She trembled. Her hand — still stroking, still moving — tightened. Not from arousal. From the words. From the name.
"Please," she whispered. Her dark eyes lifted to his face. "Not — not his name. Please don't —"
"Immortal," she corrected herself. Her refined voice was barely a whisper. "I — I will please you. For my sect. For my —"
Tianlong's hand found the back of her head. His pale fingers threaded through her obsidian hair — the silken strands slipping between his fingers. He didn't pull. He didn't push. He rested. The weight of his hand — warm, heavy, possessive — on the back of her skull.
"What's wrong?" he said. His voice was low. Quiet. The tone of a man asking a genuine question.
Her dark eyes — wet, desperate — met his gold-crimson ones. "I — I wanted to ask — I wanted to say —" She swallowed. Her coral lips trembled. "I love Lin Feng. Please — can you — can you leave me —"
