Help Me Pick Dishes1
Murong Qing lifted a hand and beckoned another woman inside; this one, too, had a flower-like face and a moon-like countenance2, dazzling and striking, different from Song Muyun’s chill and remove—she was, indeed, a beauty.
Jiang Yao glanced over twice and smacked her lips; she liked that one, too, but the one at her side right now was the female lead, so forget it, forget it—her little life mattered more.
The dishes came up quickly; right in front of Song Muyun, Murong Qing started being all “you-you, me-me”3 with the new girl nestled in his arm; Song Muyun’s face didn’t shift a hair—looked like she still didn’t like the male lead.
That’s good.
What Jiang Yao feared most was Song Muyun falling for Murong Qing and starting one of those head-ache-inducing toxic romances; never mind hurting herself—her whole family would be a finished calf4.
“Young Master~ This slave5 will feed you.”
Across the table, the pair were already feeding each other; Murong Qing opened his mouth and bit the pastry she brought to his lips, close enough that his lips almost brushed her hand.
They were all over each other, and he still had to lift his head to throw a provocative look at Song Muyun—dregs man6!
Jiang Yao snorted softly, tipped her chin at Song Muyun. “Hey, you—help me pick dishes. I’ll say what I want, and you just pick it.”
Song Muyun leaned in without a word and picked up the communal chopsticks7.
“The zui paigu8, pick me a piece to taste.”
She picked one and set it in the small saucer before Jiang Yao, but Jiang Yao added, “Feed it into my mouth, yeah? I don’t feel like using my hands.”
Her big, pretty eyes were full of innocence, clear as a spring; Song Muyun’s movement paused, then she did as told and brought the rib to Jiang Yao’s lips.
She had after all been a pampered young lady and had never served anyone; she didn’t know to hold her hand underneath when feeding; Jiang Yao watched, eyes wide, as broth dripped onto her clothes, blooming into a darker stain.
Song Muyun startled; her pretty face went pale; the strength in her jade-pale hand slipped, and the entire rib dropped.
Murong Qing saw and gave a cold laugh. “Told you she’s clumsy and never properly trained. You still insisted on having her serve you. Tsk. If you’re angry, there’s a whip in the room—go get it and blow off steam.”
He offered the suggestion blandly; Song Muyun went taut all over, face white as snow, pearly teeth biting her red lip, a sheen of tears in her eyes as she looked at Jiang Yao, stubborn.
No apology, no pleading—like she was simply waiting for judgment.
Jiang Yao lounged back in her chair, lazily picking at her fingertips, thinking, hadn’t said a damn thing—and look at Murong Qing, nosing in like he owned the place.
“What are you staring for? Take it off. You dirtied my clothes. Be careful. Sit and feed me—standing really does make it hard to feed.”
At that, both Song Muyun and Murong Qing paused; Murong Qing hadn’t expected hot-tempered Jiang Yao to have her clothes dirtied for no reason and not get angry, and Song Muyun also stared blankly at Jiang Yao, thinking: she looks fierce, but her temper is actually this good; she’s a good person—so much better than Murong Qing.
No; how could Murong Qing even be mentioned in the same breath as her.
Murong Qing’s shadowed gaze fell on Song Muyun; Song Muyun straightened her back, silent; she picked up the dropped rib and set it on the table, then used her own handkerchief to dab, little by little, at the stain on Jiang Yao’s skirt, intent and careful; her face was like a snow lotus in the icy heavens—stunning—and yet people shrank back from the cold.
A faint, cool fragrance drifted over; Jiang Yao froze for a moment, suddenly a little ill at ease; she wanted to lean back but didn’t quite manage it; she cleared her throat, a touch embarrassed. “Don’t wipe it. I’ll have someone wash it when we get back. I’m hungry—sit and feed me.”
Eldest Miss Jiang would sit rather than lift a hand any day.
Song Muyun still didn’t speak, but at least she was obedient; at the words, she nodded, sat to the side, and raised her chopsticks to bring over another rib; this time, she was ready, carefully placing the handkerchief underneath to keep the broth from spotting Jiang Yao’s skirt again.
Jiang Yao was very satisfied; chomp—she took the rib in one bite, chewed a few times, and a clean bone came out; while Song Muyun still hesitated over whether to hold out her hand to catch it, the bone had already been spat onto the table, wet and gleaming.
Song Muyun still said nothing, quietly staring at her own hands, hardly daring to lift her head to look at Jiang Yao.
She still couldn’t be sure Jiang Yao meant her no harm; after all… their fathers didn’t get along9.
“Hey, I want shuijing zhouzi10—pick me a piece of skin; look carefully for any hairs; if there’s hair, I won’t eat it.”
Song Muyun liked it when people laid out their requirements in one breath—unlike some who only came up with new demands after she’d finished, making her redo things, sometimes even beating her.
Without comparisons, she could endure Murong Qing; with them, the more she compared, the more she despised him.
Lounging against the chair back, Jiang Yao lifted her gaze and watched Song Muyun carefully select a patch of skin with no hairs; then she looked her over from head to toe and back again, again and again.
Her gaze hid nothing, carrying a searing heat; sensitive since childhood, Song Muyun naturally noticed.
Her vermilion lips tightened around her teeth; she didn’t know what Jiang Yao was looking at—and she didn’t dare ask.
Once fallen from the clouds, she was no longer who she used to be; she had no capital left for poise and elegance.
Jiang Yao only felt Song Muyun was endlessly watchable; every time she looked, she had to sigh to herself: beautiful.
That figure—beautiful; that face—beautiful; and that waist was so slender—one of Jiang Yao’s arms could wrap at least three of those waists.
Tsk, tsk. Someone this beautiful, wasted on that turtle egg11 Murong Qing—what a waste.
She hadn’t minded those princes before; but after that dream—Murong Qing, that shameless little cunt whelp12—took advantage of her family and even had them raided and confiscated.
Just thinking about it was enough to make her see red.
She was absolutely going to tear those two apart!
Jiang Yao wasn’t good at hiding her emotions; Song Muyun quickly sensed the sudden spike of anger, paused, and felt uneasy, unsure at whom that anger was aimed.
She lifted a carefully chosen, hairless piece of hock skin, dripping with sauce, and fed it over.
Seeing her long lashes tremble as she obediently fed her meat, Jiang Yao’s anger ebbed a little; she craned her neck and—chomp—took the meat into her mouth.
A bit of reddish-brown sauce smudged the corner of her lips; seeing it, Song Muyun instinctively raised her handkerchief to wipe, and only after wiping realized she’d overstepped; she drew the handkerchief back and lowered her head at once.
Jiang Yao knew the female lead was timid; in the story, she’d been tormented by Murong Qing for quite a while until she grew terribly fearful and skittish; that was all Murong Qing’s fault—him and his madness!
Pin the blame on a woman who, at this moment, didn’t even have the strength to truss a chicken13? She couldn’t do it; so she’d just blame all of it on Murong Qing!
The author has something to say:
Lately I want to hitch a ride on that “recent updates” slot, so my update time might be unstable; what I can promise is one update a day, but the time might be early or late—promise me you’ll read it, okay QAQ
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