He forced a smile, gazing at the soft, fragrant body on the bed, and finally managed to hold back.
Xiao Heye, such a despicable, shameless, and ruthless villain, certainly had a thousand ways to get her.
Whether it's coercion, bribery, or a combination of sweet talk and deception, in short...
If he wanted, Xiao Heye could easily take her body anytime, anywhere, without any reason.
But he didn't do that...
It wasn't that he didn't want to, but that he couldn't bear to.
Romantic love seemed a bit distant to Xiao Heye.
Because, since he was born, it seems that he has never been loved or cared for by anyone.
He is heartless, cold-blooded, and taciturn; perhaps he simply doesn't know how to love someone.
But the desire to protect someone is not an instinct, but a choice.
Xiao Heye simply chose what he thought was the right way to protect her, get close to her, and then extract a little warmth from Su Tiyue.
...
In a daze, the words Su Tiyue had once said to him suddenly flashed through his mind.
She said: "Where your palm print is cold, I'll warm it up for you... I'm warm and not afraid of the cold, just keep warming it up, it'll get warm eventually."
He lowered his head, a slight smile playing on his lips.
He remembered something from a long time ago.
Ten years have passed; time has changed, and life has gone by.
Many people and many things have changed.
But Su Tiyue seems to have not changed at all.
Back then, she was so tiny, wearing a fluffy pink cloak, with a small gold hairpin adorned with tassels in her hair...
Amidst the swirling snowflakes, she walked step by step towards him from the luxurious and ornate carriage, her hairpin jingling softly.
As she approached, she looked at him timidly...
Oh right...
At that time, Xiao Heye was a beggar who had wandered to Suzhou.
Furthermore, Han Zhou almost died in that heavy snow.
Xiao Heye finds it hard to forget the past, and when he thinks about it again, he always feels that the memories are still fresh.
It wasn't that he had a good memory, but rather because...
His past is like a series of sharp scimitars, constantly tearing at his bones and tempering his will.
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