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Not at dawn.
Not after breakfast.
Not even when aides hovered anxiously outside the tent.
Inside, incense burned low.
Zhang Shi lay beside him, her hair loose against the pillow, one arm draped lazily across his chest. Wang Jiayin lay flat on his back, eyes unfocused, breathing heavy, his entire body radiating the aftereffects of indulgence.
Utterly spent.
Zhang Shi leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear, voice soft enough to melt wax.
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