Marido Tóxico Difícil de Domar: Princesa Astuta e Arrogante
Viajar para outro mundo e se tornar uma princesa? O palácio da princesa realmente abrigava setenta e dois servos? Todos os maridos traiçoeiros e venenosos da mansão eram figuras implacáveis! Ao acordar, Yun Qian Ge percebeu que as pessoas ao seu redor a olhavam como se fosse um tigre feroz. Então aquela princesa cruel, de aparência assustadora, era ela mesma? Isso não pode ser! Ela precisa recuperar sua aparência! E também restaurar sua reputação! Quando ela retornar em glória, sua presença eclipsará todo o brilho do mundo. No grande salão, diante de todos os oficiais civis e militares, quem era aquele que pressionou uma adaga contra seu pescoço longo e elegante: "Yun Qian Ge, o que eu não posso ter, você também não terá!" E, a cada noite, quando volta a sonhar, quem é que sussurra suavemente ao seu ouvido: "Ge’er, se você quiser este reino, eu abrirei um caminho de sangue para você."
Marido Tóxico Difícil de Domar: Princesa Astuta e Arrogante
Cold... so cold...
Her whole body felt as if it had just been pulled from a river, chilled to the bone. She had been shot in the heart by one of Wen Junyi’s subordinates. She should have died—so why did she feel as though she were still alive, and why did a relentless, icy coldness surge through her entire being?
“Your Highness, are you feeling better? Xiangcao, bring another quilt.” Amidst the noisy commotion around her, only the concerned voice of a middle-aged man at her side came through clearly. Something was draped over her, and warmth began to seep into her.
“Achoo!” Yun Qian’ge sneezed heavily and forced her eyes open. The moment she did, a man flung himself onto her, weeping with joy. “Your Highness, you’re finally awake! This old servant thought he’d never see you again.”
Xiangcao hurried forward with a cup of hot tea. “Yes, Your Highness, if you hadn’t woken up, my father would have cried for three days and nights.”
The woman before her was of unremarkable appearance, with an ordinary face. Her hair was tied back with a red ribbon, she wore a short jacket and long trousers, black boots on her feet, and a black sword at her waist—giving her a valiant, spirited look.
She glanced at the man who was sobbing as if he might soon cry himself breathless; he bore some resemblance to the woman, though he was far older. His hair was simply gathered up with a wooden comb, and his face—now streaked with tears—had lost much of its makeup, rouge and powder dropping off in little puffs.
Her surroundings, too—a carved grand bed, antiqu
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