Yin Xinyue looked up, startled, as the door opened.
Unlike her expectations, neither Ba Ye nor Zhang-fuguan entered. Instead, it was Beile-ye, who had been so kind as to take them in as a favor to Zhang Qishan despite Zhang Qishan’s current state. It wasn’t a surprise that he cared enough to visit—Yin Xinyue had seen the pained surprise in his face during their explanation of what had brought them here—she simply wouldn’t have guessed he’d come so late in the evening, when most people were settling in for the night.
“Beile-ye,” Yin Xinyue said, and managed a smile. She didn’t rise from where she sat on the bed next to Zhang Qishan, holding his hand in hers. “To what do I owe this honor?”
He wasn’t wearing his full robes of state, she realised, and he took his hat off and set it aside. The door closed behind him, and Beile-ye turned to her without the public veneer of a smile he so often carried. “I wished to see him,” Beile-ye said quietly, as he settled himself on an ornate chair. Everything about his palace was ornate; Yin Xinyue didn’t find it overwhelming, precisely, but she did find it telling about his power. “And I wished to talk with you, Zhang-furen.”
Yin Xinyue’s eyes widened at that, and she leaned back towards the safety and reassurance Zhang Qishan provided even in his current daze. “Beile-ye—”
He raised a hand, waving off her protest before it was even fully formed. “Nothing untoward.” He hesitated, then leaned forward as if he were sharing a secret. “How long did it take you to fall in love with him?”
She blinked, tears welling in her eyes again as she turned back to study Zhang Qishan’s sleep-slack face. “He draws attention to himself,” Yin Xinyue murmured, which wasn’t a direct response to his question, but he had been at Xinyue Hotel; he had seen her challenge, and Zhang Qishan’s answer, and could assume many truths about their feelings since then. “It’s difficult to look away.”
Beile-ye hummed, and said, “Then you understand.”
Yin Xinyue glanced back at him, and Beile-ye’s eyes caught and held hers. Slowly, his hand stretched out and settled on top of the blanket covering Zhang Qishan. At her silence, rightly taken as assent, Beile-ye curled his fingers around Zhang Qishan’s ankle. The intimacy of the gesture, when Yin Xinyue knew they had not seen each other since the auction, pierced her to her core.
She did not contest it. How could she, when she knew the emotions that must be running through Beile-ye’s heart? Instead, Yin Xinyue moved down the bed, closer to where Beile-ye sat. “Why did you come here?”
“Ah.” He sighed, and his gaze shifted to Zhang Qishan. “The men you travel with are his, Zhang-furen.”
She nodded, unsure where this was going. “One of his closest friends, and his most trusted lieutenant.”
“Then they are your men too.” Beile-ye tilted his head slightly, the long braid of his status sliding around his shoulder and swinging down along his arm. “So you cannot show your pain to them.”
Yin Xinyue pressed her free hand against her heart where it beat wing-quick. “You presume much, Beile-ye.” He was right, however, and she could tell he saw that through her mask of righteous protest. “What do you know of it?”
“I am a prince,” he said, calm truth adorned with his easy amusement. “Were I to show pain, or fear, it would weaken the resolve of those I lead and create an opening for those who oppose me. It is the same for you, is it not?”
There was nothing she could say to that. She held more tightly to Zhang Qishan’s hand, though its lack of response to her touch simply reminded her of the fear she’d been hiding behind a well-trained mask.
“Xinyue,” Beile-ye said, so gently, almost as sweetly as Zhang Qishan could sometimes be convinced to call her name. “I am not part of your hierarchy. Let me take care of you while he cannot.”
Very carefully, Yin Xinyue looked up at him. He was a kind man, she’d found, and prone to seemingly-impulsive choices that he carried out with his full heart. Beile-ye was not the man she loved, but she was sure he loved Zhang Qishan just as surely. Yin Xinyue let out a breath, and it caught in her throat. Only the span of half a bed, and the man lying in it, separated them. “Take care of me?” she asked, picking her words to avoid her voice cracking on them. “How do you mean, Beile-ye?”
“When was the last time someone held you, Xinyue?” Beile-ye did not move towards her. He had the attitude, she thought, of a man trying not to startle a wild animal; intent, but his body relaxed and still. “Would you allow me that presumption?”
The last time—
She could no longer hold back her choked tears. Yin Xinyue curled forward over Zhang Qishan’s knees, and heard Beile-ye rise from his seat. It was not a surprise when his hand came to rest on her shoulder. It was, almost, that she allowed herself to shift towards him.
The bed dipped as Beile-ye sat beside her, and Yin Xinyue let him gather her into his arms. They were softer than Zhang Qishan’s, covered in thicker layers of cloth and not honed to athletic perfection. His body, too, was broader. It wasn’t an unpleasant difference, Yin Xinyue found; it was easy to allow herself to forget his rank and cling to his shoulders as she buried her face in his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her, and began rocking gently from side to side as she sobbed. It didn’t matter, in this moment, that he was a prince and she was a child of new wealth. His body was shaking too, in resonance with hers, and in this worry there was no meaning to their ranks: Here and now, they were simply two people who loved a man and were waiting for him to win his fight against his own death.
(Yin Xinyue believed in Zhang Qishan’s ability to win; he was not a man who would allow himself to die so quietly.)
When at last Yin Xinyue’s tears petered out, she lay exhausted in Beile-ye’s arms. His heart beat steadily against her ear, no different than Zhang Qishan’s, and she settled her breathing to its pulse.
“I hope this helped,” Beile-ye murmured, continuing to rub slow circles along her back.
Yin Xinyue recollected her words and managed, “Thank you, Beile-ye.”
“I am simply glad to know he is so well-loved.” Beile-ye sighed. “In another life…”
Jealousy did not bloom along her ribs the way she expected. Instead, Yin Xinyue pushed herself upright, not shedding Beile-ye’s embrace but simply looking to find his gaze. “He has no issues being with men,” she said, an offering she wasn’t quite sure how she meant. “I wish him to be mine, but…” Yin Xinyue swallowed, and laid her hand on Zhang Qishan’s knee. “I cannot control him, lest he flee entirely.”
Beile-ye studied her, eyes dark and sober despite the red rims of the tears he too had shed. “You are too generous, Xinyue,” he said, and pressed a kiss to her temple. She did not draw away from the softness of his lips, or the question they gestured at. “I will not pursue more until he is himself again.”
“You are kind.” She smiled at him, the most honest smile that had graced her face since she’d seen Zhang Qishan lost in his own mind. “I don’t know if I can thank you properly, Beile-ye.”
“I will visit you when he is well.” Beile-ye’s hand joined hers, their fingers barely touching, on Zhang Qishan’s leg. “He can thank me himself. There is no debt between us.”
Yin Xinyue nodded. She did not trust herself to speak.
There was, fortunately, no need for more words. They sat together, hearts beating in unison, until sleep came to beckon them onwards through the night and into a new day.