The Yandere Queen's Manual for Training Her Wife - Chapter 49

Qin Yan carried the person in her arms into the bathtub, just as she always did, carefully washing away the traces left on her body.

At this moment, Xia Mingtang was unusually quiet, completely unlike her usual self who always found fault and complained.

Qin Yan assumed she was still immersed in the aftershocks of their earlier intensity. With gentle hands, she brushed Mingtang’s long hair behind her ears, squeezed some body wash, and spread it down her delicate skin.

Her movements were meticulous and deliberate, as if handling a priceless treasure.

Leaning back against the tub, Xia Mingtang lifted her gaze to look at the woman before her. Right now, Qin Yan had shed all coldness and hostility—her brows and eyes were refined, her presence graceful and elegant, exactly like when Mingtang had first met her at the Yun Town inn.

If not for her own experiences, it would be impossible to reconcile this beautiful person with the controlling, twisted maniac she knew.

Where did it all go wrong?

Xia Mingtang couldn’t figure it out.

“What’s wrong? Is the water temperature okay?” Qin Yan noticed her silent gaze and took the initiative to ask with concern.

“Nothing, it’s fine.” Xia Mingtang tilted her head back against the tub and closed her eyes, unwilling to speak.

Qin Yan assumed she was simply exhausted, so her touch grew even gentler. But when her hand brushed against that slightly swollen tenderness, she felt the body beneath her palm flinch ever so slightly.

Xia Mingtang braced her hands on the tub’s bottom, memories of not long ago rushing back, her body instinctively recoiling.

Yet she didn’t say “stop.” After spending this much time together, she understood Qin Yan well enough.

Calling for her to stop was useless—the more she resisted, the more Qin Yan pushed forward.

Through the faint tremors of skin against her palm, Qin Yan sensed the other’s emotions.

The little fox was afraid of her.

She should have been delighted by that result—in truth, she had even aimed for it.

Fear, after all, was also a form of caring. Fear meant obedience.

She loved nothing more than watching her beloved completely lose control in her hands, belonging to her alone.

But when that fear truly showed through, she suddenly couldn’t bear it.

“Good girl.” Qin Yan lowered her head and kissed Mingtang’s lightly closed eyelids. “It’ll be over soon. I won’t touch you.”

And this time, she kept her word. Her fingers quickly cleaned away the slippery mess inside, with no extra teasing, and soon moved elsewhere.

The expected torment never came. Xia Mingtang blinked open her eyes in puzzlement, unsure of what exactly she was feeling inside.

That night, when they lay in bed, Qin Yan held her in her arms. Feeling the tension in the body pressed against her, she hesitated for a moment—but still couldn’t bring herself to let go.

She wanted her little fox to be happy, yet lately, she was finding it harder and harder to control herself.

Behind her, warmth pressed close—almost too hot. Xia Mingtang’s heart pounded, waiting anxiously. But after a long time, nothing happened.

Exhaustion finally overtook her, and she drifted off into sleep.

Qin Yan remained in the same position, motionless, until the breathing in her arms grew steady. Only then did she tighten her embrace slightly.

Moonlight streamed through the window lattice, falling across the sleeper’s ear, illuminating a small, heart-shaped red birthmark behind her delicate white earlobe.

Qin Yan lowered her head, pressing a kiss to that little red heart—the nightly ritual she never failed to keep.

She had first seen that birthmark the day Xia Mingtang walked into the Yun Town inn.

But even earlier, she had seen it—sixteen years ago.

Henghe Cemetery

Fifteen-year-old Qin Yan stood before her father’s grave, offering her final farewell.

Since the death of Fifth Master Ji, the Ji family had been in turmoil, endless arguments about the division of shares and assets.

The adults dressed respectably, spoke with solemn words, but each carried their own private calculations.

Though they quarreled over everything else, there was one point of agreement: Qin Yan could not stay.

This didn’t mean everyone wanted her dead—only that none of them wanted her to remain within the Ji household.

At fifteen, Qin Yan’s mind was sharper than most her age. She knew she had no strength to contend with her uncles. To linger here meant certain death.

Her visa to country M had already been secured. Her aunt Qin Shulan couldn’t accompany her yet due to issues with her mother’s family.

Standing in the vast cemetery, a wave of loneliness swept over her, making the world feel unbearably vast and empty.

After a long silence, she bowed to her father’s portrait, then turned to leave.

Just then, a little bundle no taller than her thigh tugged at her sleeve.

