Chapter 17

“The little bastard told me himself! Said he was running an errand for a customer and grabbed the lost phone.”

Yi-jae’s dark gaze shifted slowly over the man’s shoulder, locking onto Jinseong. Caught beneath that heavy, unreadable stare, Jinseong instinctively looked down at the carpet.

So the obedient little stray had been plotting behind his back after all.

For a split second, an absurd thought crossed Jinseong’s mind: Should I grab the phone and dial now? Would hearing Yeonjung’s voice once before I’m beaten to death be worth it?

“Jinseong. Take out the phone.” As though he had plucked the thought right out of the boy’s head, Yi-jae spoke the command in an even, level tone.

Jinseong obeyed on instinct, retrieving the device and laying it on the low table. Yi-jae glanced at the phone, murmuring under his breath, “How the hell did he find that…?”

The addict, furious at being treated like background noise, finally swung a vicious right hook. “You cocky bastard, you think I’m a joke—?!”

“No.”

Yi-jae slipped smoothly outside the arc of the punch, his left hand catching a heavy crystal liquor bottle by the neck from the credenza. In one seamless, effortless motion, he smashed the glass directly across the man’s temple.

The strike was so effortless it seemed inevitable. The bottle detonated into a shower of sparkling shards and amber fluid. The man let out a high-pitched shriek, his legs folding beneath him as he crashed face-first onto the carpet, dark crimson blood flooding down his hairline. As the dazed brute tried to scramble away on all fours, Yi-jae stepped forward and delivered a crisp, sickening kick to his jaw with the polished toe of his oxford.

“Jinseong.” Yi-jae watched the man writhe and moan on the floor with chilling detachment. “How much did you take?”

“…” Jinseong finally processed the question through the ringing in his ears. Fumbling into his breast pocket with numb, clumsy fingers, he pulled out the crumpled wad of cash. Yi-jae had just dismantled, with terrifying casualness, a man Jinseong had been entirely powerless to fight off. He had known the executive was lethal; witnessing how little effort it required was something else entirely. The depth of the grave Jinseong had dug for himself yawned open before him. His fingertips trembled.

“One mil… million won…”

“A million won, and he thought he owned the room.”

The bleeding man groaned, pushed onto his knees, and tried to lunge forward once more. Yi-jae kept both hands buried lazily in his trouser pockets, took a half-step to the side, and drove a precise, vicious kick straight into the exposed ribs beneath the cocked fist. The addict folded in half, vomiting onto the carpet.

“After all the trouble I went through wrapping him up in silk,” Yi-jae mused, his voice dripping with smooth disdain.

“…”

“And he tries to unwrap him for that pathetic pocket change. Truly ridiculous.” The tone sounded bored, but the dark, murderous current simmering beneath the surface was unmistakable. Yi-jae cast one final look of contempt at the heap on the floor, then turned his gaze fully upon Jinseong.

Jinseong sat frozen on the sofa, his knees pulled defensively to his chest. The immaculate young gentleman Yi-soo had styled an hour ago was gone. Jinseong’s lip was split, his jaw scratched raw, his suit rumpled, and his dark hair disheveled. Yi-jae took in every bruise and tear, then stepped forward, bending close enough that his scent swallowed Jinseong entirely.

“So you like playing in private rooms like this?”

“…”

The lazy amusement on Yi-jae’s mouth sharpened into a razor-thin, freezing line. “Fine. Let’s play.”

A jolt of sheer dread shot through Jinseong’s spine. Ignoring it, Yi-jae straightened, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number. Without looking back, he held an open hand behind his waist.

Jinseong blinked twice at the broad palm before understanding; he leaned forward and placed the stack of banknotes into his fingers.

Yi-jae bent over the groaning man and shoved the bloody bills back into his designer jacket pocket. “My deepest apologies. Allow my men to escort you somewhere far more accommodating.”

Within thirty seconds, the door swung open, and four burly men in charcoal suits entered, bowing in unison with military precision.

“Get the staff in here. Have this table reset,” Yi-jae commanded, waving a dismissive hand.

The enforcers seized the half-conscious addict by his collar and hauled him out like a sack of garbage. Waiters and bussers flooded the parlor immediately, scrubbing away the blood, sweeping up the shattered crystal, clearing the soiled fruit platters, and erasing every trace of violence within minutes. The floor manager stood near the door, cold sweat soaking his collar as he bowed repeatedly.

