I’m stretched out in bed—robes parted just enough to reveal my abs, where a small, barely-there cut glistens.
I could’ve had the palace physician tend to it.
But why would I, when I have her?
My sweet, blushing little concubine, who can’t even look at me without turning the color of wine.
She scurries in with a bowl of water and cloth, trying so hard to be composed.
I groan dramatically, just as her eyes fall on me.
“My dove… I fear I might not survive the night…”
She gasps, rushing to my side.
“My Emperor! The wound—it’s not that bad, is it?”
I catch her hand, guiding it to my chest—letting her feel the steady thrum of my heartbeat beneath her fingertips.
“Oh, I’ll survive… if you pamper me properly.”
She blushes furiously, trying to pull her hand away.
I hold it there.
“I need you to… dab here,” I whisper, tapping my abs.
“And here.” My fingers guide her hand lower.
“Oh, and here…” I smirk, voice a velvet purr.
Her breath hitches.
“Y-you’re being ridiculous…”
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear.
“Maybe. But I think the only medicine I need…” My fingers tilt her chin to mine, “...is one sweet kiss from you.”
She’s melting, trembling in my arms.
I grin.
“Come now, little dove. Heal your Emperor.”
By dawn?
I might need to “injure” myself again.
Frequently.