What Bad Intentions Could a Spoiled Little Brat Possibly have? - Chapter 3

Cheng Huai was a wanton flirt to his very bones.

The exquisitely packaged gift fell to the ground. The girl covered her mouth, her eyes instantly brimming with tears as she turned and ran out.

Only after her figure had disappeared did Cheng Huai meet Fu Zheng’s gaze.

His hand was still tightly gripping Fu Zheng’s collar, the pectoral muscles beneath his forearm tensed and bulging. Fu Zheng’s scent swirled around him, and the burning palms resting against the small of his back felt searingly hot; Cheng Huai’s waist went weak almost instantly.

That familiar, surging agitation rose within him again. Cheng Huai frowned, clenching his fists so hard that his palms felt the scorching heat of an old burn. He leaned into the sensation, experiencing the decadent pain with a touch of self-torture.

Fu Zheng said nothing. He looked down, wiped a bead of blood from his lip, and then coldly raised his eyes to seize Cheng Huai’s wrist, attempting to pull the hand off his clothes.

Cheng Huai refused to let go, so Fu Zheng applied more pressure.

The physical difference between them made the gap in their strength glaringly obvious. Fu Zheng’s expression grew darker; the slender wrist he held felt fragile enough to snap.

Afraid of hurting him, Fu Zheng didn’t dare use brute force. He could only allow Cheng Huai to clutch at his chest and carry on with his restless fussing.

Cheng Huai suppressed his ragged, labored breaths, his cheeks gradually turning a feverish crimson. He kept his head down as a cold voice drifted from above: “Cheng Huai, what did you promise me two years ago?”

“Did you forget it all?”

Though it was phrased as a question, it felt to Cheng Huai like a bucket of ice water had been poured over him from head to toe.

There was no mirror here, so he didn’t know that his face was currently flushed a deep, bloody red, or that his stray breaths were hot enough to scald.

Cheng Huai looked up, staring blankly at Fu Zheng, as his grip on the collar slowly loosened.

“I didn’t…”

Buried memories rushed back like a tide. That promise Cheng Huai had treated it like a load of nonsense back then, a hollow assurance made solely to keep Fu Zheng from being angry.

Fu Zheng had disciplined him since they were children: what he could and couldn’t eat, what he could and couldn’t do. Even his daily outfits from his underwear to his outerwear were hand-picked by Fu Zheng and put on him one by one.

Cheng Huai had fought with Fu Zheng many times over clothes. His pride was his round, pert backside; he couldn’t fit into ordinary trousers, so Fu Zheng had them custom-made for him loose-fitting ones, form-fitting ones, trousers, and skirts alike.

But his hourglass figure was far too tempting. Whenever they went out, Fu Zheng forbade him from wearing tight clothes. However, Cheng Huai was a natural-born provocateur; he loved nothing more than seeing Fu Zheng lose control because of the attention others paid to him.

Once or twice wasn’t enough. Every time, Fu Zheng would pull a backless-clad, hot-pants-wearing Cheng Huai out of the crowd with a dark face. He would take him home, lock the door, throw him onto the bed, and ignore Cheng Huai’s kicking and screaming as he ripped off the hot pants that exposed his sexy dimples.

Seeing Cheng Huai wearing a low-waist G-string underneath a blatant, deliberate provocation Fu Zheng would raise his palm and strike the peak of his buttocks ruthlessly.

Red handprints would overlap. During these times, Cheng Huai would always scramble forward on all fours, his back cleavage deepening with every movement, only to be dragged back by his smooth, pale ankles.

As if he couldn’t feel the pain, Cheng Huai would rub his toes up Fu Zheng’s thighs. Before the other could even grab him, he would wrap his legs tightly around Fu Zheng’s waist, hook his arms around his neck, and start acting spoiled to coax him.

If Fu Zheng was truly furious, Cheng Huai would change into a custom-made bodycon miniskirt and rub against him until Fu Zheng finally flipped him onto the bed and pinned him down. By then, his anger would be mostly gone.

Over time, Cheng Huai learned how to handle Fu Zheng’s temper.

He would obediently agree to everything Fu Zheng forbade, but in reality, he didn’t stop doing a single thing. Even if he danced on the edge of Fu Zheng’s bottom line and made him angry, a bit of clinging and acting spoiled would settle it.

This trick never failed with Fu Zheng.

And it made Cheng Huai more and more lawless in Fu Zheng’s presence.

But then came that winter two years ago.

