Bride of the Forgotten Prince: Wedding Behind Bars

Of course Yan Shuixin knew it was him.

The shame was enough to make even a prince want to die. Xiao Yeheng's half-ruined, once-handsome face darkened at once, his entire presence like a frigid pit, exuding an icy chill.

Yet Yan Shuixin could understand him.

She remembered the details from the original novel clearly.

In the corners of most prison cells, there was a covered latrine bucket. A menial worker by the name of Zhao would come by with a cart every three days to collect the waste.

But Zhao was lazy. Instead of entering each cell, he demanded that the prisoners themselves carry the latrine buckets to the corridor outside the iron bars and empty them into his cart.

The others could manage this, but Xiao Yeheng's left leg was broken and severely wounded. He couldn't even stand—let alone lift a bucket.

Zhao, unwilling to go into the cell each time, simply removed the latrine bucket from Xiao Yeheng's cell days ago.

The novel hadn't mentioned how Xiao Yeheng managed his bodily needs after that.

But Yan Shuixin could guess: at first, he must have dragged his injured leg to the corner of the cell to relieve himself, covering it with straw afterward as hygienically as he could. Likely, in the last day or two, the pain had become so unbearable that he could no longer crawl and had no choice but to soil himself.

A faint pang of sympathy welled up in Yan Shuixin's heart. Perhaps it was only because he was too pitiful that she couldn't bear to turn away.

She treated it like ordinary trash—wrapped the dried piles with straw, swept the entire cell at lightning speed until it was spotless. Even the soiled straw was discarded, the clean ones neatly saved for later.

"I'm going to help you onto the bed, all right?" she asked. It was the only furniture in the cell—an old wooden platform pressed against the wall, bare of even a single blanket. Just four wooden legs supporting a flat board.

Fortunately, summer had just begun. Any earlier, and it would've been cold enough to kill.

Xiao Yeheng gave a small nod.

Yan Shuixin walked over, pulled his arm across her shoulder, and used her body as leverage to lift him up.

Despite the handful of sunflower seeds he'd eaten earlier to ease his hunger, his injuries had left him utterly drained. His body slumped heavily against her, one leg useless, as if he were hanging from her like dead weight.

But in holding her, he suddenly realized just how thin she was—her shoulders narrow and frail, her waist delicate, bones so slight they felt like they might snap under strain.

A faint ache stirred in his chest. He thought: if he ever made it out of here alive, he would ensure she lived a good life.

But perhaps…neither of them would survive this wretched prison.

Once he was lying on the wooden bed, Yan Shuixin took up a damp cloth to wipe the floor several more times before heading out again to fetch water from the well.

She quietly hid his soiled trousers and undergarments in a dustpan, covered them with trash, and snuck them out. In the supply room, she used water from a bucket to quickly wash them clean and hung them behind the door.

After returning with another pail of water, she rinsed the floor again until the entire cell was thoroughly cleaned. Even the air smelled fresh.

Xiao Yeheng simply lay there, silently watching her bustle about. At some point, his deeply furrowed brows had relaxed.

Once she'd cleaned the entire cell, Yan Shuixin didn't stop. She went on to scrub the long corridor outside—though she was so tired by then that her back could barely stay straight.

Working while hungry was no small suffering.

After neatly storing the cleaning tools, she retrieved the trousers hanging behind the door. They were no longer dripping wet. She folded them into a bundle, tucked them into her sleeve pouch, and returned to the cell, swaying with fatigue.

Xiao Yeheng, lying on the wooden bed, saw how exhausted she looked. He wanted to rise and help her—but couldn't even lift his arm.

Why did he want to help her?

This was the same woman who'd humiliated him earlier! She'd even complained about the stench in front of the jailer.

Yet if she hadn't made a scene, the cell wouldn't have been cleaned.

Now…

Sunlight streamed in through the high window, casting a warm glow on the clean floor. The stench was gone. The air felt lighter.

