Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 4

That cold, viscous sensation seemed to take on a life of its own following Leng Tan’s words. It was no longer a simple ointment, but a slowly permeating, colored memory. It seeped into her skin, lying dormant at the ends of her capillaries, waiting to emerge over the coming days as a series of ambiguous, indelible bruises. The flowers of trauma blooming beneath the skin, stubbornly refusing to wither.

Leng Tan’s hand finally retreated. From behind came the small click of the ointment cap being screwed back on, followed by the soft thud of the medical kit being closed. The scent of cool herbs in the air mixed with the lingering smell of leather from the whip, the dry warmth of the wool carpet, and the chilling notes of Leng Tan’s perfume. Together, they formed a complex, indescribable olfactory brand that belonged only to this night and this room.

“Get up.”

Jian Anji’s knees had long since gone numb, and they now throbbed with a needle-like sting. She pressed her hand against the floor, using the leverage to slowly stand. The movement pulled at the injuries on her back; the newly applied ointment created a slick, foreign sensation as her muscles stretched, making the underlying pain even more distinct.

She stood with her hands hanging at her sides, her fingertips still tacky with the residual chill of the medicine. Her shirt hem hung in disarray and her bare feet rested on the cold floor. She looked like a patient who had just undergone a chaotic surgery and had yet to be properly settled or perhaps an object that had been meticulously processed, awaiting its next instruction.

Leng Tan had already returned to the sofa and picked up her wine glass. At some point, she had poured herself another shallow layer. She did not look at Jian Anji, choosing instead to gaze out at the heavy night sky beyond the window. In the dim light, her profile appeared sharp and somewhat hardened.

“Go take a shower,” her command rang out again, her tone returning to its habitual, unquestionable flatness. “Don’t let the water be too hot. When you’re finished, change your clothes yourself.” She paused, her gaze still not turning back. “There are clean pajamas in the bedside drawer.”

A shower. Changing clothes.

These most mundane of instructions sounded absurdly disjointed in this moment. It was as if that ritual filled with pain, cold, shame, and mental crushing had never happened; as if they had simply spent a slightly “special” evening and now needed to return to a normal bedtime routine. Yet, it was precisely this deliberate normalization of extreme behavior that sent a chill through one’s heart.

It negated the idea that what had just occurred held any “exceptional” meaning. Instead, it folded the experience into a predetermined, repeatable, and perhaps even cyclical “regularity.” The pain would be treated, the marks would be hidden (or transformed into another type of brand), and then everything would proceed as usual until the next time.

Jian Anji’s throat moved, but she ultimately only produced a low, raspy, “Yes, Master.”

She did not turn to leave immediately. She paused for a heartbeat, as if waiting for one final, explicit signal permitting her to withdraw or perhaps her mind and body simply needed a brief buffer to accept this sudden, domestic pivot.

Leng Tan finally turned her head, her gaze landing on her. There was no warmth in her eyes, nor any extra emotion; it was pure observation. The gaze lingered for only two seconds, yet it felt like two icy probes scanning Jian Anji’s lowered lashes and pale lips before resting on her clenched, yet still trembling, fingertips.

Then, Leng Tan’s eyes shifted away, returning to the dense blackness outside that swallowed all detail. It was as if there were something more worthy of her attention out there—or perhaps it was a simple indication that “permission” had been granted and no more words were needed.

Jian Anji finally moved. The act of turning pulled at her back, where the skin coated in ointment sent a slick friction and a dull ache through her nerves. She stepped off the soft carpet with bare feet and onto the cold marble of the short corridor leading to the bedroom. Every step was light and slow, as if she were afraid of disturbing something, or as if her body, having just endured a trauma, required the utmost care.

The bathroom door closed silently behind her, severing the dim light of the living room and that omnipresent pressure of Leng Tan’s presence. She did not turn on the lights immediately. Instead, she stood in the darkness for a while, letting the cold door frame support her forehead as she took several sharp, suppressed breaths. In the enclosed space, there was nothing left but the roar of her own heartbeat and the increasingly sharp, icy sting of the evaporating ointment on her back.

She fumbled for the switch and turned on the light.

The sudden brightness made her wince. The mirror reflected a pale, dazed face with stray hairs stuck to her cheeks by cold sweat and lips bearing the deep marks of her own teeth. She looked away, lacking the courage to view her back in the mirror, which she knew must look wretched.

