Chapter 2515: Non-human: Xiao Chen Loses Memory 06

Blue Joy Hotel, suite.

Liang Yanzhe placed his suitcase in the wardrobe, turned and walked toward the desk, preparing to handle Zhou Chengjun's mail, when his gaze locked.

That peculiarly patterned seashell lay beside his computer.

Liang Yanzhe sat at the desk, Silence, looking at the seashell, an almost absurd feeling slowly creeping up his spine.

The air stagnated for a moment, then immediately, a chill in the tarsal bone appeared again.

The icy, sticky sensation, like a tangible gauze, slowly adhered to the back of his neck, sliding down his spine, bringing an uncontrollable shiver.

Liang Yanzhe possessed negotiation skills for dealing with difficult clients and mall rivals, but they were useless now.

What he faced was fundamentally not a human who could be swayed by logic and profit.

"...... you," Liang Yanzhe took a deep breath, forcing his voice to steady, although the tail inevitably trembled.

"What exactly do you want to do?"

The room was very quiet; Liang Yanzhe could hear his own rapid heartbeat.

After a moment, a low, pleasant male voice sounded in his ear, as if it could pierce the eardrum and reach straight into his mind.

"Wife."

Liang Yanzhe: "……?"

He blanked out for a few seconds, even suspecting that auditory hallucinations had arisen from continuous fatigue.

"...... you want me to help you find...... your wife?" he cautiously countered, his eyes behind the glasses scanning the room.

"You are, wife, mine." That voice sounded again.

Accompanying the words, an icy sensation wrapped around, almost wanting to embed into his skin.

"Very fragrant."

During this, even more indistinct, sticky murmurs sounded in his ear.

Like some ancient language, yet also like lovers' obsessive whispering; though the meaning was incomprehensible, it inexplicably made one's scalp tingle.

Liang Yanzhe felt completely unwell.

He had lived nearly thirty years, encountered all sorts of tricky situations, but never included being called 'wife' by a non-human object.

Liang Yanzhe's brain raced; this thing obviously lacked normal human thought logic.

He needed information, needed bargaining chips.

"Picked up the seashell......" he weighed his words, "does that mean I have to be wife? This might be a misunderstanding."

"No," Jin Chen immediately retorted, unusually obstinate, "only you can be."

Liang Yanzhe felt the sticky wrapping tighten a bit more.

He tried moving his shoulders, "If...... I say I cannot accept?"

"Impossible." Jin Chen became somewhat angry.

The surrounding temperature dropped a few more degrees.

The next second, Liang Yanzhe clearly felt that the intangible restraint had changed, condensing into soft tentacles that tightly wrapped from behind.

Like a human embrace, but tighter, with no gaps.

The tentacles snugly adhered to Liang Yanzhe's back, wrapping his arms and waist, even slowly moving upward, lightly brushing his jaw, even his breath easily taken.

Liang Yanzhe's gaze behind the glasses became somewhat scattered due to excessive restraint and lack of oxygen.

He realized that head-on confrontation absolutely wouldn't work.

"...... I hurt a lot." Liang Yanzhe lowered his voice, then said.

Jin Chen felt an inexplicable heartache, making him extremely uncomfortable.

He loosened a bit, but the tentacles still clung reluctantly, loosely embracing Liang Yanzhe, unwilling to fully let go.

Liang Yanzhe finally obtained a space to catch his breath.

He slightly lowered his head, chest rising and falling, took several deep breaths, calming his rapid heart rate.

This breath hadn't fully steadied when another chill covered over, pressing against the slightly open shirt at his chest.

The icy breath circulated; seen from afar, the part of Liang Yanzhe's torso above the chest almost seemed to be swallowed by that mass of blurry, distorted mist.

Liang Yanzhe's body shuddered.

He lowered his gaze, fingertips sinking deep into the soft surface of the Sofa, exerting force until his joints whitened, thereby maintaining his last calm.

A vague thought flitted through his mind.

Liang Yanzhe raised his head; although his face was still somewhat pale, he gazed at the Distorted black mist in the air and spoke softly.

"Do you need my blood?"

Jin Chen's movement stopped.

"Yes," he honestly admitted, even feeling wronged, "I'm very hungry."

Liang Yanzhe's heart relaxed a little.

Having a demand is good; having a demand means we can talk.

His tone was calm, even somewhat guiding, "...... then you should first step aside."

Jin Chen hesitated a bit, not really wanting to leave this warm body that exuded an alluring scent.

But he had indeed just hurt his wife.

Moreover, his wife seemed to know how to feed him.

The tentacles slowly, reluctantly, withdrew, leaving enough space.

Even more considerately, it pushed the silver fruit knife from the fruit plate on the coffee table to Liang Yanzhe's hand.

Liang Yanzhe looked at the knife that had been moved to his hand, sat upright, his shirt somewhat disheveled from the earlier entanglement, revealing his collarbone and chest.

He fell silent, slowly rolling up the cuff of his left shirt.

The forearm's lines were smooth, the skin fair, and on the skin one could faintly see several extremely pale old scars.

Liang Yanzhe's gaze lingered on those scars for a moment, his eyes deepening a fraction, his emotion unreadable.

Then he picked up that fruit knife.

The blade was ice-cold.

Liang Yanzhe's motion was steady, he lightly drew a line across the forearm.

A thin, elongated wound appeared, much shallower than the one Jin Chen had made the night before; beads of blood slowly seeped out, converging into a tiny stream that slid down the fair skin of the arm.

The interweaving of red and white was stark yet ambiguous.

As the blood seeped out, black mist rushed to envelop it, gently and swiftly covering the wound.

The icy touch licked over the skin, transmitting a feeling mixed with a faint sting and a shudder.

Jin Chen felt a fullness of satisfaction, his consciousness turning languid.

He sighed contentedly, once again clinging softly to Liang Yanzhe's body, his force much gentler, as if acting coquettish.

"Honey," his low, magnetic voice, heavy with the languor after a meal, murmured contentedly, "You smell wonderful."

Liang Yanzhe's eyelashes fluttered slightly, and he gave no reply.

He lowered his gaze, watching the wound on his arm quickly heal, leaving only a faint red trace; silently he reached out, took off the glasses on his nose, and placed them beside the sofa.

Deprived of the lenses' shelter, those eyes that appeared gentle narrowed slightly, the pupils somewhat unfocused.