CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE MONK'S VIGIL
Lou Yan had spent years mastering the art of stillness. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the exquisite torture of holding Syra as she slept.
Moonlight painted silver streaks across her face, catching on the damp trails left by earlier tears. Her breath came slow and even now, her body curled trustingly against his. The weight of her head on his chest was both a benediction and a test of willpower.
He hadn't lied when he'd proposed. Every word had been carved from his bones. But gods, the waiting was killing him.
---
Earlier That Evening
The rain had been falling in sheets when she arrived at his door, soaked to the skin and trembling. Lou's hands had itched to strip the wet clothes from her body, to warm her with his own. Instead, he'd wrapped her in the softest towel he owned—Egyptian cotton, thick as clouds—and made tea with hands that barely shook.
Watching her sip jasmine from his favorite cup (the blue one with the hairline crack from when Ming had knocked it over last winter) had undone him in ways he couldn't name. The way her lips pursed slightly at the first taste, the way her throat moved as she swallowed—each detail etched itself into his memory with painful clarity.
When she'd curled into his side on the couch, he'd counted breaths instead of heartbeats. In. Out. In. Out. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and faintly citrus—filled his lungs with every inhale. Her damp hair left dark spots on his sweater, but he didn't dare move to change it. Control. He'd learned it young.
First as a novice scrubbing temple floors until his knees bled. Then as a CEO negotiating billion-dollar deals without blinking. None of that compared to the discipline required not to kiss her when she looked up at him with those wounded doe eyes, her lashes still clumped together from the rain.
---
"You're thinking too loudly."
The words slipped out before he could stop them, rough as sandpaper. Lou felt the exact moment Syra tensed against him, her fingers tightening in his sweater like she was afraid he might vanish. Her apology cut deeper than any blade.
I'm sorry.
As if she were the one at fault. As if her trauma was an inconvenience rather than a wound he'd spend eternity tending if she let him. The way her voice cracked on the word—small and broken—made something primal roar to life in his chest.
When she started spiraling—when her breaths turned shallow and her eyes grew distant—Lou did the only thing he could.
He anchored her.
Hands on her face, calloused thumbs brushing away tears. Forehead to forehead, their breath mingling in the scant space between them. The words poured from him like water from a cracked vessel:
"You are not a burden."
"Your past is not a debt."
"Whatever you can give—that's enough."
And then, because he was a man who built empires from nothing, who turned impossibility into inevitability:
"Marry me."
Not a question. A promise.
The way her eyes widened—part shock, part wonder—would fuel his dreams for years to come. The hitch in her breath, the way her lips parted slightly—as if she wanted to say yes but couldn't quite remember how.
---
Now, in the moonlit quiet, Lou traced the curve of her shoulder with his gaze. The borrowed sweater she wore had slipped down one arm, revealing the delicate slope of her collarbone. A constellation of freckles dotted her skin there—three on the left side, two on the right—and Lou committed each one to memory.
Syra stirred in her sleep, her lips parting around a sigh. The sound went straight through him, pooling hot and heavy in his gut. His fingers twitched with the need to touch, to taste, to map every inch of her with his mouth until she gasped his name. He clenched his jaw until it ached. Then— Her eyelashes fluttered.
Lou held his breath as Syra blinked awake, her gaze unfocused with sleep, then he quickly shut his eyes. For a moment, she simply looked at him, her eyes dark and unguarded in the dim light. There was no fear there now, only a quiet curiosity that made his pulse stutter.
Without a word, she leaned up and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. The touch was featherlight. Lasted less than a second. It nearly shattered him. Every muscle in his body locked tight, his hands fisting in the couch cushions to keep from dragging her closer. Heat roared through his veins, pooling low in his stomach. The scent of her—sleep-warm skin and lingering jasmine—filled his senses until he was drunk on it.
By the time he regained control, Syra had already nestled back against his chest, her breathing evening out once more. Her fingers curled loosely in his sweater, as if even in sleep she needed to tether herself to him. Lou counted to one hundred in four different languages before trusting himself to move.
Then, with infinite care, he shifted her onto the cushions and covered her with a blanket. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long, brushing a curl from her forehead. The urge to kiss her properly—to wake her with his mouth on hers—was a physical ache in his chest.
The balcony doors opened silently under his touch. Dawn's first light painted the sky in pale watercolors as Lou stepped into the freezing air. He didn't bother with a coat. The bite of winter against his skin was a welcome penance, the cold seeping into his bones until he could think again. Cross-legged on the concrete, he began to meditate.
In. Out. In.
The scent of jasmine still clung to his skin. Somewhere inside, the woman he loved slept on. And Lou Yan—monk, mogul, mortal man—breathed through the fire she'd ignited in his blood.
---
The city woke around him.Car engines coughed to life below. A delivery truck rattled down the alley. Somewhere, a child laughed—bright and unburdened. Lou remained perfectly still, the cold seeping into his muscles until he could no longer feel the warmth of her body against his. Until the memory of her lips faded from his skin.
It didn't matter. He would wait until the stars burned out if that's what she needed. The balcony door slid open behind him.
"Lou?"
Syra's voice was sleep-rough, laced with something he couldn't name. He turned slowly, his joints protesting the movement after hours in the cold. She stood framed in the doorway, his sweater swallowing her slender frame, the blanket still clutched around her shoulders like a cape. Her hair was a riot of curls, her eyes still heavy with sleep.
Beautiful.
His.
Even if she didn't know it yet.
"Come inside," she whispered, holding out a hand. "You'll catch cold."
Lou exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog in the air between them. Then he rose, his stiff muscles protesting, and crossed the balcony in three strides. Her fingers were warm when they tangled with his. And just like that, the fire roared back to life.