Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 25

The ointment’s icy coolness felt like countless tiny needles, piercing her skin and waging a tug-of-war with the deep-seated burning pain.

Jian Anji sat motionless on the sofa for a long time, until the stinging pain, intensified by the ointment application, gradually subsided, transforming into a dull, all-encompassing ache.

“Rest,” she told herself.

She tried to move, wanting to return to the guest room bed that was at least nominally hers.

But simply standing up drained every ounce of strength she had just mustered.

The whip marks were concentrated on her lower back and legs, each movement sending sharp jolts of pain through her.

Clinging to walls and furniture like a frail old woman, she shuffled back to the guest room, one painful step at a time.

The guest room bed had been freshly made the previous afternoon, its sheets smooth and cold, devoid of any human warmth.

She collapsed onto the bed, careful not to move too much, curling onto her side to avoid the wounds on her back and the backs of her legs.

The position wasn’t comfortable, but it was the least painful one she could find.

Exhaustion washed over her like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her completely this time.

Her body, pushed to its limits by pain and exhaustion, was staging a revolt. Her eyelids drooped heavily, and her consciousness began to fade.

Just as she was about to sink into the void of darkness, images flashed uncontrollably through her mind. Not whips, not ointments, but Leng Tan.

It was the muffled, pained murmur in the darkness last night; the arm that had remained around her waist when she woke up this morning; the silhouette rubbing her temples by the car; the fleeting, indescribable darkness that crossed Leng Tan’s calm profile when she said, “It looks like blood.”

And… “Tantan” on the swing in the ledger.

These images intertwined and collided, finally settling on Leng Tan’s casual farewell: “I’m heading to the office.”

Dressed in a crisp suit, her expression composed and self-assured, she seemed like a completely different person from the woman who had held her close after inflicting pain last night, the woman who had cried out in her sleep.

Which was the real Leng Tan?

Or were they both?

The question pricked at the edge of her fading consciousness like a dull, unsettling ache.

Knowing these fragments hadn’t brought her any closer to clarity; instead, it felt like she had fallen deeper into the fog.

Leng Tan’s inner world was like a vast, dark lake teeming with hidden currents and whirlpools. She had only glimpsed a few ripples on the surface, yet she remained utterly ignorant of what lurked beneath. This ignorance only intensified her sense of cold dread and danger.

Exhaustion eventually overwhelmed her racing thoughts, and she drifted into a deep sleep.

But her sleep was restless.

There were no nightmares, no vivid dreams, only a heavy, sinking sensation like being mired in quicksand, punctuated by fragments of consciousness as pain jolted her awake from various parts of her body.

Time lost its linearity, blurring between unconsciousness and half-wakefulness.

When her mind finally cleared somewhat, it was the slanting afternoon sunlight streaming through the window that roused her.

She opened her eyes to find the room bathed in a warm, golden light. It was already afternoon.

How long had she been asleep?

She couldn’t tell.

Her body still ached, but the bone-deep exhaustion that had drained her completely had eased slightly.

Her throat felt painfully dry.

She slowly sat up, still moving cautiously. Getting out of bed, she walked to the small refrigerator in the guest room, took out a bottle of water, twisted it open, and sipped.

The cold water slid down her parched throat, bringing brief relief.

Outside the window, the city’s day was drawing to a close. Thick clouds piled up in the sky, their edges tinged gold and crimson by the setting sun, heralding another twilight.

Will Leng Tan come back?

When will she return?

After last night’s intense “game,” what would today bring?

Continuation?

A pause?

Or, like this brief moment of stillness, a chance to catch her breath before the next storm, whose arrival remained uncertain?

She didn’t know.

In this world where Leng Tan controlled every beat, she was forever trapped in a state of passive waiting.

After finishing her water, she stood there, feeling lost.

The woman who delivered the medicine had told her to “rest,” and Leng Tan had also said she “needed to rest.”

But what else could she do besides lie down?

In this apartment, there were no books (except for those in the study she refused to touch), no entertainment, no conversation. Even gazing out the window had become a wearying routine.

She eventually returned to bed, not to sleep, but to sit propped against the headboard, staring blankly at the abstract painting on the opposite wall.

The canvas was a chaotic jumble of colors and lines, devoid of any discernible meaning, much like her current situation and mood.

Time passed slowly.

As the setting sun finally sank below the clouds, the sky turned a dull, iron gray.

The light in the apartment dimmed accordingly.

She didn’t turn on the lights.

In the deepening twilight, the sound of a key turning in the lock finally came from the entrance.

Jian Anji’s body instantly tensed, her scattered thoughts snapping into focus.

She instinctively straightened up a little, despite the movement tugging at the wound on her back.

The door opened.

The hallway light outlined Leng Tan’s tall figure. She had changed out of her morning suit into a tailored navy blue cashmere coat, carrying her familiar black briefcase.

Though her face showed a hint of work-weariness, her eyes remained sharp and clear.

She stepped inside, casually placing the briefcase and car keys on the entryway console. She smoothly removed her coat and hung it up, her movements fluid and natural, as if she were simply returning home after an ordinary day at work.

