Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 3

Leng Tan did not immediately reach for the medical kit. Instead, she drained the remaining wine in her glass in a single draught and set the empty vessel aside with a careless clatter. As the chilled liquid slid down her throat, she narrowed her eyes slightly, appearing to savor the final lingering notes of the vintage.

“Open it,” she said at last.

Jian Anji obeyed and lowered herself into a crouch. She placed the silver case on the carpet and undid the metallic clasps. Inside, the contents were organized with a precision that bordered on the obsessive; disinfection sprays, sterile swabs, various tubes of ointment categorized by their effects, gauze, tape, and even a pair of disposable sterile gloves were arranged in perfect rows.

“The one with the purple cap,” Leng Tan indicated with a slight tilt of her chin.

Jian Anji’s fingers hovered briefly over the row of ointments before she accurately retrieved the purple tube. The metal casing felt cold against her skin. She offered no questions and simply held the medicine in her hand while maintaining her half-kneeling posture. She looked up and met Leng Tan’s gaze in silence. The hollow vacancy from before had vanished, replaced by a weary, almost fatalistic calm and a flicker of subtle uncertainty as she waited for a clear directive, should she hand it to her master directly, or…

Leng Tan leaned back into the soft leather of the sofa, her deep red skirts spilling outward like a pool of dark, surging blood. She watched Jian Anji, her gaze traveling between the fingers clutching the ointment and the girl’s back, where she could easily envision the network of injuries hidden beneath the fabric of the shirt.

“Do I still need to teach you every single step?” Her voice was devoid of emotion, yet it carried a heavy, stifling weight. “Turn your back to me.”

As those words fell, the air seemed to stagnate once more. Jian Anji’s fingertips tightened, and the cold metal tube pressed hard into her palm. Slowly, and with a ritualistic deliberation, she turned around to face away from Leng Tan, once again exposing her ravaged back to her mistress. This time, however, the act was not for the sake of a display or a punishment, but for… treatment? Or perhaps it was merely another form of confirmation and branding.

She waited. The fibers of the wool rug pricked her knees again, but the physical pain felt secondary this time. A deeper emotion, a volatile mix of humiliation and a bizarre sense of dependency, began to sprout quietly in the silent air between them. She could feel Leng Tan’s gaze resting on her back with the weight of a physical touch.

Time flowed through the silence, and every second felt stretched to its limit. Jian Anji could hear the sound of her own heartbeat drumming against her eardrums like a war tom. She did not know what Leng Tan was waiting for; perhaps the woman was simply enjoying this wordless sense of control, relishing the sight of her subordinate with her back turned, utterly defenseless and forced to wait.

Finally, the faint rustle of fabric came from behind as Leng Tan rose from the sofa. Her high heels made no sound as she stepped onto the thick carpet. Then, without any warning, a cool hand landed on the nape of Jian Anji’s neck. It was not a caress, but a simple, firm contact that carried the absolute and unquestionable meaning of ownership.

That hand began to slide slowly downward along the line of her spine. Everywhere it passed, Jian Anji’s skin tensed involuntarily, and the fine hairs on her body stood on end. This was not an act of affection, but rather a measurement—a re-confirmation of her “territory.” The fingertips eventually stopped at the area where the lash marks were densest and the swelling most prominent, pressing down lightly.

“Tch.” A soft click of the tongue escaped Leng Tan, though it was impossible to tell if it signaled pity or dissatisfaction.

The hand pulled away. Immediately after, Jian Anji heard the faint click of the ointment cap being unscrewed. A light scent, a blend of herbal notes and cooling agents, began to permeate the air. Then, the icy substance made contact with the burning wounds.

Jian Anji’s body jerked violently, and a sharp intake of breath escaped her throat before she bit her lip hard to swallow the sound. It was too cold, and the extreme contrast with the searing heat of her skin was a shock that made her want to curl into a ball.