She turned the water heater dial toward the cold side. She shed the sheer blouse stained with sweat and perhaps a few stray spots of blood, unzipped her skirt, and let them slide to the floor. The cold air instantly wrapped around her body, triggering a violent shiver.

She stepped into the shower without pulling the glass door shut, feeling a need for a more open space to ward off a sense of suffocation. The water fell, initially bone-chilling, making her gasp as her muscles clamped tight. She gritted her teeth and refused to raise the temperature, letting the freezing stream wash over her body, especially her back.

The droplets struck the wounds and the ointment, creating a mixed, piercing stimulation that felt like the night’s events were being poured over her again in a different form. The cold rinse seemed to carry away some of the stickiness, bringing with it a near-masochistic clarity. She washed slowly, mechanically scrubbing her arms, chest, and legs, while carefully avoiding her back. That area did not need scrubbing; it only needed the water to carry away the excess ointment and invisible impurities.

She did not turn off the valve until her skin had turned slightly blue from the cold and her lips had lost all color. A thin mist began to rise in the bathroom, blurring the mirror. She wrapped herself in a large, soft bath towel and blotted the droplets from her skin, her movements still cautiously avoiding the injuries on her back.

The ointment seemed to have been partially washed away, yet a slick residue remained upon her skin alongside that lingering, medicinal scent. She knew that the “marks” Leng Tan had described were likely already beginning their slow process of manifestation. The damp, cool bath towel clung to her body as it absorbed the stray droplets, offering a fleeting and deceptive sense of warmth.

Jian Anji dried herself slowly before the blurred surface of the mirror. Condensation gathered into tiny beads and meandered down the glass like silent tear tracks. She avoided any reflection of herself that the mirror might offer, particularly around her shoulders and back, and instead kept her head low as she used a corner of the towel to gently dab the nape of her neck and her arms. Whenever the fabric grazed the skin of her back, it sent a complex surge of signals—a mixture of stinging pain, lingering chill, and the greasy sensation of the residual ointment. She did not dare apply pressure and instead allowed the soft cotton fibers to pull the moisture from the surface.

Cold air snuck in through the crack of the door and quickly dissipated the brief warmth provided by the shower, causing fine goosebumps to rise across her bare skin. Still wrapped in the towel, she pushed open the bathroom door. The bedroom was lit only by a soft bedside lamp which carved the vast space into a silhouette of light and shadow. The air here held a different scent. It was dry, with the faint fragrance of high-end fabric softener which stood in stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of leather, wine, and medicine in the living room. This deliberate “normalcy” and “cleanliness” only served to highlight how abrupt and indelible the night’s events truly were.

She walked toward the expansive bed. The nightstand was made of dark solid wood with clean, cold lines. Pulling open the top drawer, she found a set of silk pajamas neatly folded inside. They were light gray and devoid of any pattern, feeling icy and smooth to the touch like a second skin without warmth.

The pajamas were her size. Leng Tan always seemed impeccable in her preparation of such details, whether it concerned the tools of punishment, the medicinal ointments, or the clothing provided afterward. This thoroughness was in itself a manifestation of a suffocating power of control; she had foreseen every step, including this very moment.

Jian Anji let the towel fall and draped it over the back of a chair. As the cold air enveloped her, she quickly pulled on the pajamas. The silk fabric slid over her skin and created a slight, almost uncomfortable friction, especially against the sensitive areas of her back. The top was short-sleeved with a V-neck, and the design of the back did not offer much coverage. She could feel the chill pressing directly against the patches of skin where the ointment and perhaps the first faint hints of purple bruising—lay.

She tied the sash at her waist, the silk ribbon winding through her fingers as she formed a neat knot. The pajamas fit perfectly, yet they felt hollow and weightless as if they could provide no real shelter or comfort. She stood still with her bare feet pressed into the thick bedroom carpet while droplets from her wet hair fell onto her shoulders, blooming into small, dark stains.

What was she supposed to do next? Get into bed? Sleep? It was as if that soul-shattering punishment had been nothing more than a nightmare to be forgotten quickly, and now it was simply time for a routine bedtime.

However, every nerve in her body screamed in denial. The pain was real, the cold was real, and the “reminder” soon to surface beneath her skin was real. She lifted her head and instinctively cast her gaze toward the bedroom door. Silence reigned in the direction of the living room; no light seeped through, and no sound could be heard.

Was Leng Tan still there? Was she drinking alone, or was she attending to other matters? Jian Anji did not know. She only knew that her current “freedom” and “solitude” were strictly defined—a temporary respite granted within the boundaries of Leng Tan’s permission.

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