Her gaze swept across the dimly lit living room, easily spotting Jian Anji leaning against the guest room doorway, her figure blurred in the shadows.

Her footsteps paused briefly before she walked straight toward Jian Anji.

As she drew closer, Jian Anji could smell the crisp outdoor air clinging to her, along with a faint scent of paper and coffee from the office.

The apartment’s warm, medicinal air quickly swallowed these scents, but Leng Tan’s presence pressed down like a tangible weight.

She stopped a few steps away from Jian Anji.

In the dim light, her expression was blurred, but her eyes shone with unnatural clarity, like stars in the night, their gaze settling calmly on Jian Anji’s pale face and the crumpled black slip dress she had clearly worn all day.

“Did you change your medicine?” Leng Tan asked, her voice low and slightly hoarse from work. Her tone was flat, making it impossible to tell if she was genuinely concerned or simply going through the motions.

“…Yes,” Jian Anji replied softly, lowering her gaze.

The whip marks on her body might be obscured in the dim light, but the vulnerable posture born of her dishevelment and pain was impossible to hide.

“Mm,” Leng Tan replied, her gaze shifting from Jian Anji’s face to her exposed shoulders and arms. The bruises there looked like dark shadows in the twilight.

“Does it still hurt?”

After the intense “game” of the previous night and the strange embrace this morning, the question felt loaded.

Of course it hurt.

But the pain’s connection to the one who inflicted it had long since moved beyond simple harm and being harmed.

“…It’s a little better,” Jian Anji said carefully, avoiding a direct answer.

Leng Tan didn’t seem to care about her reply.

She stepped closer, close enough for Jian Anji to see the curve of her eyelashes and the bottomless darkness in her eyes.

Leng Tan reached out, her fingertips lightly touching a darker bruise above Jian Anji’s collarbone.

Her fingertips were cool, still carrying the chill of the outdoors.

Jian Anji trembled almost imperceptibly, but she didn’t pull away.

Leng Tan’s fingertips lingered briefly on the bruise before slowly sliding down, brushing against the edge of Jian Anji’s slip as if confirming the mark beneath the fabric, or perhaps conducting a silent, possessive inspection.

Her touch was feather-light, almost tenderly slow, a stark contrast to the ruthless whipping of the previous night.

Yet this “tenderness,” in the current context, was even more unsettling.

“Remember this feeling,” Leng Tan murmured, her voice lowered to a whisper, her breath brushing against Jian Anji’s ear. “Remember who left it.”

The words echoed those she had spoken during the previous night’s torment, but her tone now lacked its former sharpness, replaced by a hint of… an indescribable, almost obsessive reassurance.

Her fingertips finally came to rest over Jian Anji’s heart, the rapid thumping beneath the thin silk slip palpable through the fabric.

“And here,” Leng Tan pressed slightly harder, “remember this too.”

Jian Anji’s breath hitched.

The meaning of those words was too vague, too dangerous.

Remember the pain?

Remember the one who inflicted it?

Or remember… something else entirely?

Leng Tan offered no explanation.

She withdrew her hand, her gaze returning to Jian Anji’s face. Her expression was complex and inscrutable, like countless undercurrents surging beneath a calm surface, yet firmly sealed away.

Possessiveness, a desire for control, perhaps even a twisted concern she herself couldn’t clearly define, and deeper still, a tightly sealed, dark prototype of “love”. All these mingled in that profound, dark gaze.

“Go take a hot bath,” she said, stepping back to create distance, her tone returning to its usual indifference. “Change your clothes. Dinner will be here soon.”

Having given the instruction, she turned away from Jian Anji and walked toward the master bedroom, her steps steady, as if that brief, tension-filled closeness had never occurred.

Jian Anji stood rooted to the spot, the skin on her chest still seemed to retain the faint coolness of Leng Tan’s fingertips and the lingering tremors from her enigmatic words.

The whip scars on her back, the memory of being held around the waist, the “Tantan” in the ledger, the murmured words in her dreams, and now this ambiguous touch and remark. All the fragments swirled in her chaotic mind.

What did she feel for Leng Tan?

Fear, obedience, humiliation—those were clear.

But what else?

In their daily, suffocating entanglement whether punishment or those rare, twisted moments of intimacy had something else grown, something she hadn’t even noticed, like a vine quietly coiling around her: dependence, or… something else?

She didn’t know, and she didn’t dare to think too deeply about it.

And Leng Tan’s feelings for her… was it purely about possession and control? Or beneath that, did some equally twisted, unspoken undercurrent lurk?

There were no answers.

Only the deepening twilight, the sharp pain in her body, and the deeper fog in her heart that stirred again with Leng Tan’s return.

Obeying, she slowly walked toward the bathroom.

Hot water might temporarily soothe her physical pain, but it couldn’t wash away the weight in her heart or the increasingly complex and tangled mess of their relationship.

How would she get through dinner and the night?

What was brewing beneath Leng Tan’s calm facade?

And where would she end up in this long, agonizing entanglement?

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