“You—you dare curse me—” Xie Jing staggered to his feet.
Xie Buyan moved forward instinctively.
Zhao Shuning blocked him with a single look.
Buyan had meant to help his brother up, but he'd forgotten—during the earlier fight with Hou Lin his hands had been broken. Zhao had noticed it already. When he bowed before them, his arms had hung uselessly at his sides, every ounce of strength gone.
“Xie Buyan?” Zhao called.
“Yes.”
“Come here.”
He obeyed. She pressed her fingers to his wrists, felt the jagged edges of bone, then lifted both hands. No response, no feeling.
Hou Lin saw this and his greedy plan evaporated. Even he, thick-headed as he was, could tell this new girl had backing—the kind that made it foolish to strike now. He edged along the wall toward the door, slow and quiet. Better to live and fight another day.
He was nearly at the threshold when Zhao Shuning exhaled softly.
Everyone thought she was lamenting Buyan’s broken hands. Instead she bent, plucked a pair of chopsticks from the table at random, and flicked them outward.
Two cracks rang out.
The chopsticks shot to within a hair’s breadth of Hou Lin’s eyes. The burly man shuddered, his legs going rubbery. All the while Zhao’s gaze never left Buyan’s hands; she’d simply picked up the chopsticks without looking—yet they landed with surgical precision.
“Did I tell you you could leave?” she asked.
With a light twist of her fingers, Buyan emitted a muffled groan. His right hand twitched, then sprang to life.
“I said I’m just here to watch. If you left, how would I watch?” Xie Jing protested, still dazed.
A crisp click—another motion from Zhao—and Buyan’s left hand was set as neatly as the right. The pain was brutal, but like his name, Xie Buyan’s endurance was quiet and stubborn; he only grunted twice, didn’t cry out.
“Good heavens,” Hou Lin blustered, sweat beading on his brow. “You really went at him… with hands like his, those could’ve been permanent.”
Zhao remained composed. “Turn them,” she told Buyan.
He did. His fingers flexed, folds of motion returning as if a switch had been flipped.
“All right. Help Xie Jing up.”
Buyan carried his brother to a chair. Xie Jing’s face had swollen into something almost unrecognizable—more bun than man. His limbs were numb, his whole body a map of hurt.
Hou Lin slowed his steps back to his original spot, every muscle taut. He’d crossed a dangerous line; one careless move from this newcomer and he’d be a dead man. He’d worked too hard to reach his current level to die in a pleasure house.
Zhao moved beside Xie Jing. The man’s eyes were slits beneath the puffed flesh; he could barely see.
“You came from which family, girl? You smell of… something pleasant,” he slurred.
Zhao leaned down. A silver dagger appeared in her hand and she plunged it into Xie Jing’s thigh. He cried out, though the numbness made the pain less sharp; the cut forced every half-formed word back down his throat.
“Why scream? If you don’t let the bad blood out, you won’t pull through,” she said.
“Bleed? There are other ways—” he started.
“One more word and I’ll make the wound bigger.”
He snapped shut.
“Big showy type, aren’t you?” Xie Buyan offered quietly. “If you need help, I can—”
If Xie Jing hadn’t been so swollen he might have fainted with embarrassment; Buyan was his brother, and here he was, calm and practical. Xie Jing’s vanity flared despite the pain. “Miss, I’m grateful you saved me, truly—ah—” He groaned.
Zhao examined the silver needle between her fingers, then nodded. “Not bad. No venom. Sensation is returning.”
“You didn’t have to test him with such a big needle!” Xie Jing howled.
Another rasp of pain. “Looks like we haven’t let enough blood out.”
“I’m sorry—mistress, madam, ancestor— I was wrong, I was wrong. I, Xie Jing, have never been wrong to anyone but my parents—” he babbled confession after confession, groveling.
He even muttered, “That Hou Lin—he should have cut out your tongue for all the lies he fed.” The mention of Xie Yu came unbidden—Xie Yu and Xie Jing were not so very different in temperament. Back then Xie Yu had been a flirt too, until Zhao Xiangxiang had straightened him out.
Zhao Shuning shook her head as she probed Xie Jing’s hands. “These are basically ruined,” she said.
“No—no!” he wailed. A woman nearby began to sob, tears staining her lacquered lashes.
Zhao glanced over. The girl had willow brows, phoenix eyes, a neat nose over a small mouth like a cherry. She’d been silent since Zhao arrived; now, seeing Zhao look at her, she ducked her head.
Zhao’s expression shifted with astonishing speed. With men she could be sharp as steel; with women she softened. Even Xie Buyan didn’t have time to register the change.
“You must be Chuchu?” Zhao asked gently, polite as any well-bred lady.
Chuchu lifted her face, flustered. “I—I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to speak out. I was just worried for Mr. Xie.”
Zhao smiled, warm and disarming. “Mr. Xie? What’s there to him? A dilettante with a pretty face—someone like you deserves better.”
The room fell into an uproar of surprised noises. This was the first time Xie Jing had heard a woman say he wasn’t good enough for Chuchu. His mouth hung open, more from disbelief than pain.