“Or perhaps Master Baek would prefer I escort you to the VIP suite on the top floor?” the manager stammered.

“No. I’ll have my entertainment right here.”

There was no practical reason to remain in this specific room. That, Jinseong realized with rising panic, was precisely why Yi-jae insisted on staying. Fresh bottles of single malt whiskey, clear ice spheres, and ornate fruit platters were delivered; the staff bowed themselves out in reverent silence, and the heavy door sealed shut.

Yi-jae sat on the sofa right beside him. Jinseong flinched, shrinking back into the cushions. Neither said a word.

The clear clink of ice echoed in the stillness as Yi-jae poured a generous measure of amber liquor into a heavy rocks glass. Setting the bottle down, he cast a lazy glance at the carpet right beside his polished shoes.

“Kneel here.”

The floor. Of course. The directive was absolute. Jinseong slid off the sofa and knelt on the velvet carpet directly at Yi-jae’s feet, his spine rigid. A crystal glass appeared an inch before his face.

The whiskey smelled of rich oak and harsh, high-proof alcohol. Jinseong masked his revulsion, took the heavy tumbler in both hands, and held it as Yi-jae tapped his own glass against the rim. The crystal chime rang with bright, ominous clarity through the silent room.

Jinseong hesitated, the liquor trembling in his grip. Yi-jae raised his glass, fixing him with a steady, unblinking stare over the edge. Jinseong had his answer.

“…”

Jinseong drank. The ice knocked against his bruised lip, sending a sharp sting through his jaw. Yi-jae waited patiently until Jinseong swallowed the final drop, then took a single, unhurried sip from his own glass.

The whiskey scorched Jinseong’s throat like molten copper, then struck his nearly empty stomach with explosive force. Jinseong pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, desperately fighting the urge to retch. On a stomach that had seen nothing but light sushi hours ago, a single tumbler was enough to make the room tilt on its axis. Yi-jae picked up the bottle, refilled the glass to the brim, and held it out once more. Jinseong’s blood ran cold. He’s going to drink me to death.

“What are you waiting for?” Yi-jae asked softly.

The mild, pleasant tone was far more terrifying than a shout. Jinseong swallowed the bitter acid rising in his throat and drained the second tumbler in two desperate, burning gulps.

“Khh…” His throat felt as though it had been flayed with wire. Jinseong rubbed his neck with trembling fingers as he returned the empty glass. Yi-jae, by contrast, swirled his ice in leisurely circles, merely wetting his lips. The humiliating contrast was unmistakably deliberate.

“Have you been well?” Yi-jae asked casually, as though they were two old friends catching up over drinks.

“Yes.”

Yi-jae tipped the bottle and poured a third glass. Jinseong seized the brief opening to speak before another command could fall.

“I read all the books you gave me. I’ve been eating properly, and I took my medicine every day. My foot’s much better, too. Walking barely hurts anymore. It’s all thanks to you, Master.”

Yi-jae reached out and delivered a sharp flick right between Jinseong’s brows. The physical sting was minor, but Jinseong’s heart plummeted into his ribs. “You could at least try to sound like you mean it when you call me ‘Master’,” Yi-jae said smoothly.

“…”

The words sounded like affectionate banter, but the cold calculation behind Yi-jae’s dark eyes was razor-sharp.

“I’m sorry,” Jinseong blurted, completely unsure which offense he was apologizing for.

The alcohol detonated into a roaring furnace, rushing up from Jinseong’s gut and flooding straight into his skull. This is bad. The room had already begun to sway in slow, sickening waves when Yi-jae spoke the single word.

“Drink.”

Jinseong forced down the third glass under that unwavering, merciless gaze. Violent nausea surged up his chest. I’m going to throw up. He broke into a muffled coughing fit, glanced nervously at Yi-jae, coughed again, and swallowed down the sour bile burning his throat. His pale cheeks were turning a bright, feverish crimson. They were alone and barely speaking, yet a swarm of invisible wasps seemed to buzz inside Jinseong’s ears. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy. He blinked several times against the blur, his upper body slowly listing toward the cushions of the sofa.