Perhaps he shouldn't resent her for what she'd said. Perhaps…he ought to praise her for her cleverness.

Unaware of his thoughts, Yan Shuixin walked over and knelt beside the bed, pulling out the bundle of trousers from her sleeve pouch.

Xiao Yeheng took them, recognizing the fabric—his own outer trousers and underpants. Though still slightly damp, they were clean.

He had assumed she'd thrown them away out of disgust.

Yan Shuixin would never discard his clothes. After all, there were no spare garments in here. The novel hadn't said whether prisoners had changes of clothes, but even if they did, they would've been rare. Throwing them out would mean making him lie half-naked for days—a far more terrible offense.

Xiao Yeheng had been fretting. Prisoners only got fresh clothes every fifteen days, and he'd just changed three days ago. If he lost his pants now, he'd have to spend twelve days covering himself with only a shirt.

The fact that she washed and returned them—it truly meant everything.

A quiet ripple of gratitude spread through him, like a spring breeze flowing into his chest, softening something that had long turned to ice.

He tried to lift his leg to put the trousers on, but lacked even that strength.

"Wait until they're dry," Yan Shuixin offered gently. "Wearing damp clothes might make you sick."

"I might die any moment," Xiao Yeheng replied coldly. "I don't want to die half-naked."

She frowned and said firmly, "You won't die."

He sneered. "And what makes you so sure?"

Because you're too damned hard to kill, she thought. You even hacked off your own rotting leg and lived. But she only said, "Because I don't want you to."

"Is that so?" he replied coolly, clearly unconvinced.

Still, her care for him…was real.

And strangely, that thought lifted his heart slightly, like a single spark glowing in the pitch-dark void.

"I need my pants on," he said again, his tone final.

That was when Yan Shuixin remembered—there was a jailer named Chen Zhong in the novel. A man with a taste for his own gender, who'd assaulted several male prisoners.

Xiao Yeheng, though scarred and maimed, had pale skin and a fragile frame. If that jailer saw him lying there half-naked, things could get dangerous.

Better damp pants than risking that.

Without asking, she sat on the edge of the bed, turned her back to him, and said, "Your Highness, I'll carry you to the sunlight so your clothes can dry faster."

Xiao Yeheng looked at her frail back. "That's not nec—"

Before he could finish, she'd pulled him upright, slung his arms around her shoulders, and stood up.

He was little more than skin and bones—not heavy—but she was already exhausted. Still, she managed to carry him several steps.

As she cradled his lower body, his half-ruined face flushed faintly red.

She laid him gently on a clean mat of straw she'd arranged where the sunlight reached. He sat down, and she collapsed beside him, completely drained.

Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead as she wiped them away with a sleeve.

In the sunlight, even with the pimples marring her face, she seemed strangely elegant… almost beautiful.

She turned and caught him staring.

"Is there something on my face?" she asked.

He composed himself and replied calmly, "There's straw in your hair."

She reached up but missed it.

He lifted his hand and plucked the little sliver of straw from her hair.

"Thank you," she said, nodding politely.

"No need," he muttered. The words were cold, but his heart disliked the distance her courtesy created.

Seeing he could barely sit upright, Yan Shuixin gently supported his back and helped him lie down.

His left leg throbbed with pain, but he had grown numb to it. Numb to everything, perhaps—joy, sorrow, even life itself.

And yet, when he felt her small hand at his back, a warmth rose in him that made his entire body tense, his heart quietly softening.

She had no idea what such a simple touch meant to him.

She dragged herself back to the wooden bed and lay down. Just before closing her eyes, she murmured, "Your Highness, all the straw's under you. Only the spot beneath you is dry. I'll sleep on the bed so I don't get sick. Don't think I'm being cruel—it's just that sunlight will help dry your pants. I promise I'm not mistreating you."

She had to make that clear. If he misunderstood her intentions after all the effort she'd poured into caring for him, wouldn't it be tragic?