Marcus took a deep, steadying breath. No more discussion. No more negotiation. He simply tightened his grip on the spare blanket and began pulling it downward with firm, steady pressure.
Elena's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Her fingers dug deep into the soft quilted fabric she clutched to her chest, engaging him in a silent tug-of-war that carried far more weight than the physical contest suggested.
Her mind raced with frantic speculation: What the hell was Marcus actually trying to do? Coming back after abandoning her, and now behaving so bizarrely—so completely out of character? Could it be... had he changed his mind? Did he actually intend to...? No. Absolutely not. Impossible.
Her brow furrowed as she ran rapid calculations, measuring the tactical imbalance with cold precision. He stood 187 centimeters tall with a robust, athletic build. She was 175 centimeters but rendered functionally helpless by paralyzed legs and chronic physical weakness.
Even if her legs had been perfectly functional, the sheer disparity in raw strength meant that if he genuinely intended to force himself on her, resistance would be utterly futile. She would lose that fight. Badly.
A wave of chilling resolve crystallized in her chest like ice forming over deep water. In the darkness, her left hand moved with practiced silence, fingers finding the ornate gemstone ring. Her fingertip located the tiny clasp and flicked it open with surgical precision. The poisoned needle emerged once more, its tip catching faint moonlight and glinting with lethal promise.
If he dared lunge at her... then they would both die together. She'd make absolutely certain of it.
Marcus's silhouette drew closer, bringing with it the lingering scent of alcohol. His tall frame blocked portions of the moonlight streaming through the windows, casting an oppressive shadow that seemed poised to collapse down onto her at any second.
Elena's heart hammered against her ribs so violently she could feel it in her throat. She held her breath completely still. The needle's tip made minute adjustments, tracking his movement, calculating the optimal angle of attack.
But the anticipated assault never materialized.
Marcus simply stepped past her—careful not to bump her legs—and retrieved a fluffy pillow from the corner storage near the bed. Then he continued his task, pulling the spare blanket completely free and letting it pool on the floor.
"Look," Marcus's voice emerged from the darkness, surprisingly calm—almost conversational. "If you don't want me calling you 'wife,' that's fine. I can work with that." He paused. "I'm a few years older than you anyway, so... how about I just call you Elena? Would that be acceptable?"
As he spoke, he dropped into a crouch and began spreading the blanket across the floor by moonlight.
His distinctly articulated fingers moved with patient efficiency, smoothing out wrinkles and creases with methodical care. On his wrist—illuminated by the pale lunar glow—a small, remarkably lifelike black scorpion tail tattoo became briefly visible. The ink added an unexpected touch of dangerous mystique to his otherwise refined profile, transforming him from merely handsome into something edged with wild unpredictability.
He was... making himself a bed on the floor?
The realization hit Elena with surprising force. Her coiled tension released by perhaps half a degree. The death grip she'd maintained on both the quilt corner and her poisoned ring unconsciously loosened, fingers relaxing incrementally.
But the wariness in her eyes didn't fade completely. Not even close. What game was this Marcus playing? What angle was he working?
Marcus offered no further explanation. He simply bent his head to the task with focused concentration, arranging his improvised sleeping space. His movements showed practiced efficiency as he spread the luxuriously soft down comforter across the expensive carpet's surface, gave the plush velvet pillow a few testing pats to fluff it properly, then ran his palm almost unconsciously across the intricately woven cashmere rug beneath him—reportedly worth seventy thousand yuan per square meter.
The exquisite texture transmitted through his fingertips made him pull the fresh bedding up to his nose for an experimental sniff. Tsk. The scent of pure, unadulterated wealth—expensive fabric softener mixed with that distinctive smell of sunshine and money.
He allowed himself a private, self-mocking smile. This was undoubtedly the most expensive makeshift floor bed he'd ever assembled in his entire life. Not even close.
Well. Since he was stuck here, he might as well adapt to the circumstances. The current situation remained chaotic and treacherous—every step felt like walking through a minefield. Better to conserve his energy and mental resources for now.
As for the actual mission of romancing that unpredictable, emotionally volatile beauty currently radiating hostility from the bed above... well. There was plenty of time for that. These things couldn't be rushed. Patience was essential.
He straightened to his full height, made a show of dusting off nonexistent dirt from his palms, surveyed his "temporary sleeping quarters" with an air of satisfaction, then turned to face Elena. She remained rigid in the bed, every line of her small body broadcasting continued defensive tension.
"Alright then." He kept his tone deliberately gentle, even injecting a hint of studied casualness. "Elena." He used her first name pointedly. "I want you to understand something clearly. I will not cross any lines—I won't touch you inappropriately—until after you've graduated from university. I made that promise when we married, and I intend to keep my word."
He was deliberately invoking the premarital agreement. At the time, the Original Owner had hypocritically agreed to those terms purely as a manipulation tactic—promising to "develop genuine feelings first" and postpone consummation to build trust. The bastard had never intended to honor it, of course. But Elena didn't necessarily know that yet.
Elena lifted her gaze to study him, eyes swimming with complex, conflicted emotions—half-belief warring with suspicion. Her lips parted slightly as if to speak, moved soundlessly for a moment, then pressed closed again without producing words.