No amount of stubborn willpower could counteract three glasses of high-proof whiskey on an empty stomach. Drunkenness had soaked down to his very fingertips, rendering them numb. He kept stroking the hollow of his throat as though he could physically rub the fire out of his chest.

Yi-jae poured a fourth glass with the same steady, deliberate hand. Jinseong forced his heavy head upward. The chandelier overhead drifted in slow, rhythmic circles, matching the amber vortex of liquor in the glass.

“I don’t want to…” Jinseong mumbled, his tongue thick and uncooperative.

“…What don’t you want?” Yi-jae asked, tilting his head with quiet curiosity.

“That.”

Yi-jae let out a dry, quiet snort and extended the glass toward his chest. Right. He really does intend to drown me in alcohol. Jinseong reached out and accepted the tumbler in both hands, an expression of quiet, miserable doom washing over his flushed face.

“Ah.”

Jinseong held the glass like a prisoner awaiting the firing squad. Suddenly, a plump, pale green muscat grape appeared directly in front of his lips. Before his fractured dignity could protest, his mouth parted on instinct. Yi-jae’s long finger followed the fruit inside, pressing briefly against Jinseong’s wet tongue before pulling away. The cool, sweet juice slid into Jinseong’s burning stomach, stirring an immediate, ravenous hunger. He wanted another instantly. Jinseong lowered the whiskey glass onto his knees and looked up at Yi-jae with undisguised longing. Yi-jae stared back at him in genuine disbelief.

“Jinseong,” Yi-jae murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Can’t you see that your master is angry?”

“…I know. I’m sorry.” Jinseong’s chin dipped toward his collar, then laboriously lifted again.

“You’re apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong,” Yi-jae pointed out, his voice smooth and remorseless.

“…” Jinseong clamped his lips shut, keeping his head down and staring intently at the polished leather of the Alpha’s shoes.

Yi-jae nudged the side of the boy’s knee with his oxford. “Drink.”

“…”

Jinseong pouted faintly, his lips puffing out as he raised the heavy glass. If I refuse, he’ll kill me. Drinking any more felt equally suicidal. He attempted to take the smallest possible sip, but the concentrated bitterness triggered another violent coughing fit before he could finish swallowing. Nausea surged in tandem. He dragged the heel of his palm across his wet chin, wiping away the spilled drops. So dizzy…

Jinseong could barely hold himself upright. His head tilted helplessly, resting against the edge of the velvet sofa.

Yi-jae let out a quiet sigh, took a deep, measured swallow from his own tumbler, and tried to avert his eyes. Yet his gaze kept returning to the dazed, flushed youth rubbing his cheek against the upholstery. Irritation tightened the line of his jaw.

“What the fuck is so pretty about a brat who was just sucking another man’s cock?” Yi-jae muttered under his breath.

Jinseong forced his chin up. “I didn’t suck him,” he mumbled, his voice slurred and petulant.

Like hell you didn’t. Yi-jae’s brow furrowed as the image flashed through his mind again: Jinseong pinned on his back, his mouth open before another man’s groin, whether coerced or not. The visual scratched at something raw and possessive deep in his chest. Dealing with the scum responsible was trivial—break his skull, bury him, forget it. Lee Jinseong was proving to be a far more dangerous puzzle.

Yi-jae had never spent this much time savoring anyone. In his world, desire was an immediate transaction, never a slow, patient curiosity. Yet with Jinseong, he found himself pausing to watch every minor reaction, as though each response were another piece of a delicate, intricate puzzle. He had even transformed his anger into this protracted drinking game simply because the boy’s drunken, unguarded expressions were fascinating. And now the brat dared to argue technicalities.

“Take off your shoes and get up here,” Yi-jae ordered.

Jinseong scrambled to obey, clambering onto the sofa cushions and fumbling clumsily with his laces. One leather shoe stubbornly refused to come off, so he kicked his foot repeatedly until it flew across the carpet. Before he could start on his socks, Yi-jae caught him by the arm and pulled with effortless strength.

The room spun. In a heartbeat, Jinseong found himself straddling Yi-jae’s lap, his knees braced on either side of the Alpha’s thighs. He blinked in utter confusion at the few inches separating their faces. And then… that scent.