Chapter 3

The room I was in wasn't my usual one.

It was Chloe's.

That afternoon, my stepmother had called me over, held my hand, and spoke with rare gentleness:

"Aria, tonight during the capture, you stay in Chloe's room. Your room is too quiet—the capture group won't find it easily."

"Those thugs coming for Chloe are troublemakers."

"You've always been tough since childhood, can take a beating. Not like Chloe with her delicate constitution—if she got hurt by accident, it would be terrible."

I said nothing.

I knew what she meant.

According to village tradition, during bride snatchings, the groom's brothers would charge in first to "seize the bride."

The woman had to resist, struggle, fight desperately to prevent being carried away—this was called "blocking the door."

The harder you blocked, the fiercer you fought, the more precious the girl was considered.

The harder the groom's side had to fight to carry her away.

Those punches and shoves would land on you for real.

My stepmother sighed, acting as though sharing her deepest thoughts.

She studied my expression, testing the waters: "Besides, Ethan's from the city—he's not familiar with our customs. If you stay in this room by the entrance, he won't have to search the whole courtyard."

Back then, wanting to make things easier for Ethan, I'd agreed.

I'd even sent him a message with my room's location.

But who knew—they'd been planning this switch all along.

Outside, a louder commotion suddenly erupted.

Someone shouted: "Got her! Got the bride!"

People laughed, people cheered, firecrackers crackled and popped.

I listened but didn't move.

I knew who they'd captured.

I could even picture the scene—

Ethan carrying Chloe on his back, stumbling through the crowd.

His brothers flanking them protectively.

Someone deliberately blocking their path, people throwing things at them.

Chloe burying her face against his back, pretending to struggle a few times.

How wonderful.

I lowered my eyes, refusing to look.

Before long, my room door burst open.

A group of people surged into the darkness, their footsteps heavy and chaotic.

Someone grabbed my arm. Multiple hands came at me roughly.

I felt fists landing on my shoulders and back—not too light, not too heavy—the ritual of blocking the door.

The harder you hit the bride, the more the bride's family treasured her, the harder the groom's side had to fight.

I didn't dodge or resist.

I let them push and shove, let them drag me from the chair, let those fists fall.

At first it seemed like going through the motions, but quickly, the shoving changed its nature.

Someone pinned my arm and slammed me against the wall. Someone pounded my waist with punch after punch.

The force was vicious and deliberate, nothing like the ritual of blocking the door.

This was intentional.

It hurt, but I made no sound.

I understood now what my stepmother meant by "tough since childhood."

Just as I expected more to come, someone shielded me: "Enough."

An unfamiliar voice, laced with anger.

He blocked me, using his arm to push back those still surging forward:

"You done yet? Hitting her this hard—she's a person, not a punching bag."

Someone laughed sheepishly in explanation: "It's tradition. The harder you block, the more precious the girl—"

"What tradition?" His voice rose sharply. "Easy for you to say when it's not your wife. If someone beat your wife like this, would you just stand there watching?"

Silence fell around us.

He glanced back at me. In the dim light I couldn't make out his face, only a vague outline.

Then he bent down and lifted me onto his back.

Behind us, someone muttered: "Where'd this hothead come from? It's a bride snatching—why's he taking it so seriously..."

Carrying me on his back, he strode outside with long steps.

People chased behind us. People deliberately blocked the path. People threw things at us.

His steps were steady, his pace quick.

One hand gripped my legs firmly, afraid I'd fall.

When we crossed the first ridge, he stopped to catch his breath.

In the distance, firelight moved faintly—the other capture group.

Through the bushes, their laughter drifted over indistinctly.

Soon, that group drew near.

The firelight flickered, illuminating several faces.

The man in front carried a girl on his back, running until he was covered in sweat, but smiling nonetheless.

It was Ethan.

Chloe buried her face in his shoulder, arms circling his neck.

They were laughing, teasing each other.

The brothers following behind chanted: "Kiss! Kiss!"

I lay on the stranger's back, watching quietly as they approached.

The firelight swept across my face.

Ethan's gaze passed over, pausing on my face for an instant.

Just an instant.

His eyes swept past, continuing his banter with his brothers.

Chloe clung to Ethan's back, saying something sweetly. Ethan turned his head to listen, his smile devastatingly tender.

I suddenly remembered three years ago when I'd returned to the village to visit my father.

The first time he came to the village to find me, he'd worn that same smile.

That day he'd crossed two mountains.

His shoes worn through, his heels bleeding.

I'd asked, "Don't your feet hurt?"

He scratched his head, grinning: "Hurt? For my wife, I'm happy to do it."

A privileged young master accustomed to being waited on, yet willing to trek through these deep mountain forests for me.

He always said the distance wasn't far.

But I knew—from town to the village, the bus only went to the mountain's foot. The rest of the way had to be walked.

Once when it rained, he stood at the courtyard gate soaked through, but the sweets tucked inside his jacket were still dry.

I'd called him foolish, coming in the rain.

He pressed the sweets into my hands, smiling: "I was afraid you'd get impatient waiting."

Afraid I'd get impatient.

Holding those sweets, looking at his rain-soaked hair, I'd thought: This man, for the rest of my life.

But now, carrying Chloe on his back, he smiled exactly the same way.

My vision blurred for a moment, then cleared again.

When did things start to change?