They fell to the floor together. Ren’s ears were ringing.

He looked up and saw Cilian already pulling out his own gun from his holster in his coat. Cilian’s hand was steady, even though his shoulder was bleeding through his suit. He was still smiling, though it looked more like a snarl now.

He fired his gun twice, and in a second, a body fell from the rafters and hit the concrete floor below with a loud thud. He had such a terrifying precision, even when using a Glock to aim at someone from such a height.

He was living up to his words when he said, Someone has to pay for his blood spilled. There was no way he’d let the man who shot him live.

No need for an interrogation; he already had a clue who was behind this, who was aiming to use Ren to get to him. A smart but dangerous move. How dare they aim for his Ren?

Cilian sat against the railing. He was pale and breathing hard, but he looked at Ren with those curved fox eyes. He didn’t look at his arm. He grabbed Ren’s chin with his good hand.

"Are you hurt?" Cilian asked, his voice still trying to be light.

Ren stared at him. He looked at the blood on his own cheek. It was Cilian’s blood.

"Oh dear, did it get on you?" Cilian asked as he used his hand to brush the blood off, but he only ended up smearing it. He looked proud of the smear, though. Only his blood looked good on Ren, he thought.

"You..." Ren opened his mouth to speak, but then pressed his lips together to purse them. "You jumped in front of me. Why?"

Cilian’s face was white, but he was still smiling. It was a bloody, tight smile. He did not answer Ren’s question. He felt he didn’t need to. Was there a reason to throw himself in front of a bullet to save Ren? Well, he could think of a hundred, but he doubted Ren would like to hear all of it.

And he did not have the leisure of doing so either. Not while he was bleeding like this.

"Stay behind me next time, hm, Ren?" Cilian said, his voice a soft command but also a silent plea.

Ren couldn’t get it. He just couldn’t no matter how hard he thought about it. Wasn’t this the same man who burned his family name to the ground? Wasn’t this the same man who had Toby locked in a confinement of a boarding school and using his life to control him?

Wasn’t this the man whom he hated?

So then why...?

He pursed his lips, lowering his head, and then he felt Cilian’s hand caress his cheek. He didn’t look up. He refused to look up and pity this man. He deserved more than this.

The guards were running around, making sure to check every nook and cranny in case there were more of them.

"You’ll die if you don’t stop the bleeding." He suddenly muttered, which took Cilian aback. Then he chuckled,

"Won’t you be glad then? After all, your life’s mission is to kill me."

"That’s right. I need to kill you, not anyone else. So you’re not allowed to before I find a way to." Cilian looked into Ren’s eyes, and this time, too, he found him cute, even as he talked about being the one to kill him.

"Then I guess I have to live a lot longer. I’ll look forward to the day you can, Ren." He said, his light tone sounding very eerie, looking at Ren with eyes a shot man shouldn’t be making.

Cilian finally stood up, leaning his weight on Ren.

"Lock the doors," He ordered, his voice still melodic despite the pain. "And when you find that broker, get him to the basement. I want to talk to him when I get back. And clean up the body before it attracts more flies."

As they walked to the car, Ren felt Cilian’s heavy body leaning on him. He realized Cilian wasn’t just obsessed with owning him. He was obsessed with keeping him alive, even if he had to get shot to do it. And the talk about him looking forward to the day Ren could kill him made the entire thing seem even more sketchy.

How was he going to interpret this psychotic bastard’s behavior?

The drive back to the mansion was unnervingly quiet. Cilian sat heavily in the corner of the seat, his face white, but that thin, airy smile never left his lips. He looked like a porcelain doll that had been cracked. Blood continued to soak through his jacket, dripping onto the leather seat, but he didn’t seem to notice the pain.

His right hand remained locked around Ren’s wrist, his thumb tracing the pulse there with a rhythmic, fluttering pressure.

"You’re shaking, Ren," Cilian whispered, his voice light as a breeze, his head resting on Ren’s head. "Is it the blood?"

Ren didn’t answer. He couldn’t stop looking at the red staining on Cilian’s white shirt. His own heart was thudding against his ribs, a frantic, messy beat that contrasted with Cilian’s eerie stillness.

When they reached the estate, the guards rushed forward, but Cilian simply raised his good hand, waving them off with a playful tilt of his head. "No doctors today, boys. I think I’d prefer a more personal touch."

He leaned his weight on Ren again as they walked through the foyer. Ren could feel the heat radiating from Cilian—a feverish, sweet warmth that smelled of sharp frost and iron. They reached the master suite, and Cilian sank into his armchair, looking up at Ren with eyes that were glassy but bright.

"Get the kit from the bathroom, dear. And the silver knife from the nightstand," Cilian hummed, his tone as casual as if he were asking for a glass of water.

Ren moved quickly, though he felt clumsy since he was searching places he wasn’t familiar with. He returned with the medical supplies and stood between Cilian’s legs. He felt the weight of Cilian’s gaze on him—a heavy, possessive stare that tracked every breath he took.

Ren slid the knife into the seam of the ruined suit jacket, slicing through the expensive shirt with the blade. As the fabric fell away, it revealed the squeezing, angry hole in Cilian’s shoulder.

"Why didn’t you let the doctor do this?" Ren asked.