Chapter 8 A Hero Rescues the Beauty

"Where did Mr. Mo find such a beautiful young lady?"

Ye Linglan lifted her eyes slightly, casting a sidelong glance at the lazily seated Young Master Qin across from her. Only then did she clearly see his features. She knelt at Mo Zhicheng’s feet, caught between advancing and retreating, with nothing but the faintly mocking tones of Young Master Qin reaching her ears.

Mo Zhicheng’s expression remained inscrutable as he flicked his cigarette between his fingers, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Every inch of air in the private room was charged with tension. The quiet rasp of a zipper breaking the silence was perfectly timed. Mo Zhicheng lowered his head to light his cigarette, the orange glow briefly illuminating his deep eyes. He took a long drag and asked in a low voice, "Do you like her, Young Master Qin?"

As soon as he spoke, Ye Linglan glanced at him in surprise, his features blurred behind the haze of blue-white smoke. She tried to guess his true intentions. Young Master Qin's words were brazen, showing not the slightest respect for Mo Zhicheng—it seemed he had come tonight spoiling for trouble, no matter who else was present. Was Mo Zhicheng, for the sake of peace, willing to throw her to this debauched heir, disregarding her fate entirely?

Mo Zhicheng’s gaze dropped, glancing over her briefly before turning back to meet Young Master Qin’s amused smile. Then Young Master Qin stood and walked over to Ye Linglan’s side. He bent down, pinched her chin with interest, and narrowed his eyes, examining her closely.

Ye Linglan was not a peerless beauty, but she was blessed with fine features and a cool elegance. Her skin was like snow—radiant, not sickly pale but milky and luminous, soft as if it would bruise at a touch. She had just been slapped twice, and red marks stained her cheeks, a bead of blood at the corner of her mouth and the faint shadow of a bruise. Though she was clearly disheveled, she looked like a battered flower, her dark hair falling over her face and sticking to her skin. She bowed her head slightly, the curve of her neck exposed—there was a certain ruined grace about her. "I do like her," Young Master Qin said, his gaze lingering. "She’s just my type. But I wonder, Mr. Mo, are you willing to let her go?"

A man’s possessiveness is innate, especially toward a woman who defies him; it only ignites a fierce urge to conquer—an instinct as natural as the physical advantages men are born with.

Ye Linglan’s body went rigid, her chin locked in Young Master Qin’s grip. Her brows knitted as she glared at him with undisguised disgust, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. Sensing her loathing, Young Master Qin’s eyes turned cold, his grip tightening before he flung her onto the sofa. Pain twisted her features, and she gasped sharply as his shadow loomed over her.

"Young Master Qin, I was wrong, I’ll never do it again, please spare Sister Linglan," came the faint, tearful voice of Xiao Wen from beside her, dwindling to a whisper and finally fading away. Young Master Qin ignored her. In front of everyone, his fingers traced the delicate line of Ye Linglan’s neck to the collar of her uniform shirt. Patiently, he began to unbutton her shirt, one button at a time.

When most of the buttons at her chest had been undone, her black bra stood out starkly against skin whiter than snow, her curves smooth and luminous as mutton-fat jade, rising and falling with her ragged breaths. The man sighed, and Ye Linglan’s heart beat frantically in her throat. She trembled, instinctively sensing what was about to happen. She turned her face away in despair, staring at the toppled wine bottle and exquisite glasses on the table—everything in hopeless disarray. The room descended into a strange, oppressive silence; not a single sound was uttered.

In a daze, she looked at Mo Zhicheng—at the smoke curling from his lips, at his impassive expression as he bent over and stubbed out his cigarette, the last trace of smoke dissipating. He approached Young Master Qin, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder, and said softly, "If you want one of my women, I have no objection. Though I may control Tiancheng, love is a matter of mutual affection, and I cannot force it. If you want her, Young Master Qin, you should ask whether she herself is willing. Besides, they say a woman is a work of art—handle her gently, or she’ll break. The way you’re going about it, I fear you’ve frightened her."

Mo Zhicheng seemed born to navigate such treacherous waters with ease, his poise unshakable, as if the situation was entirely within his grasp. His gaze did not linger on her, even as Young Master Qin held her captive.

Young Master Qin’s expression darkened. "So after all your roundabout talk, Mr. Mo, you still won’t let me take her?" His icy gaze pinned Ye Linglan. "How about we play a game? If you lose, I’ll take her with me."

"And if I win?" asked Mo Zhicheng.

Young Master Qin grinned and flung Ye Linglan aside.