Cheng Huai had learned certain “intimate” things from his classmates. He belatedly realized where his morbid dependence and possessiveness toward Fu Zheng came from. So, he ran away from home, took a train to Beijing University alone, and shamelessly confessed his deep feelings to Fu Zheng, even saying some humiliatingly provocative things.

By then, Fu Zheng was no longer the beloved biological brother his parents spoke of, but a “stray bastard” adopted when they were young.

While relatives and friends lamented the severing of the blood tie, Cheng Huai couldn’t help but thank the heavens. He could finally express his surging love for his “brother” rightfully.

Cheng Huai had tilted his head proudly, waiting for Fu Zheng to indulge him and agree to his demands as usual. Instead, Fu Zheng’s face darkened as he asked, word by word: “Cheng Huai, what did you just call me?”

Cheng Huai didn’t understand. He chuckled, his separation anxiety from being away so long making him instinctively lean into the other man. His hands and feet were icy, and he was so frustrated he was on the verge of tears. He took the initiative to unzip Fu Zheng’s coat and slid his hands inside, seeking warmth.

But Fu Zheng shoved him away.

“What did you call me?” he asked again, the gloom in his eyes almost merging with the night.

“Brother. I called you ‘Brother’.” Cheng Huai was used to being hands-on with Fu Zheng and couldn’t stand being avoided. His temper started to flare, but he suppressed it, smiling as he grabbed Fu Zheng’s hand and complained petulantly, “What nerve are you hitting? Hurry up and warm me, I’m freezing to death.”

Cheng Huai’s hands were piercingly cold. With a tense expression, Fu Zheng pulled Cheng Huai’s hands into his own palms, allowing the heat to transfer between their skin.

Cheng Huai’s temper came and went quickly. Thinking he had won, he pushed his luck, scratching Fu Zheng’s palm with his finger and asking, “Brother, do you like me?”

Fu Zheng thinned his lips, his expression becoming even more unsightly: “Cheng Huai, listen carefully. As long as you call me ‘Brother,’ I will always be your brother. I was in the past, I am now, and I will be forever.”

The cold, the evasion, the longing, and the budding, bone-piercing desire.

Cheng Huai understood the meaning behind Fu Zheng’s words. The good temper he had maintained all night finally grew thorns, and he retorted sharply, “Then do you remember what you once said?”

A layer of frosty light covered Fu Zheng’s face; his heart sank slightly.

Cheng Huai met his gaze, returning the words Fu Zheng had once given him, syllable by syllable: “Legally, you and I have no relation whatsoever.”

Cheng Huai’s eyes were stubborn, his tone becoming aggressive.

To push Cheng Huai away, Fu Zheng had said many hurtful things, but the complex emotions welling up in his heart now were even confusing to himself.

Cheng Huai had been too well-protected growing up; he could express his likes and dislikes with naive spontaneity.

But Fu Zheng couldn’t.

The weather in Beijing was unpredictable. A sudden wind kicked up, swirling bone-chilling cold and snow grains that landed on Cheng Huai’s eyelashes. The melting snow slid down like tears.

The moment the words left his mouth, Cheng Huai regretted them. He truly felt like crying; in front of Fu Zheng, he could never be strong.

Fu Zheng did not respond to the accusation. In a suffocating silence, he delivered his final ultimatum: “I will pretend I never heard anything you said tonight. If you can’t keep track of your place, I will make sure you can never find me again.”

Fu Zheng knew exactly which knife would stab Cheng Huai the deepest.

Cheng Huai’s heart skipped a beat as terror rushed over him like a wave.

No, he couldn’t.

Almost instantly, he grabbed Fu Zheng’s hem and blurted out: “Brother, no, I was wrong. Don’t disappear. I know I was wrong, I won’t dare do it again…”

By the end, Cheng Huai was doubled over, tears pouring out like the falling snow. He grabbed Fu Zheng’s clothes with trembling hands, his final line of defense completely crumbling.

Fu Zheng looked down at him silently, then finally turned his face away, unable to bear looking any longer.

Watching the sudden shift in Cheng Huai’s eyes, Fu Zheng straightened his rumpled collar. He curled his lips and asked, “Remembered now?”

“If you haven’t, I can repeat it one more time.”

Fu Zheng gave a cold laugh, his voice sounding like a threat: “You know, I don’t necessarily have to stay at Beijing University…”

“No!” Cheng Huai recoiled violently. His face was pale and sickly as he backed away, accidentally slamming into the corner of a desk with a loud thud.

“Careful!” Fu Zheng immediately stepped forward to steady him.

Hissing in pain, Cheng Huai opened the palm he had been clutching. A half-burnt cigarette fell out, its charred ashes fluttering to the floor.

