Chapter 4: Stolen Waters in Moonlight
The guilt was a slow-burning fever. It woke with her, a sour taste at the back of her tongue as she watched Zhang Wei wordlessly tie his shoes for another day in the fields. He’d visited a relative who needed help and returned home two days after the kiss, a distant, silent presence. He asked about his father’s leg, nodded at the news of the recovery, and retreated to cut some wood. He touched her at night, but he barely spoke to her. The space between them in their bed was as close as it could get physically, but emotionally it was a cold, unbridgeable chasm.
Every glance from Zhang Kuo now felt like a brand. A shared secret that shimmered in the air between them, hot and irresistible. He didn’t push. He just… existed, brighter and more potent than anything else in her world. His leg healed with a speed that made Old Man Li shake his head in baffled silence. Zhang Kuo moved with a new, predatory grace, the muscles in his arms and back seeming more defined, as if the spring water had washed him clean inside and out.
He’d find reasons to be where she was. “This sack feels light, Little Mei. Did you use your magic on the grain?” he’d murmur, his breath stirring the hair at her temple as he reached past her in the pantry. He never stayed long enough for her to form a reply, just left the scent of sunshine and male sweat hanging in the air.
The kissing became a rhythm stolen in shadows. A frantic, breathless press behind the kitchen when Granny Zhang was napping. A slower, deeper exploration in the dusk by the empty pig pen, his hands learning the curve of her waist, her hips, his thumbs tracing the undersides of her breasts until she shuddered. She was a live wire, strung tight, humming with a need she had no name for. Each touch was a betrayal that felt more like a claim.
The livestock began to flourish. It was unconscious at first. She’d trickle a cup of spring water into the sickly calf’s bucket. The next morning, it was standing, nursing strongly. The hens, after a treated mash, laid eggs with shells like polished pottery. The workhorse, Lao Hei—the one that had kicked Zhang Kuo—developed a coat that shone like wet ink, its eyes clear and intelligent.
It was Lao Hei that gave her the idea. If the water could heal a cracked bone and revive a calf, what could it do for the whole herd? For the farm’s fortunes? It was a practical thought, a way to justify the power, to make her presence here useful. One night, the moon a perfect silver coin in a black velvet sky, she stole out to the barn.
The space was cavernous, familiar yet transformed by the monochrome moonlight streaming through high windows. Dust motes danced in the beams. The animals were quiet shapes in their stalls, breathing softly. The air was thick with the sweet, dry smell of hay and the warm, living scent of manure and hide.
Heart thumping against her ribs, she moved to the main stone trough. She focused, reaching for that cool, silent space within the jade at her throat. A stream of water, crisp and clear as liquid diamond, poured from her pendant’s focus, glittering in the moonlight as it arced into the trough. She watched it mingle with the well water, a ripple of potent magic in the mundane.
“So that’s how it works.”
The voice, low and amused, came from the shadows by the loft ladder. Lin Mei jumped, the stream cutting off instantly. Her hand flew to her throat, covering the pendant.
Zhang Kuo stepped into a slash of moonlight. He wore only loose sleeping trousers, his chest bare. The silver light sculpted the planes of his shoulders, the hard line of his collarbone, the flat planes of his stomach. He looked like something forged, not born. He wasn’t using his crutch.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she whispered, the words a useless, automatic deflection.
“I felt restless.” He took a step closer, his eyes on the trough, then back to her. “Stronger than I’ve ever been. Like I could pull a tree out by its roots. That’s your doing.” He gestured to the pendant with his chin. “You’ve been blessing the animals, too. I’ve seen it. The eggs. The calf.”
He knew. He’d been watching. The realization should have terrified her. It only made the heat in her belly coil tighter.
“I was just…” she began, but he was already crossing the space between them.
“You were just being a goddess,” he finished, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. He didn’t touch her at first. He just looked at her, his gaze traveling over her face, her lips still parted in surprise, down the column of her throat to where her hand clutched the jade. “My secret goddess.”
Then he moved. It was effortless, lightning-quick. One hand clasped her wrist, gently pulling it away from her throat. The other slid behind her back, and he turned, pressing her into a towering stack of hay bales. The dried grass prickled through her thin summer tunic. The smell of it, earthy and sun-warmed, filled her nose.
He was solid against her, every inch of him. The heat of his bare skin seared through her clothes. She could feel the powerful drum of his heart, or maybe it was her own.
“You’ve made me into something new,” he breathed against her mouth. “What does that make you?”
This kiss was nothing like the others. It wasn’t tender or grateful. It was hungry, possessive, a scorching claim. His mouth slanted over hers, demanding entry, and she gave it willingly. A sound, half-moan, half-surrender, vibrated in her throat. His tongue delved deep, tasting her, and the world narrowed to the points of contact: his mouth, his hands, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her lower stomach.
One of his hands left her back, skated down her side, over the flare of her hip. He gripped her thigh, hitching it up around his waist. The coarse fabric of his trousers rubbed against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. The position arched her body into his, and she felt the full, shocking evidence of his arousal, thick and heavy even through the layers between them. A jolt of pure, carallel lightning went through her.
