M-Type Personality

A big question mark surfaced in Gu Chengyin's mind.

He suddenly felt that the direction things were taking had veered beyond his expectations.

Originally, he had only meant to scare Luo Zhao a little, to first break down her psychological defenses.

It was the usual tactic—maximum pressure, precise and efficient, stopping just short of going too far.

But Luo Zhao's reaction made Gu Chengyin, a master of such tactics, feel a sense of absurdity for the first time.

Her words were still echoing in his ears, every syllable hooked with barbs, tugging at his temples until they throbbed.

Gu Chengyin instinctively glanced down at his own hand.

He hadn't done anything. He hadn't touched her recklessly—he had simply pulled Luo Zhao into his embrace.

Had she misunderstood something?

Gu Chengyin fell silent, weighing his options.

Should he continue the maximum-pressure strategy as planned, or switch to a different approach?

But in the brief span of that deliberation, Luo Zhao in his arms underwent a subtle yet profound shift.

Her breathing grew quicker. Each inhale was deeper than the last, each exhale slower.

It was as if she were greedily drinking something in, or savoring something with meticulous care.

Her body was no longer stiff. When she had first leaned against him, she had been rigid all over.

Her spine had been strung taut like a drawn bow, every muscle coiled with tension.

But now, that stiffness was melting away, bit by bit.

Her back remained straight, yet it was no longer the straightness of guardedness—it was the straightness of expectancy.

Like a condemned prisoner on the execution ground, knowing the blade is about to fall, who stops struggling altogether.

She straightened her spine, waiting for that edge to descend upon her neck.

And Luo Zhao's neck, at this moment, was especially arresting.

That slender, fair column of her throat extended from her collar, catching the light with a warm, soft gleam.

Her chin tilted up slightly, as if she were offering her neck to a waiting hand.

There was no defensiveness in her posture, no resistance—only something close to devout offering.

As if that part of her body were not her most vulnerable spot, but a sacrifice she willingly presented.

The corner of Luo Zhao's mouth even curled up, just a little.

But that tiny curve made Gu Chengyin's heart sink.

Because it was not a smile of humiliation. It was not a self-deprecating smile. It was a smile filled with anticipation.

This royal highness was looking forward to something.

That realization struck Gu Chengyin like a thunderbolt, detonating in his mind.

He instinctively raised his hand, meaning to push her back slightly so he could see the expression on her face.

But when his hand rose, it did not land on her shoulder.

Instead, it drifted upward by a few inches, coming to rest on her neck.

Luo Zhao's neck was slender and delicate—Gu Chengyin's palm could nearly circle the whole of it.

He felt the warm skin beneath his fingertips, felt the pulse beating beneath that skin.

But he did not press down. He just rested his hand there lightly, as if the touch were unintentional.

Then Gu Chengyin clearly felt it: the moment his palm covered her neck, Luo Zhao's pulse quickened noticeably.

Not from nervousness—from excitement.

Her throat rolled beneath his palm, producing a small swallowing sound.

Her eyelashes trembled violently, like a butterfly’s final flap of its wings before death.

Her breathing turned deeper still, each inhale seeming to greedily drink in the warmth of his hand.

Each exhale seemed to release something from the depths of her chest.

Gu Chengyin's fingers tightened slightly—just a small movement, possibly an unconscious muscle reflex.

But the corner of Luo Zhao's mouth lifted again, and this time the curve was more pronounced than before.

Pronounced enough that Gu Chengyin could clearly see the smile begin at the corners of her lips.

Then spread, inch by inch, to her brow, tingeing her entire face with a look of near-intoxicating bliss.

There was no humiliation in that expression, no shame—only a happiness that made one’s scalp crawl.

Gu Chengyin's fingers froze, and a term surfaced in his mind.

Masochistic personality.

Love as a cage, pain as honey.

The more they are hurt, the more they believe they are being loved.

The more roughly they are treated, the more they take it as proof of the other's devotion.

The romantic worldview of a masochist is warped, built upon suffering.

Pain to them is not harm—it is nourishment, the only way they can confirm that they are loved.

And among the most common manifestations of this is a fascination with the feeling of being choked.

The neck is the most vulnerable part of the human body. To place one's neck in another's hands is, in itself, the ultimate act of trust and surrender.

For a masochistic personality, this surrender carries an even deeper meaning.

When the dominator's hand closes around the throat, when breathing becomes difficult, when consciousness begins to blur—

what the masochist feels is not fear, but the satisfaction of being utterly controlled.

In that moment, life is no longer in one's own hands, but in the dominator's.

The dominator can grant breath, or take it away.

That absolute control is precisely what they crave most.

Luo Zhao’s current state matched the symptoms of a masochistic personality to a tee.

But the problem was, the Luo Zhao from before had not been like this.

Though she had always been led by the nose in front of Gu Chengyin, though she had been flustered and red-faced time and again from his teasing—

Luo Zhao had always been a normal, proud, self-possessed crown princess.

She would grow annoyed at his jokes, angry at his tricks, flustered at his closeness.

But that annoyance, anger, and fluster were all perfectly normal reactions.

Not like this.

When her neck was seized, Luo Zhao's eyes lit up.

To her, this control was not a threat—it was something she had longed for but had never received.

When had it started?

Gu Chengyin's mind raced back through every moment he had spent with Luo Zhao.

Was it after that night when he bit her?

No—the Luo Zhao of that night, though she had developed some unnameable feelings for him, had still been normal.

She would avoid his gaze, blush when he brought up that night, but she had never shown any craving for the sensation of being choked.

Was it just now, in the courtyard?

No, not that either.

Just now, in the courtyard, when he used her as a teaching example for Lin Qingyan and Gu Xiaoli,

her reaction had been anger, resentment—a wish to bite him again.

That reaction, though fierce, had still been normal.

Then when had it started?

The light of happiness in Luo Zhao's eyes—only she knew when it had kindled.

It was the moment Gu Chengyin pulled her into his embrace.

When his arm circled her shoulder, when his presence enveloped her entirely, when his chest pressed against her back—

the carefully sealed door at the depths of her soul burst wide open.

All the memories of the past surged forth like a flood, drowning her whole being.