does it hurt?”

Li Chu pressed her lips together, tears dripping, and nodded.

“Want to know what I tattooed?” Qin Song held up a mirror. The pearly lavender shimmered faintly in that most private place.

Another string of letters—not English.

Ode an die Freude

“What does it mean…”

Unplugging the machine, Qin Song gazed at her, unreadable. “Look it up yourself.”

Li Chu still didn’t understand, and Qin Song offered no more explanation. Putting everything away, she rubbed her brow wearily.

Then she left, the mess scattered across the floor.

Back in her apartment, lying on the bed, Qin Song felt the weight of her actions. They were vicious, pathological, too much. But it was too late—the mark was carved. Their relationship was now made three-dimensional.

All her life, aside from family, she had never been intimately tied to anyone. Under Zheng Chengfeng, she had learned only transactional exchanges—so even family bonds felt thin.

Benefits brought stability but were cold. No matter how many jobs and places she cycled through, she instinctively dealt with people through equal exchange.

After Tang Tiantian’s incident, she had stopped believing in human feelings entirely.

But Li Chu was the exception—from the first moment she lost control.

A gamble, all for fleeting moments of indulgence and pleasure. Still, joy was joy. That was enough.

Late at night, Qin Song was roused from sleep by the ringing of her phone. It was a long-distance call from Qin Zhao overseas.

“Lele? Were you sleeping?”

Hearing it was him, Qin Song only answered, “Mm.”

“Did I disturb you?”

“What is it.”

Her cold tone left Qin Zhao silent for a long while. With a sigh, he asked, “I’ll be returning next month. How are things on your end?”

“What.” Qin Song’s eyes were still closed. But two seconds later, she reacted quickly. “Zhou Qingchun didn’t agree.”

Qin Zhao replied, “I’ll handle it when I return. She’s easy enough to sway—you just need to take another angle. Leave it to me.”

“Mm.”

“You…” he sounded weary, “are you holding up physically?”

“I’m fine.” Qin Song pulled the blanket over her chilled knees. “What day are you back?”

“The twenty-fifth. Ticket already bought. The paperwork and luggage are a hassle, so I sent some boxes back to the old house.”

The Qin family’s old house… Qin Song’s gaze went distant. She hadn’t been there in ten years.

“Lele,” Qin Zhao’s voice turned heavy, solemn, “forget the pain. People can’t stay stuck in the past.”

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