In the moonlight's cold illumination, her face resembled the most delicate porcelain—achingly fragile and utterly, deliberately distant.
Marcus cleared his throat. Part of him wanted to launch into some explanation about how tonight's violence had been a terrible accident, a drunken aberration that would never happen again. But even forming those thoughts made him cringe internally because he didn't believe them himself, and she certainly wouldn't either. Any explanation at this point would sound pathetically weak—worse than saying nothing at all. It would come across as transparent rationalization, a clumsy attempt to cover up inexcusable behavior.
So instead, he simply lowered his voice and spoke with firm, undeniable certainty: "It's past two in the morning now. You should try to sleep. You have classes tomorrow."
Without waiting for Elena's response—without giving her an opportunity to argue or question further—Marcus turned smoothly on his heel and walked into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
The moment that barrier sealed him away from the uncertain, emotionally charged atmosphere of the bedroom, Marcus finally allowed himself to truly relax. He sagged back against the door, permitting a moment of genuine exhaustion to wash over him and show on his features.
His fingers moved to unfasten the constricting buttons of his dress shirt. He crossed to the marble vanity and stared at the face reflected in the mirror.
Narrow, fox-like eyes that tilted slightly at the outer corners. A high, aristocratic nose bridge. Lean, sharply defined jawline. Lips that were thin but well-shaped, somehow managing to look both cruel and sensual simultaneously.
This face... was shockingly, disturbingly similar to his original appearance back in his real world. Eight or nine parts identical, in fact. Even the goddamn name was exactly the same—Marcus Chen in both realities.
No wonder that half-functional disaster of a system had selected him as its designated "host." He was practically a tailor-made replacement, a body double created by cosmic coincidence or deliberate design.
However, the danger level of this particular "career assignment" far exceeded anything from his previous life as a professional bodyguard who'd literally lived by the knife's edge.
Bodyguard work involved visible, straightforward threats. Real weapons, real violence, survival dependent on physical skill and split-second reaction time. The dangers were obvious and direct.
But Elena Nightshade? She was something else entirely. She was a venomous serpent coiled in shadows, a "bad seed" with a fundamentally twisted psyche lurking beneath that fragile exterior.
Don't be fooled by her current presentation—quiet, vulnerable, delicate as a white lotus flower. Who knew when some random thought might displease her, triggering her to silently eliminate him? And knowing her methods as described in that horrifying novel, death probably wouldn't come quickly or cleanly. He'd likely endure prolonged, creative torture first.
Just thinking about the specific atrocities detailed in the book—using human leg bones as raw materials for crafting flutes, weaving hair into instrument strings, displaying skulls as macabre art installations—sent visceral chills racing up Marcus's spine like ice water in his veins.
Tsk. She looked so impossibly young. Her cheeks still carried traces of childish softness, that last hint of baby fat that comes with late adolescence. How could someone who appeared so innocent be capable of such calculated, monstrous cruelty?
He peeled off the alcohol-scented dress shirt and expensive slacks, revealing the well-maintained physique beneath. His legs were long and lean but powerfully muscled, with smooth definition visible even in the bathroom's soft lighting. His abdomen displayed the clean lines of developed core strength—what some called a "river character" muscle pattern.
As he habitually conducted a visual inspection of this borrowed body, something on his left wrist suddenly caught his attention and stopped him cold.
A rough, strikingly detailed scorpion tail tattoo wound around his inner wrist in black ink.
He leaned closer to examine it carefully. The scorpion's segmented tail began at the inside of his wrist and coiled upward along his forearm in an organic spiral pattern, seemingly continuing even further up his arm toward his shoulder and back.
Marcus twisted around, craning his neck to examine his reflection from behind in the mirror's surface.
There. Just as he'd suspected. A complete, anatomically precise black scorpion sprawled across his entire back—fierce-eyed and predatory, positioned as though ready to strike. The segmented tail terminated exactly at his wrist, poised to deliver a fatal sting at any moment. The overall effect was... intimidating. Aggressive. The tattoo radiated an aura of deliberate menace.
Just as he was processing this discovery, the system's notification chimed three times in rapid succession inside his skull.
[Fortune: "Host! Breakthrough opportunity detected! Analysis indicates this tattoo's aggressive aesthetic style represents a type of imagery that Elena Nightshade finds particularly aversive. If you successfully remove it via laser treatment, you could potentially acquire a substantial quantity of 'Positive Value' points in a single action!"]
The phrase "Positive Value" made Marcus's eyes light up with immediate interest—but the brightness faded almost as quickly as it appeared.
He knew from experience that getting tattooed was already an agonizing process—needles repeatedly piercing skin, injecting ink deep into the dermis layer. The pain was sharp, persistent, inescapable.
But tattoo removal? That was reputedly even worse. People described it as torture comparable to having a hundred fire ants simultaneously biting into your flesh—concentrated, burning agony that lasted through multiple sessions.
Marcus could handle blunt force trauma. Punches, kicks, broken bones—those kinds of sharp, immediate pains he'd trained himself to endure. But this particular variety of fine, persistent, needle-like stinging? That specific type of prolonged discomfort made him genuinely uneasy.