She broke the kiss, gasping for air. “Zhang Kuo… we can’t…”
“Why?” His mouth trailed down her jaw to her neck, his teeth scraping lightly over her pounding pulse. “He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t want you. I see you. I’ve wanted you since the day you walked into this courtyard, all fire and fear.” His hand on her thigh slid higher, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “You want this too. I can feel it.”
She did. God, she did. The ache between her legs was a palpable, throbbing thing. It was a physical truth that drowned out the screaming warnings in her head. This was wrong. It was treacherous. It was also the most alive she’d felt since waking up in this cursed century.
His mouth found hers again, swallowing her whimper. His free hand came up and covered her breast, his thumb circling her nipple through the linen. It peaked instantly, a sharp point of sensation that drew a ragged cry from her. He smiled against her lips, a dark, triumphant sound.
The barn door creaked.
They froze, a sculpture of illicit heat. A soft snort from Lao Hei’s stall. Then silence. Just the wind sighing through the eaves.
The spell didn’t break, but it fractured. Reality, cold and sharp, seeped back in. Granny Zhang’s room was just across the yard. Zhang Kuo's wife and Zhang Wei was asleep inside the house. The moonlight no longer felt romantic; it felt exposing, like a searchlight.
Zhang Kuo slowly, reluctantly, lowered her leg. He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing harsh and uneven. “Not here,” he murmured, the words gritty with frustration and unspent desire. “Not like this.”
He stepped back. The cool night air rushed in where his body had been, raising goosebumps on her skin. She felt shattered, trembling, her body screaming in protest at the loss of him.
He looked at her, his eyes black in the moonlight, charged with a promise that was both a threat and a pledge. “This isn’t over, Lin Mei,” he said, his voice quiet but absolute. “This is just beginning.”
He turned and melted back into the shadows of the barn, silent as a ghost. A moment later, she heard the soft groan of the loft ladder.
Lin Mei slumped against the hay, her legs unable to hold her. She slid down until she was sitting in the scratchy straw, her arms wrapped around her knees. She could still feel the imprint of his hands, the pressure of him. The scent of him was on her skin, in her mouth.
She looked at the water trough, glowing placidly in the moonlight. She had meant to bless the animals, to help the farm. Instead, she had unleashed something else entirely. Something she no longer had the will, or the desire, to cage.
Something she no longer had the will, or the desire, to cage.
The next three days were an exquisite torture. Lin Mei moved through her chores like a ghost, the memory of Zhang Kuo’s hands and mouth a brand on her skin that no laundry water could scrub away. Every glance across the courtyard was charged, every accidental brush in the narrow hallway a bolt of lightning. Zhang Wei remained a silent, brooding presence, his touches at night mechanical and brief, over before they even began.
Granny Zhang squinted at her over the steaming pot of congee one morning. “You’re quiet, girl. Dreaming of your modern world again?” The question was a casual probe, but the old woman’s eyes were like shards of flint.
“Just tired,” Lin Mei mumbled, stirring the porridge with excessive focus. She could feel the weight of the jade against her sternum, a constant, guilty pulse.
Zhang Kuo, for his part, played his role perfectly. He was all cheerful industry and easy smiles, teasing his mother, chatting with the neighbours who came to marvel at his recovery. But his eyes, whenever they found Lin Mei, held a banked heat that promised the moon and stars, and a conspiracy just for them.
He found the opportunity three days later, after dinner, the sun low on the horizon.
The meal had been a tense, quiet affair. Zhang Wei had left the table first, muttering about checking a fence line. Granny Zhang was dozing in her chair by the hearth, snoring softly.
“Going to check the western creek bed,” Zhang Kuo announced, stretching his arms over his head with a satisfying pop. “Water’s running lower than it should. Coming, Little Mei? You’ve got a good eye for things that are… out of place.”
It was so blatant. So dangerous. Lin Mei’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at Granny Zhang’s sleeping form, at the empty space where her husband had sat. They wouldn’t be missed for a while.
“Alright,” she said, the word barely a whisper.
They slipped away from curious eyes, the fading light painting the path in long, forgiving shadows. He led her away from the cultivated fields, past a stand of whispering bamboo, and into a gentle, rocky rise she’d never explored. The air grew cooler, sweeter, laced with the scent of wild orchids.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice still tight with nervous energy.
“You’ll see,” was all he said, a playful grin touching his lips. He moved with an easy, silent grace, the spring water’s gift obvious in his boundless vitality. He held back branches for her, his fingers briefly brushing the small of her back.
Then the trees parted. The world opened up into a small, hidden clearing cradled in the arms of the hill. Below, the Zhang farm was a neat miniature, smoke beginning to curl from its chimney. Before them, a natural rock pool caught the last of the sunset, its surface a liquid mirror of peach and violet. Wildflowers dotted the soft grass like spilled jewels.
“It’s beautiful,” Lin Mei breathed, the tension in her shoulders easing into genuine awe.
“Found it when I was a boy hiding from my chores,” Zhang Kuo said, his voice softer now. He rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets, suddenly looking younger. “My own little kingdom. Never brought anyone here before. Not even my wife.” The admission hung in the air, significant and tender.
She turned to look at him, the dying light gilding his handsome, lined face. “Thank you for showing me.”
Slowly, he came up behind her. His arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her back against the solid warmth of his chest. He was serious now, the boyish charm replaced by a focused intensity. He swept her hair aside, gathering it over one shoulder.