Yingxing, known as Blade, despised his master with every fiber of his being. Or so he told himself. The truth was far more complicated, tangled with emotions he couldn't understand—hatred warring with an unrelenting, shameful lust that gnawed at his self-control.

The scent of sandalwood filled the air in his master's quarters as Blade knelt on the cold stone floor, head bowed in what appeared to be submission. His crimson eyes, however, burned with resentment as he listened to the reprimands falling from those lips he couldn't stop thinking about. The soft rustle of silk robes, the rhythmic cadence of their voice, the way their hair caught the light from the lanterns—everything about them inflamed him.

Focus on the anger, he told himself, gritting his jaw until his teeth ached. They're scolding you. This is why you hate them.

But his treacherous gaze wandered upward, tracing the curve of their neck, the defined collarbone peeking from the edge of their robes. He imagined pressing his lips there, hard enough to leave a mark, to make them gasp and forget all about discipline.

"Are you even listening, Blade?" Their voice cut through his thoughts, sharp with frustration.

He met their eyes, feeling the familiar conflict surge within him—rage at their authority, hunger for their touch, and something deeper he couldn't name, buried under layers of corrupted memories and demonic influence. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he fought the urge to rise and bridge the distance between them.

"Yes, Shizun," he replied through clenched teeth, the honorific tasting like ash on his tongue. "I'm listening."