Leng Tan’s fingers, however, did not pause for a moment. With the ointment on her hand, she began to spread the cream over each of the swollen red welts. Her movements were not gentle; in fact, they possessed a businesslike, almost clinical thoroughness that ensured every inch of the injured skin was covered.

Her fingertips pressed down with deliberate force, kneading the cooling ointment deep into the flesh. It was a treatment, yet it also functioned as a new and more insidious form of torment, for it forced the owner of these wounds to consciously and meticulously re-experience the contour and depth of every single pain.

Jian Anji rested her forehead against her own curled arms while her breathing grew heavy and chaotic. Her body trembled under the pincer attack of ice and fire, and cold sweat began to seep from her hairline. She could feel Leng Tan’s gaze remaining fixed on her back like two flickers of frozen flame, searing her skin and scorching the final remnants of dignity she was desperately trying to maintain.

The application of the medicine gradually exceeded the boundaries of the lash marks and began to spread toward the surrounding healthy skin. The icy sensation felt like a slow, permeating stain.

The borders of the ointment disappeared entirely. That cold, aggressive touch no longer merely soothed or stimulated the injuries, but instead started to encroach upon the untouched skin nearby. It reached the edges of her shoulder blades, the flat lumbar muscles flanking her spine, and even the supple sides of her waist that had never been touched by the tip of the whip.

Leng Tan’s fingers moved in a manner that was almost artistic; slow, steady, and irresistible. The ointment was pushed outward evenly, leaving behind a tacky, shimmering film of light. This was no longer a medical treatment; it was a coating, a silent act of enclosure and reclamation performed through a freezing medium.

Jian Anji’s tremors eventually subsided. It was not that the pain had vanished, but rather that her body had begun to develop a numb adaptation to the extreme stimulation. Or perhaps her willpower was forcibly constructing a fragile levee to prevent her from completely breaking down under such complex and humiliating contact. Her breathing remained heavy, and with every sharp inhale, her back muscles contracted in a silent struggle against the pressure of the application.

Leng Tan seemed to sense this subtle shift, and her movements paused for a heartbeat. Then, she covered the center of Jian Anji’s shoulder blades; the very area that had been chilled by the wine glass and was now coated in medicine with her entire ointment-slicked palm. Her hand was slightly warmer than the cream itself, yet it still carried a lingering chill. She simply held it there without moving, the pressure traveling through the skin as if she intended to press it all the way into the bone.

“Do you know why I am using this particular ointment?” Leng Tan’s voice drifted from directly behind her, her breath brushing against the sweat-dampened skin of Jian Anji’s nape. “It does more than just relieve pain and reduce inflammation.”

Jian Anji’s eyelashes fluttered, but she remained silent. She did not know, nor did she wish to know. Any “explanation” from Leng Tan’s lips was invariably accompanied by a deeper, more unsettling intent.

“It contains an ingredient,” Leng Tan continued, her palm applying slight pressure as she rubbed the cream more thoroughly into the grain of the skin, “that leaves behind a very faint trace. Not a scar, but a color. In the coming days, these places where you were struck will reveal a hint of… blue and purple. Like a bruise that is very slow to fade.”

Her voice was flat and devoid of any emotional ripple, as if she were merely stating a simple pharmacological fact.

“That way, every time you look in the mirror or feel the slight friction of your clothes, you will remember. You will remember tonight, and you will remember why you needed this.” Her fingers traced lightly down the groove of the spine. “Until it disappears completely, it will remind you.”

Remind her of what? Was it a reminder of the “mistake” she had made, or a reminder of her “belonging” in this moment?

Jian Anji closed her eyes. The chill of the ointment seemed to be seeping through her pores, thread by thread, entering her bloodstream and flowing toward her heart. It was not a numbing agent; it was another form of branding—a delayed, enduring proclamation in both a visual and tactile sense. It stretched the duration of the pain and froze the air, the scent, and the touch of this room beneath the surface of her skin, waiting to be released slowly, time and again, in the days to follow.

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