Tainted Love

It had begun as all things did—with silence.

The kind of silence that pooled like water in the hollows of the heart. The kind that followed Yunhua through the corridors long after Rowan had stopped speaking to her. Long after her own words had dried up and curdled inside her mouth. Apologies, unspoken. Confessions, unsaid. The wound between them had crusted over into something sullen and too quiet to be called grief.

And Lady Sairen noticed.

She always noticed.

"Your eyes are sunken, my dear," she had said one evening, lounging among silk cushions that shimmered like fish scales in the lamplight. Her voice was gentle, but her gaze was sharp enough to peel bark from a tree. "Even pretty things wilt when neglected."

Yunhua, seated at a respectful distance, didn't respond. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her hair had fallen loose again—it always did when she hadn't slept.

The silence stretched like a thin string between them.

Sairen rose, soundless as a cat, and closed the distance between them with effortless grace. Her silk robe whispered as she walked. "Come here," she said, like one might call a skittish bird to their hand.

Yunhua obeyed.

Not out of desire. Not even obedience, really. It was a kind of inertia. A surrender to gravity. A quiet step forward when standing still had become unbearable.

Sairen reached out and touched her face, cupping her jaw with long, pale fingers. Her touch was warm. Not unpleasant. Yunhua didn't flinch.

"You must be so tired," Sairen murmured, brushing a thumb beneath Yunhua's eye. "Tired of trying to fix something that won't be mended. She pushes you away, doesn't she?"

Yunhua blinked slowly. Her lashes felt heavy. The words floated above her head, like lily pads on still water. She didn't nod. She didn't deny it. That, too, would require effort.

Sairen's hands slipped lower, to her shoulders.

"You deserve better," she said, voice thick as honey. "You've given her everything. And what has she given you in return? Cold shoulders? Guilt? Shame?"

She began to circle behind Yunhua like a serpent coiling around its prey. The scent of her perfume clung to the air—floral, faintly medicinal. Like crushed petals steeped in memory.

"Has she ever touched you like this?" Sairen asked, dragging her fingers down the curve of Yunhua's neck. Her nails scraped lightly across skin, and Yunhua shivered—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.

Still, she didn't answer. Maybe she didn't know how.

"You're always watching her," Sairen continued, her voice lower now. "And she knows it. Doesn't that sting? She's the fire, and you orbit her like ash. She burns so brightly, and yet—never for you."

Her lips brushed Yunhua's ear. "Tell me, did you ever ask her to hold you at night? To touch your hair? To kiss the corners of your mouth until your body forgot how to ache?"

Yunhua closed her eyes. She remembered a winter, three years ago, when Rowan had fallen asleep on her shoulder. The way her head had tilted, the warmth of her breath. That had been enough, back then. She had treasured it for months.

Sairen smiled, feeling the small shift in Yunhua's breathing.

"It's so easy," she whispered. "You see? All you had to do was reach out."

It wasn't seduction in the traditional sense. There was no wine, no poetry, no whispered promises. Only Sairen's quiet patience, and Yunhua's hollow fatigue. She didn't resist when Sairen led her to the bed. She didn't object when hands undid the folds of her robe like the petals of an overripe flower.

And Sairen was gentle—calculatedly so. Every touch was deliberate. Every glance was laced with unspoken meaning. She watched Yunhua like a scholar observing a rare insect pinned beneath glass: fascinated, indulgent, and vaguely amused.

"Look at you," she murmured once, pressing a kiss to the inside of Yunhua's wrist. "So quiet. So obedient. Like you were made to be left behind."

Yunhua didn't move much. She responded when guided, submitted when touched. She felt like a vessel—something to be filled, not broken. There was no passion in her, only quiet desperation, the need to feel something in the long, aching stretch of abandonment.

And Sairen took her time.

At one point, Yunhua stared past her—past the silk curtains, the shadowed lanterns, the gold leaf on the wall—and imagined Rowan standing in the doorway.

Imagined the look on her face.

It was the only moment that made her breathe sharply, and Sairen, noticing, laughed under her breath.

Afterward, Yunhua lay motionless beneath embroidered silk, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Sairen sat beside her, brushing hair from her brow.

"You're very obedient when you're lonely," she said idly. "I almost feel guilty. Almost."

Yunhua blinked. Her limbs felt distant.

"You wanted this," Sairen continued, voice low and pleased. "Or perhaps you didn't. But you didn't stop it either."

She tilted Yunhua's chin with one finger. "I wonder—if it were her in my place, would you have dared to ask for it?"

A breath caught in Yunhua's throat.

Sairen smiled. "No," she answered herself. "You wouldn't. You'd sooner bleed out on your knees before you ever asked her to touch you. You always were a little pitiful that way."

Yunhua said nothing. She didn't look away. That, perhaps, was the only defiance left in her.

Sairen leaned closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper, silken and sharp.

"Do you think she would've ever taken you to bed? Hm? Sweet, loud Rowan with her reckless mouth and wounded pride—do you think she'd want you like this?"

Her fingers curled around Yunhua's hip possessively.

"She would've run. Maybe she already has."

She laughed softly. "As if she ever could love a thing like you."

Something twisted in Yunhua's chest. Not anger. Not shame. Just something dark and bitter that throbbed behind her eyes like an old bruise. Still, she didn't move. Didn't cry. Her body lay still, folded beneath silks, cooling like stone after the sun's departure.

Sairen pressed a kiss to her temple. "But don't worry. I want you. For now."

And then she rose, adjusted her robe, and drifted out into the hall with the casual grace of someone who had done nothing at all.

Yunhua lay in silence.

The next morning, the sun had the audacity to shine.

She stood in the steaming baths for nearly an hour, scrubbing at her skin until it burned. Her hands shook as she dressed. She avoided mirrors. She couldn't bear to see what her eyes might reveal.

She left her quarters late and said little throughout the day. Her steps were mechanical. Her silence deeper than usual.

And Rowan saw her.

They passed in the corridor, briefly. Rowan slowed. Opened her mouth like she might say something.

But Yunhua didn't stop.

Didn't look.

Didn't speak.

Just walked on.

Rowan turned slowly, watching her go.

And Lady Sairen, from an upper balcony, sipped her tea and smiled like a cat who had eaten something soft and sad.