Chapter 16

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow on Lingling's face. She was still holding onto me, her arms locked around my waist as if afraid I'd disappear in my sleep. Her breathing was slow, steady, peaceful.

For the first time, she didn't look like the feared leader of the underworld. She didn't look like the woman who could command an entire room with a single glance, who could break men with nothing but her words. No, right now, Lingling looked... human.

Vulnerable.

Beautiful.

I traced my fingers lightly over the curve of her cheek, careful not to wake her. My gaze lingered on the beauty mark just beneath her eye, a tiny detail I had always found captivating. It suited her—like a mark from the universe itself, a sign that she was something rare.

She stirred slightly, her brows furrowing before she instinctively pulled me closer in her sleep. My lips curled into a small smile.

Even unconscious, she didn't want to let go.

I let myself admire her, to memorize the way her dark lashes fanned over her skin, the way her lips were slightly parted, how soft she looked like this.

For a moment, I let myself forget who she was, what she had done, the world she belonged to.

For a moment, she was just mine.

Lingling shifted in her sleep, her grip on me tightening as she burrowed closer, her face pressing against the crook of my neck. It was almost ridiculous—how this woman, the same one who had bruised my skin violently and made me beg for her last night, was now clinging to me like a needy puppy.

Her breath was warm against my collarbone, her leg tangled between mine, her bare skin flush against me. She let out a small sigh, her fingers curling slightly where they rested on my waist.

I couldn't help but smile.

This was the same Lingling who commanded fear from men twice her size. The same woman who could order a man's death with nothing more than a nod. And yet, here she was, holding onto me like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.

I brushed a few strands of hair from her face, taking in her softened features. The usual sharpness in her expression had melted away, replaced by something delicate, almost innocent.

She nuzzled into me, pressing a lazy kiss against my shoulder, her lips warm and barely awake. "You're staring," she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.

I chuckled softly. "Can you blame me?"

She smirked, but it was sleepy, slow. "Mmm," she hummed, pulling me even closer, as if we weren't already tangled together. "Stay here... just a little longer."

I let out a quiet breath, wrapping my arms around her in return. "Okay."

Just for a little longer, I'd stay in this moment.

Lingling held onto me like she wasn't just hugging my body—she was holding my soul in her arms, keeping it anchored to her.

Her embrace wasn't just warm; it was desperate, as if she was afraid I'd slip away, dissolve into the morning light. Her breath was steady but deep, like she was breathing me in, memorizing the way I felt against her.

I traced slow circles on her back, feeling the scars beneath my fingertips, reminders of the life she had lived before me. She wasn't just a lover; she was a storm, fierce and untamed. And yet, in this moment, she clung to me like I was the only thing that could calm the raging winds inside her.

She let out a soft sigh, pressing her face against my neck. "You feel safe," she whispered, voice thick with something I couldn't quite name.

I swallowed. "And you?"

Lingling's fingers tightened around my waist. "I don't know what safe is." She paused, then added, "But I think it feels like this."

My chest ached at her words. I tilted her chin up slightly, meeting her dark, half-lidded eyes. I wanted to tell her that she could always feel safe with me, that she didn't have to fight alone anymore. But I didn't need to—she already knew.

Instead, I kissed her forehead, lingering for a moment, hoping she could feel everything I couldn't put into words.

Lingling exhaled, melting further into me, her arms locking around me tighter. "Don't let go."

"I won't," I promised.

And I meant it.

Lingling stretched against me, her arms tightening before she finally pulled back, her dark eyes meeting mine with a softness that was rare outside moments like these. She brushed a stray hair from my face and murmured, "I'm cooking breakfast."

I blinked. "You're what?"

She smirked at my reaction, propping herself up on one elbow. "I'm cooking for us. You eat, don't you?"

I scoffed, still trying to process the idea of Lingling Kwong, the most feared woman in the underworld, making breakfast. "Yeah, I eat. I just didn't think you did the cooking

Lingling rolled her eyes and sat up, stretching her toned arms above her head before reaching for her watch. "I know how to cook, Doctor," she teased, voice dripping with amusement. "I'm not completely useless outside of killing people."

