Chapter 14

Ri Cheol-joon ruled by ensuring resistance felt fatal. Anyone who defied him—or showed the slightest hint of defiance—was crushed until recovery was unimaginable. He possessed a demonic instinct for identifying an individual’s specific terror. For some, it was amputation; for others, public degradation; for others still, a hostage taken from their family. The instrument varied; the subjugation remained absolute.

Jinseong had been young, fiercely stubborn, and devoted to his people. Cheol-joon quickly learned that beatings yielded nothing; under physical torture, Jinseong’s dark eyes simply glazed over with a hollow readiness to die. So Cheol-joon changed tactics: pitch darkness, starvation, and his mother’s safety. If one snare failed, he constructed another around it.

“Please open the door. Please. I was wrong. I’m hungry. I’m sorry.”

“I was wrong. Please don’t touch my mother. I’ll do whatever you say.”

Jinseong knew he was trapped in a nightmare, yet he pleaded regardless. Kneeling before the windowless iron door that never unlocked, he rubbed his palms raw against the rust. He despised the dark. He despised the freezing air. Most of all, he loathed the starvation and the way time dissolved into a black void—no day, no night, no way to tell how long he had been there or whether the living world still turned. Not a sliver of light penetrated the steel. It was like being buried alive.

“Please open the door. I was wrong. I’m sorry…”

He hammered against the slab until his fingernails tore, promising total submission. Nothing answered. Only his own weeping echoed back from the metal, until the illusion convinced him he was the last creature breathing on earth, and he sobbed like a broken child.

“Jinseong.” Yeonjung’s voice drifted through the void. Sniffling, Jinseong turned toward the sound.

“Jinseong.” Her voice was close enough to touch. Jinseong reached out blindly, and long fingers slid securely between his own. Yeonjung. It has to be. Clinging to the hand with all his strength, he pulled it against his chest.

“Jinseong. It’s flowers.” A clean floral scent drifted through the dream. Jinseong inhaled deeply, finding the fragrance strongest around the skin he held, and pressed his nose into the warm palm.

“You know… you have a strange way of getting a man worked up.” A sleep-heavy voice rasped directly beside his ear.

The heat at the nape of his neck was far too visceral for a dream. Jinseong’s eyes flew open. The presence behind him possessed solid mass, body heat, and breath washing over his skin. Looking down, Jinseong discovered his fingers interlaced with a broad, calloused hand far too massive to belong to Yeonjung. The scent from the dream rose directly from the skin beneath his nose. This scent… is familiar? Jinseong bolted upright.

The plastic ties around his wrists arrested his momentum, leaving him propped awkwardly on his elbows. He twisted around to find Yi-jae watching him through half-lidded eyes, a crooked smirk playing over his lips. Bare-chested and lounging against the pillows, the Alpha looked infuriatingly relaxed.

Faint morning light seeped around the heavy blackout drapes. This was not the sofa. Jinseong’s gaze dropped from Yi-jae’s amused expression to the long arm that had served as his pillow, and finally to the fingers he had clutched all night. The missing hours fell into place: he had slept soundly in the Alpha’s arms, nuzzling into his hand like an affectionate pet. Mortification scalded him from his neck to the roots of his hair.

“…”

“Look at you. Anyone would think I’d done something terrible,” Yi-jae remarked, sounding almost wounded. Hooking his arm around Jinseong’s waist, he pulled the rigid youth back down.

Jinseong stiffened and fought the hold, but Yi-jae ignored the resistance entirely. After a fearful glance at the man’s expression, Jinseong yielded.

“From now on, sleep in the bed even when I’m not here.” Yi-jae buried his nose into Jinseong’s nape, inhaling his scent. Whatever conclusions he reached remained unspoken; voicing them would likely terrify the boy. When the body in his arms remained tense as an iron bar, Yi-jae grazed his teeth lightly against the nape in silent reprimand. The resistance evaporated instantly. Satisfied, Yi-jae pulled him closer, tracing the line from his ear down to his collarbone.

“…”

“…”

Jinseong closed his eyes and opened them again. There was no telling when those dry breaths might turn carnal. He couldn’t comprehend this man’s fixation on his neck, but rising dread coiled in his chest. There should have been no scent at all, yet Yi-jae acted as though he were tracking something—no, as though he had caught the scent—and that certainty stoked Jinseong’s panic. Should I break away right now and swallow another pill?

“Let’s sleep two more hours.”

“…”

“If you aren’t tired, we can pick up where we left off yesterday.”

Jinseong squeezed his eyes shut so hard his lashes twitched. Resting his bound wrists over his chest, he lay flat on his back, instantly feigning death.

“You wound me…” Yi-jae murmured. Shifting his weight, he pressed flush against Jinseong’s side, sliding an arm beneath his neck and pulling him so close that no air remained between them. Steady, warm breaths washed over Jinseong’s ear.

“…”

Jinseong checked his breathing as his nostrils flared involuntarily. Why was his sense of smell growing sharper by the hour? Was the Alpha deliberately releasing pheromones? If so, why? Did he suspect something?

