“Damn, you feel good,” he gritted out.
Her needy moan spurred him on. Bracing her slim hips with both hands, he held her steady for his pounding. With greedy eyes, he watched the thick meat of his shaft tunneling inside her. Her passage milked him like a fist. His vision darkening, he let himself go, rutting her like the animal he was. His stones smacked her pussy, the wet, squelching sounds adding to his frenzy. He slapped her bouncing ass and groaned when he felt her start to spend.
The rippling of her sheath brought him to the edge as well, and he had the sudden urge to see who he was fucking. He jerked out, spinning her around and slamming her onto his prick once more. Then he ripped off her veil.
His eyes widened at the sight of her freckled nose and dimpled smile. She wetted her pretty lips, taking him over the edge. His balls swelled, heat blasting up his shaft…
Wei jerked awake. His heart was galloping, and it took him a moment to register that he was in his own bed. He was perspiring, the sheets clammy against his skin. Sitting up, he pushed aside the blankets and discovered with shock that sweat wasn’t the only wetness on his person. His erection was a throbbing bar against his stomach, the tip glossy with seed.
I nearly came in my sleep like a bloody green lad.
Need buzzed in his veins. Stunned, he dragged both hands through his hair, trying to think through the haze of desire. Through the hunger clawing at his insides. Inhaling, he assumed the cross-legged position he used for contemplation…and grimaced when he had to adjust his rigid cock.
He took several deeper breaths, willing his body and mind to calm. Yet all he could think about was Glory—some confounding mix of fantasy and reality that made him even harder. He let out a huff of impatience. The harder he tried to block her out, the stronger she pulled at him.
What did the dream mean? Why was he having debased thoughts about her? A lady who was too innocent, too young, and too far above him. Who would be a reprise of the worst mistake he’d made in his life. For years now, he’d kept his urges at bay; why were they emerging now, filthier and stronger than ever?
He gritted his teeth. What the bloody hell is wrong with me?
“The stronger the will, the weaker the result.” Shifu Lam’s voice surfaced like a leaf floating on dark water. “In meditation and in life, Wei, the doing is in the not doing.”
Wei focused on his breathing. On letting go—which had never come easily to him.
He remembered the day he had left his shifu’s compound in the mountains. The old master’s eyes, milky with cataracts, had nonetheless seen straight into the heart of Wei’s fears.
“You will not find what you seek, Wei,” Shifu Lam had said. “You are not ready.”
“But I have trained diligently for the past seven years, Shifu. Practiced everything you have taught me. I have even studied with that Jesuit priest, learning the language of my enemy so that I may hunt him down in London.” Frustration had raked Wei’s insides. “If I am not ready by now, when will I ever be?”
“When you can relinquish that which drives you, then you will find your way. Do not do, Wei. That is the answer.”
As much as Wei revered his shifu, the old man’s obfuscated wisdom could drive him mad.
Just a sign that Master Lam is right. I am not ready. Not worthy.
Sighing, Wei got out of bed. His mind was too unruly, tugging him this way and that, jumping between past mistakes and future fears. He needed to stay anchored in the present. If he could not achieve that through meditation, then he would employ other means.
He dressed for kung fu practice. Then he paused, removing three items from his dresser. The piece of fabric, dagger, and sketch of the ink drawing were a reminder of his purpose: clues to the murderer he was hunting.
The stamp on the dagger indicated that it had been made in London. Taken with the knowledge that the British traders in Canton had sailed from England’s largest city, Wei had decided to start his search here. Five years later, however, he’d made little progress, running into countless dead ends. For instance, after months of canvassing, he’d located the bladesmith, but the fellow had produced so many of the daggers that he had no idea who’d purchased the one Wei had shown him. Due to the shady occupations of his patrons, the bladesmith did not keep any receipts.
The scrap from the killer’s jacket proved even less identifiable.
Thus, Wei’s only hope was the inked design he’d seen on his enemy’s arm. He’d made a sketch of the tangle of vines, leaves, and bell-shaped flowers that had branded itself upon his brain. Consulting with several experts, he’d discovered that the plant depicted was the Atropa belladonna…more commonly known as deadly nightshade. While it was fitting that the assassin would carry the mark of a poison, Wei’s inquiries about the deadly nightshade tattoo did not yield further information.
He did discover that tattoos were considered barbarous in England, associated with seamen and criminals, and he could find no establishment that openly practiced the art. He'd resorted to frequenting the places where he was most likely to see inked skin. He’d visited dockside taverns, underground prizefights, and bathing houses, looking for the symbol of his family’s killer. Thus far, his forays had yielded nothing but invitations to fight…and to engage in other activities. Apparently, patronizing places where men were in a state of undress and surveilling them for signs of a tattoo could lead to misunderstandings.
Wei continued his weekly incursions into the darkest parts of London, searching aimlessly for clues. Last week, he’d infiltrated a gaming hell in the Seven Dials and ended up fighting a band of ruffians who’d tried to rob him. Bruised knuckles were all he had to show for his trouble. He knew he was flailing—struggling to stay afloat in a swamp of failure. He left his bedchamber and went to his study, where he lit incense at his ancestral altar and faced the wooden plaques carved with his family’s names. The silence felt as heavy as an accusation.
“I am sorry, Baba, Mama, Ling Ling.” His eyes burned. “I have yet to fulfill my duty to you. All these years, and I have only served justice to one of the men responsible for your deaths. But I vow to work harder, be better, and not let anything distract me from my purpose.”
Of course, Glory flashed in his mind’s eye. Her words about “applying knowledge” tightened his gut. Clearly, she did not intend to heed his warning to stay away from the gang, and why would she? He had no hold over her. Yet he knew someone that Glory would answer to, someone he hoped would listen to reason when he paid her a visit this afternoon.
After that, he would let go of Glory Cavendish…dimples, freckles, and all.
Resolved, he exited to one of the courtyards. The sun had not yet risen, and the air was thick with fog. He filled his lungs with coldness, breathing out warmth. He stretched, readying his body for practice. Bending his knees, he adopted a horse stance, grounding himself in the power of the pose.
As minutes passed, his thigh muscles bulged and strained. The burn shot from his buttocks into his calves. His heart thumped pleasantly as sweat misted on his skin. Finally, he began to move. He started with a punch, then another, his accompanying steps gaining momentum. He spun in a crouching kick, plumes of gravel rising around him. Springing into the air, he used his fists and feet to take on an invisible enemy.