I laughed, shaking my head as I finally sat up. "This I have to see."

As Lingling got up, still just in her pants, I slid out of bed and wandered to the mirror near the dresser. I pulled on a loose button-up over my bare skin, not bothering to do more than a couple of buttons. My legs were still bare, but I didn't care—Lingling had seen more of me than this.

I followed Lingling to the kitchen. The moment we stepped in, we both paused.

The aftermath of last night's chaos was everywhere.

Shattered glass on the floor, utensils scattered, and some spice bottles lying on their sides, their contents spilled in tiny piles. The counter still had faint smudges where Lingling had pressed me against it.

Lingling let out a low whistle. "Damn," she mused, hands on her hips. "We really did that."

I sighed, shaking my head but unable to hide the small smile on my lips. "You're cleaning this with me."

She turned to me with a smirk. "Oh? You're making me clean up? I thought I was your guest."

"You're the reason for half of this mess," I shot back, already grabbing a broom. "So yeah, you're helping."

Lingling chuckled but didn't argue. Instead, she grabbed a cloth and started wiping down the counters while I swept up the glass. We moved around each other effortlessly, falling into a rhythm that felt strangely...domestic.

I stole glances at her while we worked. The way her brows furrowed slightly as she scrubbed a stubborn stain, the way her lips pursed in concentration—it was a different side of her. Not the powerful mafia leader, not the woman who commanded fear with a single glance. Just Lingling, in my kitchen, helping me clean up the mess we made together.

And then, as if she could feel my gaze, she looked up and smirked. "You keep staring at me like that, baobei, and I might get distracted."

The pet name made my stomach flip.

I scoffed, tossing a small piece of cloth at her. "Shut up and clean."

She laughed, but we both kept working until the kitchen was spotless again.

When we were done, Lingling clapped her hands together. "Alright, now I take over." She moved to the stove, cracking her knuckles dramatically.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "I still can't believe you're cooking for me."

She shot me a playful glare. "What, you think I only know how to kill and look good?"

"Well..." I teased, dragging out the word.

Lingling grabbed a dish towel and smacked my hip with it, making me yelp. "Watch and learn, Doctor," she said smugly.

And so I did.

Lingling moved through my kitchen with an effortless confidence, her toned arms flexing as she handled the knife with precision, slicing vegetables as if she were cutting through silk. The contrast was almost ridiculous—here she was, standing in my kitchen in nothing but her suit pants and a black bra, looking like she belonged on the cover of some high-fashion magazine, cooking me breakfast.

I leaned against the counter, unable to stop admiring her. She looked so at home, so natural. So mine. "You look insane like this."

She glanced over her shoulder, smirking as she reached for a pan. "Insane as in 'too sexy for a kitchen,' or insane as in 'I should not be trusting a crime boss to cook for me'?"

"Both," I admitted, crossing my arms. "You're literally in a bra right now."

Lingling let out a low chuckle as she cracked an egg into the pan, the sizzle filling the quiet space between us. "What, you shy all of a sudden?" she teased. "Didn't seem like it last night when you were—"

"Lingling Kwong," I cut her off, glaring.

She laughed, flipping the egg with an unnecessary amount of flair, her smirk widening. "I just love seeing you flustered, baobei."

I rolled my eyes, but my face was warm. I wasn't used to this—this playful, almost soft side of her. Last night had been raw and consuming, all passion and teeth and bruising kisses, but this? This was something else. Something that made my stomach tighten in a way I wasn't prepared for.

Lingling finished cooking, plating up the food with surprising care before sliding a plate in front of me. "Eat."

I looked down at the dish—simple, but perfectly made. I hesitated, then picked up a fork, taking a bite. My eyes widened slightly. "Wait... this is actually good."

