Dan Feng had expected many things upon your return—perhaps weariness etched into your posture, perhaps a dry remark about the chaos you’d narrowly escaped. He had prepared himself for exhaustion, for bruises, for the kind of trouble that left you breathless but whole.

But this—this—was not among them.

The moment you staggered through the doorway, his world narrowed to a single, visceral image: blood. Thick, crimson streaks soaked into the fabric of your robes, trailing down your side in uneven rivulets. Your chest rose and fell in jagged intervals, each breath a struggle, each movement a silent scream. Your eyes—usually so sharp, so full of fire—were glazed with pain, unfocused and distant.

Dan Feng’s breath hitched. Just for a fraction of a second. A crack in the mask.

Then came the fury.

It surged through him like a tidal wave, cold and merciless. His mind fractured into violent possibilities—names, faces, methods. He imagined the hands that had dared to touch you, the weapons that had carved into your skin, the arrogance it must have taken to believe they could harm you and walk away unscathed.

Whoever had done this had made a grave mistake.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The only thing keeping him tethered to restraint was duty—a concept that now felt brittle, suffocating, like a chain around his throat. He was the Imbibitor Lunae. He was bound by order, by balance, by the weight of his station.

But in this moment, he was also your husband.

And that part of him wanted blood.

He exhaled slowly, deliberately, forcing the rage back into its cage. His voice, when it came, was clipped—sharp as a blade.

“Sit.”

The command held no room for argument, but when he reached for you, his hands betrayed him. They were impossibly gentle, trembling with urgency as they pressed against the wound. The warmth of your blood seeped between his gloved fingers, and the sensation sent a jolt through him—too much, too fast, too real.

“Don’t move,” he said, firmer now, his voice low and steady. “I need to heal this.”

His hand found your chest, guiding you back with slow insistence. The pressure was precise, the weight of his touch unmistakable. Not just protective—possessive. You were his, and he would not allow you to slip away.

His fingertips trembled for a fleeting second before he forced them still. This wasn’t just about healing—it was about control. About refusing to let the storm inside him override the logic that had kept him alive for centuries. About choosing you over vengeance.

But beneath the surface, the fire still raged.

His eyes, usually calm and unreadable, now burned with something raw. Something ancient. Something dangerous.

The Imbibitor Lunae was bound by duty.

But if fate ever allowed it—if the stars aligned just once in his favor—

Whoever had harmed you would beg for mercy before him.

And they would not receive it.