Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 21

“Prove it to me.”

The whispered command, warm breath tickling her ear, chilled Jian Anji to the bone more than any lash.

Prove it?

How could she prove anything?

Bound so tightly, what could she possibly “prove” beyond utter submission and endurance?

The whip’s tip lifted from her skin, but its icy touch lingered like a snake coiling around the welt.

Jian Anji closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering uncontrollably against her lower lids.

The leather collar pressed against her throat, each swallow a distinct struggle.

The leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles fit so snugly, leaving no room for escape.

The thin black slip felt like a second skin, yet left her feeling more exposed and vulnerable than nakedness itself.

Leng Tan didn’t immediately strike.

She seemed to be savoring the moment, studying Jian Anji’s reaction under this absolute control: the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the tense line of her shoulders, the way she bit down on her lower lip, and the faint marks left by the restraints on her slender limbs.

This silent scrutiny was torture in itself.

Time stretched thin under the dim, yellow light and heavy silence.

Finally, the whip cracked through the air.

Swish—crack!

The slender leather whip struck Jian Anji’s side with precision, avoiding her old wounds and landing on relatively undamaged skin.

The pain was sharp and searing, exploding instantly. She shuddered violently, a muffled groan escaping her throat before she forced it back down.

The whip left not a bruise, but a rapidly swelling, crimson welt that stood out starkly against her pale skin.

Leng Tan’s movements were deliberate, pausing for several seconds after each strike.

During these pauses, her gaze meticulously traced the path of the welt as it rose, as if assessing the force, angle, and Jian Anji’s breaking point.

Her breathing remained steady, her eyes focused with an almost cruel intensity. She looked exactly as she had the night before in her study, handling official documents, except now her “tools” had shifted from a keyboard and files to a whip and the trembling body before her.

Swish—crack!

The second lash landed on her other side, leaving a matching mark.

Whoosh—crack!

The third strike hit the back of her thigh, the supple whip biting into her flesh with a deeper, spreading burn.

With each lash, Jian Anji’s body tensed uncontrollably, trembling slightly. The pain made her toes curl, but the restraints at her ankles pulled her back.

Sweat began to bead on her forehead and nape, trickling down her spine. Some seeped into the fresh welts on her waist, adding a sharp sting to the throbbing ache.

She struggled to stay upright, but her knees were already buckling.

The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth—she had bitten through her lower lip.

Leng Tan remained silent. Only the whip’s sharp crack through the air, the dull thud of leather against flesh, and Jian Anji’s increasingly ragged breaths and occasional, barely audible whimpers punctuated the silence.

This wasn’t about punishing a specific transgression. It was a pure release, a ritual of asserting power and possession through inflicting pain.

The command to “stay awake” stripped Jian Anji of her last possible escape. She had to endure every second of the pain from each lash, feel her body’s reactions, and experience the mounting humiliation and helplessness that threatened to overwhelm her consciousness.

She lost count of the lashes.

Her waist, thighs, the junction of her hips and legs, and even the backs of her calves were crisscrossed with swollen red welts. In places where the welts overlapped, the skin had already turned a deep crimson.

The initial sharp pain had transformed into a dull, burning ache that spread throughout her body, each breath tugging at the raw wounds.

Leng Tan finally stopped.

She walked to Jian Anji, breathing lightly not from exertion, but from the subtle tremor that followed the release of pent-up emotion.

A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, but her eyes burned with a deeper, brighter intensity, like ice forged in fire.

She reached out, her fingertips tracing the beads of sweat rolling down Jian Anji’s cheek before dipping beneath the neckline of her slip to touch the still-searing welts.

The icy chill of her fingertips against Jian Anji’s burning skin created a stark contrast, causing Jian Anji to flinch violently. But the collar and restraints held her firmly in place.

“Does it hurt?” Leng Tan asked again, her voice even more hoarse than before.

“…Yes,” Jian Anji’s voice was barely a broken whisper.