Lingling scoffed, sitting across from me with her own plate. "I told you, Doctor." She took a bite, looking way too pleased with herself. "I'm full of surprises."

I hummed in response, eating in comfortable silence. Every now and then, I'd catch her watching me with something unreadable in her dark eyes, something almost fond.

I had no idea what we were doing.

But right now, sitting in my kitchen with Lingling in nothing but her damn suit pants, cooking for me like it was the most natural thing in the world—

I wasn't sure I cared.

Lingling still sat across from me, completely at ease, one arm resting against the table, the other bringing a fork to her lips. My eyes traced the lines of her body—the sharp cut of her collarbones, the smooth planes of her stomach, the way her toned arms flexed with every slight movement. But it was her scars that held my attention the most.

The cigarette burn on her chest was small but unmistakable, a permanent reminder of a past she had barely spoken of. Then there was the stab wound, still healing, the one I had treated the night she came to my apartment. A fresh mark among old ones. A painful reminder that her life was not one meant for softness.

But here she was, sitting in my kitchen, shirtless and unguarded, cooking for me like this was normal.

Lingling caught me staring. Her lips curved into a knowing smirk. "You keep looking at me like that, Doctor, and I might start thinking you're obsessed."

I scoffed, stabbing my fork into my food. "I was just thinking about how you look ridiculous eating breakfast half-naked in my kitchen."

She tilted her head, amusement dancing in her dark eyes. "Ridiculous, huh?" Her voice dropped lower, teasing. "Not hot?"

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't deny the way my face warmed. Lingling knew exactly what she was doing. The way she leaned back slightly, stretching, making sure I got another view of her bare chest, of every scar, every defined muscle—it was deliberate. She was enjoying this.

"Do you ever stop flirting?" I muttered, taking another bite of my food.

Lingling's smirk deepened. "Not when it comes to you."

I swallowed, forcing myself to look down at my plate, pretending I wasn't affected. But my mind was still tangled in thoughts of her scars, her body, and the way she looked so unbearably attractive sitting there, completely comfortable in her own skin.

A silence stretched between us, heavier this time.

Then, quietly, I said, "You wear them well."

She stilled, her fork pausing mid-air. Her gaze flicked up to mine, something unreadable passing through her expression.

I reached forward, my fingers brushing the edge of the cigarette burn. "This one..." My voice was softer now. "You said they did this to you. That they beat you."

Lingling didn't pull away. She let me touch it, let me trace the mark with slow, reverent fingers. "They did," she said, her voice quieter than usual.

I looked up at her. "Does it still hurt?"

Lingling exhaled a small, bitter laugh. "Not physically."

I didn't say anything. I just let my fingers rest there, over the scar, before moving lower, trailing over the fresher wound near her ribs. "And this?"

She smirked again, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "That night, you were more worried about it than I was."

I gave her a look. "You almost bled out on my couch."

Her smirk widened slightly. "And yet, here I am, half-naked in your kitchen, cooking you breakfast. Fate works in funny ways, doesn't it?"

I shook my head, pulling my hand back. But Lingling caught my wrist, stopping me. Her thumb brushed over my pulse, her grip firm but warm.

"You don't have to look at them like that," she murmured.

"Like what?"

"Like you wish they weren't there."

I hesitated. Then, quietly, I said, "I don't. I just wish you hadn't suffered getting them."

Something in Lingling's expression softened. For a moment, she just watched me, studying my face like she was memorizing something. Then, slowly, she lifted my wrist to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to my skin.

"I don't regret them," she murmured against my pulse. "They made me who I am."

I held her gaze, my heart beating a little too fast. "And who are you, Lingling Kwong?"

Her smirk returned, slow and dangerous. "Yours."

I inhaled sharply, my stomach twisting at the way she said it—so effortlessly, so confidently.

Lingling released my wrist, picking up her fork again, acting as if she hadn't just knocked the air from my lungs. "Eat your breakfast, baobei," she teased. "Wouldn't want you passing out on me later."

I glared at her, but there was no real heat behind it.

