The punch was powerful. A solid, unexpected pain assaulted his flesh and teeth as the taste of blood filled his mouth.
Ling Qing swayed, staggering for a moment.
It wasn't from the pain, but from the shock.
Ling Qing never imagined Jiang Qingli would hit him.
He was even more stunned when, after landing the punch, Jiang Qingli rubbed her hand with a helpless sigh. "I really didn't want to do that," she said, "but you just had to get in my face."
'He got in her face?'
Ling Qing took a deep breath, feeling as if his lungs were on fire.
Ling Qing touched his own face, his expression dark. Flames danced in his gray-green eyes.
He gritted his teeth. "Jiang Qingli," he spat, enunciating every word, "do you dare say that after how you used to pester me? As if you didn't throw yourself at me constantly?"
The old Jiang Qingli didn't just "throw herself at him"—she had no shame, no principles whatsoever.