Leng Tan’s fingers paused on a swollen welt, pressing down slightly. Jian Anji arched backward in agony, but the restraints held her fast, allowing only a stifled whimper to escape her lips.

“Remember this pain,” Leng Tan repeated her earlier words, but this time her voice carried a hint of dark satisfaction. “It keeps you awake. It reminds you who you belong to.”

She withdrew her hand, her gaze sweeping over Jian Anji’s body, now covered in fresh marks, before turning and settling languidly onto the sofa.

She picked up a glass of amber-colored liquor that had been prepared earlier.

Taking a sip, she kept her eyes locked on Jian Anji, who stood unsteadily, trembling slightly.

“The night is still young,” she said, swirling the liquor in her glass. The ice clinked against the glass with a crisp sound. “Let’s take our time.”

Jian Anji closed her eyes. In her last fragments of consciousness, she saw the impenetrable darkness outside the window, felt the throbbing pain that consumed her body, and saw Leng Tan’s eyes, glowing like a predator’s in the dim light.

The long night had only just begun to unfold. And “staying awake” had become the cruelest part of this torment.

The clinking of ice cubes struck Jian Anji’s taut nerves like the pendulum of a countdown clock.

With her eyes closed, her senses were heightened to the extreme by the pain.

Each new whip mark burned and pulsed beneath her skin, intertwining with the dull ache of old bruises to create an endless sea of fire.

Her slip was soaked with sweat, clinging to her body with a sticky, humiliating embrace.

The collar around her neck and the restraints on her wrists and ankles felt like red-hot iron hoops, heavy and icy cold.

A faint rustling of fabric came from the sofa.

Leng Tan set down her wine glass.

The sound of high heels clicked again, approaching slowly and deliberately.

There was no crack of a whip.

A pair of cool hands gently settled on Jian Anji’s bare shoulders from behind.

The touch made Jian Anji stiffen completely, filling her with a primal fear that surpassed even the whip’s terror.

Because of the uncertainty, because of the unknown.

Fingers slowly slid down her tense shoulders, tracing the spine’s slight ridge along her back, the groove between her vertebrae raised by the whipping.

The coldness at her fingertips formed a cruel contrast against the burning heat of Jian Anji’s skin, sending shivers rippling across her body with each touch.

This caress carried no hint of lust; it felt more like an exploration, a reaffirmation of territory and ownership.

Leng Tan’s hand moved to Jian Anji’s waist, where the whip marks were most concentrated, a tangled web of red welts.

Her fingertips didn’t press deliberately on the wounds; instead, they traced the raised ridges with a gentle, almost appreciative touch, as if admiring a work of art.

Then, her entire palm covered the area, the warmth of her hand (in contrast to the cold fingertips) pressing lightly against the scalding skin.

“Ugh…” Jian Anji finally couldn’t suppress a groan of pain. Her body trembled violently from the combined agony of the caress and the pressure, but the restraints held her firmly in place, leaving her no choice but to endure passively.

“So sensitive,” Leng Tan’s voice whispered close to Jian Anji’s sweat-dampened nape, her breath warm against her skin, yet her tone remained cool. “These places will remember for longer.”

Her hand moved lower, gliding over the backs of Jian Anji’s thighs and the curve where her buttocks met her legs, barely concealed by the hem of her petticoat.

The skin there was more delicate, making the whip marks appear even more brutal.

Leng Tan’s fingers even slipped beneath the edge of the petticoat, pressing directly against the swollen welts and feverish skin through the thin silk fabric.

This was no longer mere punishment, nor a simple inspection.

It was a far more intimate, more invasive form of control.

It blurred the lines between punishment and intimacy, pain and attention, turning Jian Anji’s pain and shame into toys for Leng Tan to play with.

Jian Anji’s breathing completely fell apart, ragged and uneven.

Shame washed over her like a tidal wave, threatening to drown out the pain. She wanted to curl up, to hide, but the restraints and collar denied her even that small comfort.

She could only lie there, like a doll being taken apart and examined, as Leng Tan’s fingers traced and assessed her most painful, most private wounds.