I was in trouble.

I glanced at the clock—8:52 AM. Shit.

I pushed my empty plate away and stood up, heading toward my bedroom. I needed to get ready, and fast. But as I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror, I froze.

The marks.

Lingling had been thorough.

Purple and red bruises bloomed across my neck and collarbone, some deeper, some fading into softer hues, all proof of what had happened last night. My fingers brushed against one of them, and I shivered, remembering the way Lingling's mouth had felt against my skin—hot, unrelenting, possessive.

"Admiring my work?"

Her voice was low, teasing, and when I turned, she was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating smirk. She was still in her pants, her abs on full display, her scars visible, making her look effortlessly dangerous and beautiful all at once.

I shot her a glare. "I have to go to work looking normal, Lingling."

She hummed, stepping closer, her fingers tilting my chin slightly as she examined the bruises. "Mmm. Normal might be difficult today."

I swatted her hand away and turned back to the mirror, rummaging through my makeup bag on the counter. "If I walk into the clinic like this, my nurse is going to think I got into a fight."

Lingling chuckled behind me, the sound rich and deep. "Didn't you?"

I shot her a look through the mirror. "You're ridiculous."

She only grinned. "You love it."

I ignored her, focusing on dabbing concealer over the darkest marks. It helped, but not completely. The deeper ones still peeked through. I sighed.

Lingling stepped behind me, her hands sliding around my waist, her chin resting on my shoulder. "You look good like this."

I met her gaze in the mirror. "Covered in hickeys?"

Her lips brushed against my ear. "Marked."

Heat curled in my stomach, but I rolled my eyes. "You're impossible."

Lingling chuckled, her arms tightening briefly before she released me. "Come on, I'll have my men drive you."

I groaned, gathering my things. "Lingling, I can go by myself."

She arched a brow. "Not a chance. You're being watched, Orm. I'm not letting you move around alone."

I sighed. I knew she wouldn't let me argue about this. "Fine."

She smirked, pleased. "Good girl."

I grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at her. She dodged easily, laughing as I stormed toward the door. "I hate you."

"You love me," she called back, amused.

I didn't answer. But as I stepped into the elevator, still feeling the ghost of her lips on my skin, I knew she was right.

From Lingling's Perspective 🖤🐅

As soon as the door shut behind Orm, the apartment felt quieter. Too quiet.

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair before turning on my heel and walking toward her bedroom. It wasn't the first time I'd been in here, but it felt different now. More familiar. More ours.

Without thinking, I went straight to her closet, fingers brushing over the fabric of her neatly hung clothes. The scent of her shampoo, her perfume, the faintest hint of antiseptic from the clinic—it was so Orm. It wrapped around me like a ghost of her presence, filling my lungs.

I smirked to myself. Tsk. She'd probably scold me for this.

Ignoring the thought, I pulled out one of her hoodies—an oversized black one that would fit her frame perfectly but drown me in it. I slid it over my head, the fabric warm, comforting, as if I were being held by her in return.

I caught my reflection in the mirror.

Me, standing here, in her hoodie, in her home. As if I belonged in her world.

I exhaled, shaking off the strange weight pressing against my chest.

What are you doing, Lingling?

I had meetings to attend, deals to close, enemies to deal with. I had an empire that could collapse if I made the wrong move.

And yet, here I was. In her bed, in her hoodie, in her space.

I ran my fingers over the burn on my chest, over the stab wound still healing, over the bruises from the life I led before her.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But it did.

And now, as I sat on Orm's bed, the scent of her wrapped around me, I realized something terrifying.

I didn't want to leave.

But the moment my eyes landed on a photograph, my body froze.

It was a simple frame, sitting on Orm's shelf like it had always been there, like it was nothing more than a forgotten memory. But to me, it felt like a bullet to the chest.

Orm—young, bright-eyed, holding hands with her mother and a boy who had to be her brother. But my gaze locked onto the man standing beside them.

Sen Yui.

————👀