“I told you to sleep…” Yi-jae whispered. At the low warning, Jinseong froze completely, and before long, rhythmic breathing tickled his skin.

For someone who had lived through relentless terror, uninterrupted sleep was a luxury beyond measure. The man’s proximity bothered him only briefly; soon, exhaustion pulled Jinseong under.

* * *

When he finally woke to the sound of sharp knocking, he was alone in the vast king-sized bed. As he stared blearily at the door, the polite tapping escalated into furious banging. Hauling himself upright, Jinseong unlatched the lock.

Jeongwoo stood in the hallway, his thick brows knotted in a fierce scowl. “Eat your damn food, you parasite.”

“…”

Jinseong wanted to retort that he was no parasite, but he held his tongue and trailed behind him. Calling an asset scheduled to cook billions of won worth of elite narcotics a parasite felt profoundly unjust.

Pouting slightly, he reached the dining room. At the sight of the home-cooked spread, Jinseong’s eyes widened. The table was covered in seasoned mountain greens, braised beef, and side dishes glistening with sesame oil. Jeongwoo muttered a string of curses as he sliced through the plastic cable ties with a box cutter.

“Thank you. I’ll eat well,” Jinseong murmured, dropping into a chair and eagerly shoveling rice into his mouth.

Halfway through his bowl, the electronic lock chimed. Sijin entered carrying a taped cardboard box. Jinseong’s eyes lit up; it was the box of books from Grandpa Ho. Still chewing, his gaze tracked the container with ravenous intensity.

Sijin set the box on the marble island, catching the look. “Boss says to read these and keep yourself busy.”

Jeongwoo crossed his arms, curling his lip. “Little fucking parasite. Living like a king.”

“Excuse me…” Watching Sijin fan his shirt collar to cool down, Jinseong cautiously spoke up, plucking a stray grain of rice from his chin. When both men turned toward him, he ducked his head, fidgeting. “You need to buy a lottery ticket today.”

“…?” Sijin’s eyes widened, pointing a finger at his own chest. “Me?”

Jinseong blinked, his dark pupils trembling. Hovering above Sijin’s temple was the pale, shimmering text he had noticed as the man walked through the doorway:

[Lottery win. Third place.]

“Could you buy Jae-wook something small for me?” Jinseong added softly, picking up a fallen grain of rice. “Tell him I’m sorry. I only did it because I had someone I needed to protect, too.”

His gaze drifted past them, fixing on the empty air. In those unfocused eyes, the memory of his mother and Yeonjung lingered like ghosts. Watching the sudden melancholy drain the appetite from the boy’s face, Sijin offered a silent shrug and stepped away.

Once the guards retreated, a heavy silence settled over the suite. Jinseong limped eagerly toward the box. Full, safe, and armed with literature—with no one watching him. His pulse quickened with forgotten joy. Could he ever have imagined such peace? Guilt toward his mother and Yeonjung pricked his conscience, but surviving without breaking was the best he could offer them.

The carton contained over twenty volumes spanning history, pharmacology, philosophy, and classic fiction. Pure happiness surged through his chest, and he covered his mouth to suppress an involuntary smile.

He pulled the first volume—a red-bound novel—and sprawled across the long sofa on his stomach. By the third book, Sijin brought dinner. Jinseong ate quickly and dove back into the pages. Except for bathroom breaks, the text consumed him entirely.

“…”

He closed the sixth book with a quiet thud. His cramped joints ached pleasantly. The digital clock read nearly midnight; he had read for twelve unbroken hours. Rubbing his stiff lower back, he was thoroughly content.

With the books set aside, thoughts of escape returned. Jinseong surveyed the sleek designer kitchen for potential weapons, finding only rounded edges and child-safe drawers. Baek Yi-jae had stripped the suite of hazards. Jinseong would have to outthink him.

“Whoa…” Rounding the corridor, he stumbled into a private lounge featuring a polished mahogany wine bar and, beyond floor-to-ceiling glass, an illuminated infinity pool suspended over the city skyline. Having spent his youth in squalid concrete rooms reeking of solvent and decay, the view left him breathless.

Pressing his forehead against the cold glass, he watched ripples shimmer across the pool before looking down at the street. The dizzying drop immediately ruled out the balcony as an exit route. He turned back toward the wine racks, his eyes narrowing.

“Wine, huh…” A shattered bottle made a lethal blade. A broken wine glass was nearly as dangerous.

Yet the plan collapsed upon conception. Unless he delivered an instantly fatal strike, Yi-jae would disarm him in seconds. Jeongwoo watched him like a hawk, and Sijin was entirely unreadable; a crude glass shank would only buy him a beating. He could already picture the aftermath: pinned to the carpet, dragged back by his hair, Yi-jae smiling pleasantly before fulfilling his promise to break both his legs. Cold sweat prickled his spine. Escape required two working legs; whatever happened, his mobility was non-negotiable.

“Couldn’t you show me something useful like a weakness instead of lottery results?” he muttered to the empty room. He resented his unpredictable ability. Occasionally the floating script provided life-saving leverage, but just as often it offered useless trivia. Not once had the words revealed an escape path or reported what was unfolding back at Gold Class.

* * *