After what felt like an eternity, Leng Tan finally withdrew her hand.

She circled back to stand before Jian Anji.

Forced to open her eyes, Jian Anji’s blurry gaze met Leng Tan’s.

In the dim light, those eyes were as deep as ancient wells, swirling with complex emotions Jian Anji couldn’t decipher: the satisfaction of control, the satiation after inflicting pain, and perhaps even a trace of something Leng Tan herself hadn’t acknowledged—a twisted fascination born from this absolute intimacy, even if it was built on pain.

Leng Tan raised her hand, her fingertips gently brushing aside the sweat-dampened strands of hair clinging to Jian Anji’s forehead, the gesture carrying a strange tenderness.

“Tired?” she asked, her voice low and husky.

Jian Anji couldn’t speak, only nodding almost imperceptibly, the movement barely visible.

Leng Tan studied her for a few seconds before unfastening the leather collar around her neck.

The icy leather slid away from her skin, leaving a clear ring of pressure marks.

Next came the restraints on her wrists and ankles.

With each restraint removed, a rush of blood returned, bringing a numb tingling sensation and a sharper, stinging pain as the freed areas rubbed against her wounds.

Her body suddenly lost its support, and Jian Anji’s legs buckled, sending her stumbling forward.

Leng Tan reached out an arm and caught her steadily.

It wasn’t an embrace, but rather a support, preventing her from collapsing to the ground.

Jian Anji’s body was ice-cold and drenched in sweat, trembling violently and uncontrollably. She could barely stand, most of her weight leaning against Leng Tan’s arm.

Leng Tan didn’t push her away, nor did she make any further moves.

She simply held her up, letting Jian Anji lean against her chest, breathing shallowly.

Their bodies pressed tightly together through the thin fabric of their clothes. Leng Tan’s icy fragrance mingled with sweat and a faint hint of alcohol, enveloping Jian Anji.

This brief, forced reliance felt more disorienting and devastating to Jian Anji than any whipping or restraint.

The tormentor and the supporter, the giver of pain and the only one she could rely on in this moment. These two utterly contradictory roles were absurdly united in Leng Tan.

“Can you still walk?” Leng Tan asked, her voice devoid of emotion.

Jian Anji shook her head, the movement barely perceptible, having exhausted every ounce of strength.

Leng Tan said nothing more. She bent down, slipped one arm under Jian Anji’s knees, and kept her other hand supporting her back as she lifted her into a horizontal carry.

The sudden weightlessness made Jian Anji gasp, and she instinctively reached out and clutched at the fabric of Leng Tan’s robe.

The action startled even herself.

Leng Tan glanced down at her, said nothing, and carried her steadily toward the master bedroom.

Jian Anji curled up in her arms, her body trembling from pain and weakness, her cheek pressed against the cool silk of Leng Tan’s robe.

She could hear Leng Tan’s steady, powerful heartbeat through her chest, a stark contrast to her own frantic, racing pulse.

The master bedroom door swung open, revealing only the dim glow of a bedside lamp.

Leng Tan walked to the bed and gently laid Jian Anji down on the deep gray silk sheets.

The icy sheets stung her burning wounds.

“You’re sleeping here tonight,” Leng Tan declared, standing by the bed and looking down at her.

It wasn’t a question, but an order.

It meant that even the last symbolic space she could call her own had been stripped away.

She would spend this long, humiliating night in this room, saturated with Leng Tan’s presence and absolute authority, bearing both fresh and old wounds.

Leng Tan turned and walked into the bathroom. Soon, the sound of running water filled the room.

Jian Anji lay on the cold sheets, staring at the dim shadows on the ceiling. Her body ached as if it had been torn apart, yet her mind remained unnaturally sharp, sharpened by extreme stimulation and confusion.

The water continued to run, as if preparing something for her.

She knew the night might not be over yet. And the order to “stay awake” still held.

On this bed that belonged to Leng Tan, under her complete control, Jian Anji didn’t even have the right to escape into unconsciousness.

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