At first, Jianheng had rationalised it as a pure, martial rivalry.
The cook had insulted the Sword Peak.
The cook had claimed his Dao of the Iron Wok was superior.
It was Jianheng's duty to crush him in the arena and prove the blade's supremacy!
But as the days passed, the nature of his obsession had warped, twisting into something dark, hot, and intensely, horrifyingly shameful.
When Jianheng closed his eyes at night, he didn't imagine disarming Ji'an in the arena.
He imagined disarming her, stepping into her guard, and forcing her to yield.
He imagined the feeling of her slender wrists pinned beneath his hands.
He imagined the way those arrogant, silver-flecked eyes would widen in shock, the way that sharp tongue would falter, the way her breath would hitch if he leaned in and...
Jianheng's face flushed a brilliant, bright crimson, the heat completely banishing the chill of the blizzard.
Damn it!