The child was rosy-cheeked, features delicate and lovely.

Qin Yan, however, had no interest in “cute” things back then. Her face cold, she tried to shake the child off.

But the little one was oblivious, clutching her sleeve in one hand, holding up a stick of incense in the other. Her voice was soft and sticky, like glutinous rice cake.

“Big sister, I can’t light this incense. Can you help me?”

Qin Yan looked at the incense—blackened at the tip, but unlit.

She scanned the surroundings—no adult in sight.

Whose family was this careless?

Though her heart was cold, she wasn’t so cruel as to refuse such a simple request from a child.

She pulled out a match, struck it, and lit all three sticks in one go.

The child’s eyes sparkled with admiration at her practiced motion. “Wow, that was so fast! Big sister, you’re amazing!”

Caught off guard at being praised for something so trivial, Qin Yan could only laugh wryly. She patted the child’s head and sent her off to make offerings.

The little girl bounded over to another grave nearby.

They weren’t far apart, so Qin Yan could clearly read the inscription: Tomb of Wang Xiaotan, Beloved Mother.

Such plots were costly—surely only close kin would pay for it.

She guessed someone must have built the grave in the child’s name.

Yet, watching the girl’s innocent smile, she thought: truly, youth knows no sorrow.

The child bowed and mumbled something under her breath.

After offering the incense, she turned back toward Qin Yan, running over with two delicate osmanthus cakes in hand.

“Big sister, thank you. Here, this is for you!”

Qin Yan eyed the cakes with exasperation.

Wasn’t that… an offering for the dead?

Seeing her hesitation, the little girl quickly stuffed one into her own mouth, chewed twice, then said earnestly, “See? No poison.”

Qin Yan: …

What on earth had this child been watching on TV?

Did she really think someone would send a tiny kid to assassinate her?

The girl finished her cake, then shoved the other into Qin Yan’s hand.

“This cake was blessed by my mama. If you eat it, you’ll have good luck and all your wishes will come true.”

Good luck and all wishes fulfilled.

If an adult had said that to her, Qin Yan would have sneered at the hypocrisy.

But from this little glutinous-rice voice, coupled with those shining eyes, it radiated nothing but sincerity and blessing.

For just a moment, her frozen heart was touched by a beam of warmth.

“…Thank you.” Qin Yan’s face softened as she brought the cake to her lips—for the first time in her life, eating an offering at a grave.

Soon, a servant came to fetch the girl away.

But she ran back a few steps, tugged at Qin Yan’s lips to force a smile, and chirped:

“See! I knew it. Big sister looks so pretty when she smiles. You shouldn’t always look so cold. Otherwise, it’s like the books say… a terrible waste!”

So young—and already a face-connoisseur.

Qin Yan let her do as she pleased, nodding as she watched the child leave.

Though the memory of the little girl’s face had blurred with time, one thing remained vivid: the sunlight falling behind her ear, illuminating a bright red heart-shaped mark.

Years later, in foreign lands, bleeding and alone after battles, Qin Yan would often think of that red heart—and that soft voice saying, “Good luck, and may all your wishes come true.”

Again and again, she was struck down. Again and again, she rose.

Until she grew strong enough to return—strong enough to face what she once fled.

When she came back to China, she hadn’t sought the child out.

For one, her hands were full of pressing matters.

For another, it had only been a childhood encounter—what would there be to say even if she found her?

What she never expected was for fate to deliver that person to her once again.

The first time she met her at the inn, she’d noticed the birthmark. She’d thought perhaps it was coincidence.

But the resemblance, the aura—it was enough to make her keep the girl close.

One more ordinary guest at the inn wouldn’t affect her plans.

But she hadn’t foreseen that this guest would repeatedly, forcefully intrude into her life.

That she would try in every way to make her smile, tell her “companions never leave each other,” and unconsciously tempt her with the purest allure.

That she would…

Provoke her, again and again—only to abandon her.

That night, Qin Yan dreamed a long, long dream.

In it, she returned to her youth, witnessing her past as though from afar.

But unlike reality, throughout that long journey, a little girl with an indistinct face remained by her side.

As time passed, the child grew clearer and clearer—bright, innocent, yet with a touch of sly allure, like a little fox.

Qin Yan gathered her in her arms, whispering again and again in her heart: You are mine.

Until dawn broke, and she woke.

But the soft warmth that should have been in her embrace—was gone.

Her first instinct was to check the surveillance on her phone.

The display showed the person had already left Xijing Villa.

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