Fu Zheng forcibly pried his hand open. When he saw the flesh in the center of the palm scorched and peeling, his brow twitched violently.

The delicate skin of the palm also bore a row of blood-red crescent marks where his fingernails had dug in too deep.

The frost on Fu Zheng’s face intensified; his terrifying gaze looked as though he wanted to swallow Cheng Huai alive.

He grabbed Cheng Huai’s arm. Just as he was about to interrogate him, Cheng Huai gasped, his beautiful brows knitting together as he tried to pull his arm back.

Despite the late-summer heat, Cheng Huai was still wearing long sleeves that covered his wrists.

Fu Zheng didn’t let him escape. Softening his movements, he lifted Cheng Huai’s sleeve. Besides the clearly visible scars on his wrist, his arm was covered in a chaotic, horrifying mess of scratch marks.

“I…” Cheng Huai’s eyes filled with tears, looking the picture of a weeping beauty as he made a move to push Fu Zheng away.

The moment those lily-white fingers touched the man’s chest muscles, they were encased by his hand.

Fu Zheng closed his eyes. Though the wounds were on Cheng Huai, the pain was so sharp he almost couldn’t breathe. His lips were pressed into a thin line. After a long while, he said in a hoarse voice, “Go to the hospital.”

Cheng Huai was practically carried into the passenger seat by Fu Zheng.

As the car started, Cheng Huai looked at Fu Zheng’s tense profile and stroked the scar on his wrist. A sudden surge of triumphant pleasure rose in his heart.

They sped all the way to the hospital.

Fu Zheng, with a dark face, handled the registration and payment before finally leading him to sit before a doctor.

“How did this happen?” The doctor glanced at the wound on Cheng Huai’s palm. “Burned by a cigarette?”

Cheng Huai said nothing. Fu Zheng gave a curt “Mm.” He stood behind Cheng Huai, watching the graceful curves of his body.

Two years apart, and Cheng Huai had filled out more. He was like a peach that had finally ripened, bursting with fresh, succulent juice.

Though he wore loose clothing to hide the pert buttocks Fu Zheng used to be so fond of, Fu Zheng had touched every inch of his body countless times; even the smallest change could not escape his notice.

The doctor took out iodine and gauze, skillfully disinfecting and bandaging the wound. “You young people, always doing these tragic, sentimental things. Is it a heartbreak or a breakup? No matter what, you have to cherish your own body. Look at this delicate skin; if it leaves a scar, how unsightly would that be?”

Listening to this, Fu Zheng felt like he was about to grind his teeth to dust.

This was the person he had protected for so many years. Since childhood, he had feared every bump and scratch, managing his food, clothing, and shelter down to the smallest detail. And yet, the result of that care was a body covered in wounds and a habit of smoking.

Cheng Huai said dejectedly, “Is there a difference between heartbreak and a breakup?”

“Don’t lose heart. With your looks, are you really worried about not finding a partner?” The doctor looked up at Fu Zheng, assuming he was a relative accompanying him, and offered comfort: “Don’t you agree?”

Cheng Huai also looked up at him with a sorrowful gaze.

Fu Zheng didn’t respond to the doctor, only asking: “Doctor, can we use the best medicine? Don’t let it leave a scar.”

The doctor replied, “I can’t control that. Whether a scar remains depends on his constitution.”

Fu Zheng thought of those shocking scars.

Fine. Asking was a waste of breath.

After the bandaging was finished, Fu Zheng didn’t take Cheng Huai away. Instead, they navigated through the hospital’s twists and turns until they stood before a door marked “Mental Health Department.”

“Wait for me here.” Fu Zheng looked down at Cheng Huai, his gaze lingering on Cheng Huai’s rosy lips for a moment before he went inside to speak with the doctor.

A moment later, Fu Zheng emerged from the office. “Go in and answer the doctor’s questions. I’ll be right here waiting for you. Don’t be afraid.”

A long time passed.

Cheng Huai walked out of the consulting room.

Fu Zheng sent him back to school first, then immediately drove back to the hospital.

Yu Chuan waited until the last patient of the morning had left before handing the printed report to him.

“Moderate depression, severe anxiety, accompanied by tendencies toward self-destruction and suicide.” Yu Chuan’s cold voice recited Cheng Huai’s diagnosis.

Fu Zheng’s face grew increasingly pale.

“And,” Yu Chuan pulled out another diagnostic report. He didn’t find the term difficult to say, but rather explained it in a calm tone as if it were the most ordinary ailment: “He has a severe sex addiction.”

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