I Sealed the Demon Lord for a Hundred Years, Now He Wants His Jailer novel · Chapter 13 of 24

Chapter 13: Wuhen

Chenjue washed his hair.

He knelt on the wet black stone behind the tub with Wuhen's head tipped back against his knees.

He poured warm water over the white at his temples with one cupped hand.

He held the back of Wuhen's neck so it would not run into his eyes.

It was the twenty-ninth night, and Wuhen had lost count of how many times he had been carried.

"You're doing it again," he said.

"Doing what?"

"Being careful. You've been careful for eight days. You've stopped insulting my table manners," Wuhen said.

"You haven't eaten at a table."

"That's no excuse," Wuhen replied.

Chenjue did not answer.

He worked the soap through the whole length of it, from the scalp down to the waist.

He was as slow as a man combing silk he was afraid to tear.

Wuhen watched the steam climb the black walls.

Something in the man had changed since the night at the door, and he could not find the edge of it.

Chenjue had stopped asking whose he was.

He said "Jailer" now in a low voice, as if it were a name he was keeping warm.

He fed him, carried him, and held him through every night, and he had not raised his voice once.

It's pity, Wuhen thought. He has counted the nights and he thinks I'm dying.

He hated it more than the chain.

"Stop," he said.

"Stop what?"

"Pitying me. I'd rather you were angry."

The hands in his hair went still.

"Is that what you think this is?"

"What else? Nine days ago you wanted my head on your gate. Now you wash my hair," Wuhen answered.

"I never wanted your head on my gate."

"You told me you'd rather rot," Wuhen said.

"I know what I said." The voice behind him was very quiet. "Turn around."

Wuhen turned in the water.

Chenjue's face was close and wet with steam, and the red eyes were steady and dark.

He lifted Wuhen out of the tub.

He sat him on the wide stone lip with a folded robe under him.

The stone was warm, and the water ran down Wuhen's thighs.

Chenjue knelt on the floor between his knees and took Wuhen's face in both hands.

"Wuhen," he said.

It went through Wuhen like a blade through paper.

In a hundred and twenty years the man had never said it.

He had not said it in the dark of the old inn, or on the night of the lake.

Always "Jailer", or "Sword Saint", or the thing he called him when his mouth was on his ear.

"That's a funeral voice," Wuhen said, and it came out cracked. "Don't use it on me."

"It's the one I've got."

"Then say it like you're annoyed."

"Wuhen." Chenjue's thumb moved along his cheekbone. "Wuhen, you idiot."

"Better."

"Shut up and kiss me."

Wuhen kissed him.

It was slow, and it went on for a long time, with the water dripping from both of them onto the stone.

Chenjue's mouth opened under his, and his tongue was hot and gentle.

His hands slid down Wuhen's wet back to the base of his spine.

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