novelraw Chapter 167 Near Madness
Chapter 167 Near Madness
This week, Gu Yanshen did everything he could to avoid going to Lu Xiran.
He told himself this was the result he wanted. Xin Mubai was good—good family background, good character, good to her, a million times better than him. She should marry someone like that, live a peaceful life, not have to take bullets for him, not have to be hurt by him, not have to endure this cannibalistic place with him.
He pondered these principles for seven days, a hundred times, until every word was etched into his very bones.
But he was in unbearable pain.
He thought that as long as she was happy, that was enough. He thought that as long as she was safe, that was enough. He thought he could let go.
But he couldn't do it.
His possessiveness was like a caged beast, tearing at him, threatening to rip him apart. He dared not close his eyes, for the moment he did, he saw images of her with Xin Mubai—her smiling at others, accepting flowers from others, wearing others' coats. Those images, like shards of glass, ground into his nerves, leaving him a bloody mess.
He wanted to crush everything; he was almost insane.
Lu Xiran had already prepared water in the guest room bathroom. When she came out, Gu Yanshen was still sitting on the sofa in the living room, maintaining the same posture she had left in—his back slightly slumped, his hands resting on his knees, his fingertips dangling. He was so tired that even his breathing seemed to be slowly rising from a very deep place.
She walked over and stood in front of him. He didn't look up, but he felt her shadow fall and envelop him. She reached out to pull him up.
"Let's go."
He slowly raised his eyes, his gaze falling on her face. His eyes were deep from insomnia; he looked at her for two seconds, then remained still.
She took his hand. His fingers were cold and slightly curled, as if he dared not hold on tightly, or as if he was reluctant to let go.
"I'm fine." He pushed her hand away, very gently, as if he were trying to convince himself.
"Don't push yourself." She pulled his hand over, her fingers threading through his, and gripped it tightly. "I don't have the strength. Otherwise, I'd carry you in a princess carry right now."
His lips twitched slightly, a barely perceptible curve. "You can't carry me."
"Then give it a try."
She didn't let go. When she lifted him up, he slid down a little, instinctively tightening his arms—not intentionally, but a natural reaction when losing balance. He pulled her into his embrace, her chest pressed against his, and through the two layers of clothing, she could feel his heartbeat. Slow, heavy. Each beat felt like it was pumping up from a deep place, making her chest ache.
He let go. So quickly, as if nothing had happened.
She supported him, walking step by step towards the bathroom. His weight pressed against hers and then receded. He was enduring it, his knuckles turning white. She said nothing, only tightened her grip on his hand.
She helped him sit down on the edge of the bathtub. She had everything ready—the water temperature had been tested, and towels were draped on the rack to dry.
"Let me give you a bath." She brought over a basin of water, her voice soft, as if soothing a sick child. "You used to need to take a bath before going to sleep. You could only sleep soundly after being bathed."
He didn't speak. He just looked at her. He watched her hands tremble slightly as she wrung out the towel, watched water droplets drip from between her fingers, hit the floor tiles, and shatter into invisible mist.
"You don't need to do this." His voice was terribly hoarse.
She ignored him. She stood up and reached out to unbutton his shirt.
The first one, the second one, the third one. Her fingers were steady, as if she were doing something she had done countless times. And she had indeed done it countless times.
In those years, she helped him unbutton his shirt, tie his tie, and straighten his collar. Those memories are like lines etched into his bones; without thinking, her hands would move.
Her shirt was open. Every time, she couldn't help but marvel at how good Gu Yanshen's physique was. His muscles were sculpted, every inch perfectly proportioned.
Then she slowly took the shirt off his shoulders.
Her gaze slid from his collarbone to his shoulder, and from his shoulder to his arm. He had lost a lot of weight. His shoulder blades protruded like two thin blades. The outline of his ribs was faintly visible beneath his skin.
She didn't say anything, but simply soaked the towel, wrung it out, unfolded it, and placed it on his shoulder.
The warm steam seeped into his skin. Her fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder blade through the towel.
She started wiping.
Arms, chest, waist. The movements were slow, as slow as if drawing a painting.
She knew everything about him. She knew where his skin was thinnest, where his muscles were most prone to stiffness, the small mole on the inside of his elbow, and the scar on his waist from a childhood fall. Her fingers traced those memories, as if walking a road she had traveled countless times.
When he touched her waist and abdomen, he suddenly raised his hand and pressed it down.
My breathing became heavier. Not intentionally heavier, but a reaction from my body before I even realized it—my chest heaved more, my fingers tightened more, and even my body temperature seemed to rise a little.
"I can do it myself." His voice came from deep in his throat, hoarse and barely audible.
His fingertips touched her hand. She flinched as if burned. That flinch sent a sharp pain through his heart. Then she reached her hand back, her fingers resting on the buckle of his belt, and with a gentle flick, the metal buckle came undone.
"Don't move," she said. Her voice was soft and slightly nasal.
He didn't move again.
He didn't dare look at her.
He was completely exposed before her. He was so tired, so exhausted he barely had the strength to lift his hand. Yet, when her fingers brushed against his skin, he still reacted. It wasn't something he could control; it was his body's own decision. It recognized her. It remembered her. It was always honest with her, always unable to pretend, always utterly defeated.
Her cheeks flushed, and she lowered her head, quickly wiping herself before putting the towel in the water.
She turned around, grabbed the prepared pajamas, unfolded them, and draped them over him from behind. As his arm slipped through the sleeve, he tilted to the side, his shoulder bumping into her. She was pulled back half a step by him, but steadied herself and held onto his waist.
"It's alright," he said.
She didn't say anything. She pulled her pajamas together, buttoning them one by one.
From bottom to top.
The first one, the second one, the third one. When she reached her chest, her hand paused—his heartbeat, transmitted through the fabric, was faster than someone who hadn't slept for almost five days.
She kept tapping. The fourth one, the fifth one.
She finished deducting the money. She didn't back away.
He stood there, and she stood before him. They were so close they could feel each other's breath. Her fingers were still resting on the buttons of his collar, not yet pulled back. He looked down at her. The light shone from behind her, enveloping her in a halo of light, making her hair appear golden.