C45 - Soul-ed MATE

Yoongi refuses pain medicine during the stitches, the only sign of pain his eyes darkening to bronze.

Namjoon holds out a small pile of pills. “Antibiotics.”

A frown. “I don’t need medicine.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “You can’t even let your guard down for a motherfcuking second.”

Yoongi glances at me, his golden eyes bright with promise. “Not if I can help it.”

Worry makes my stomach turn. He’ll run himself to the ground like this, refusing medical attention, putting himself into danger to protect me.

I put my hand on his arm. “If you get an infection, you won’t be any use to anyone.”

His eyes narrow like he wants to refuse. Instead, he takes the medicine and swallows them dry.

“Now go lie down,” Namjoon says, sounding surly. “And don’t fcuking argue.”

Yoongi stands, his large body swaying before I move to support him. The air rushes from my lungs as I realize how much of his body is pure muscle.

My own legs shake as I help him over to a long brown sofa, the leather crinkled and worn.

He collapses on the soft leather. “You fcuker,” he says, voice slurred.

“Stubborn,” Namjoon says, a look of dark satisfaction on his face.

Golden eyes disappear beneath heavy lids.

“You slipped in pain medicine,” I say, torn between relief and guilt.

Guilt, because he wouldn’t have taken any pills if I hadn’t urged him to.

Namjoon shrugs. “He would kill himself to stay awake.”

Yoongi’s large body lies faceup, one knee up, the other foot on the floor. He still wears the dress pants from dinner, a black belt across his abs. Tan skin stretches over ridged muscles.

The blood has been cleaned from his skin, leaving only a small line of stitches on his shoulder.

Anxiety strums through me. “He’ll be okay, though, won’t he?”

“If he rests,” Namjoon says with a low growl. He gathers his supplies with rigid order and disappears without another word.

I turn back to Yoongi, nonplussed to find myself alone with him.

His lips have kissed so many places on my body. Those large hands have touched me everywhere, but I’ve never really examined him.

He has never let me.

The realization hits me with a dark sense of betrayal. He exposed his secrets to me, portioning them out like breadcrumbs. But when it came to sex, he held me down, he turned me around. He subsumed me in pleasure, rendering me boneless and satiated.

I climb onto his body, my knees split over his hips.

Guilt twinges inside me. He would never let me do this if he were awake. He would be hard and thrusting, his hands wrapped around my waist, flipping me over.

Instead, I rest my palms over the flat of his stomach, positioning myself where I can study him.

A lock of mahogany-brown hair falls onto his forehead. Lashes rest against his cheek. Yoongi’s eyes have an intensity that always captivates me. So, it’s a novel experience to look at him with his eyes closed, like reclaiming my power.

I know he’d hate to be vulnerable like this, unable to protect me, unable to shield himself from my curiosity.

I touch my forefinger to the taut skin of his stomach. His muscles ripple beneath my touch, hyperaware even when he’s asleep. The skin is smoother than I expect, smoother than it feels when he pounds into me, his body hard around me.

I trail my finger along the valley of his abs to his broad chest.

Higher, higher.

 To the smooth skin of his chin, to the soft pad of his bottom lip.

My gaze lifts to find his eyes slitted open. “How do you feel?” I whisper.

“Like flipping you over,” he says, his voice like gravel.

“You’re in no shape to do that,” I say, alarmed.

It would be just like him to do it anyway. Even though he doesn’t look capable of it. Even though he’d probably rip his stitches out even trying.

“Don’t...look like her,” he mumbles.

Surprise clenches my stomach. Everyone knows I look like my mother. So much that no one noticed that her portrait had been swapped out for a new painting of me, an elaborate and quietly terrifying threat.

Kim Yongdae succeeded in breaking my mother, but it seems like he won’t be content until he has me too.

“A little different from her,” I answer, uncertain.

There are slight differences to our appearance, besides the clothes she would wear. Her nose was a little stronger, more aristocratic, her overall face thinner and more defined. Her hair was a pale blonde, like spun gold, instead of the dirty blonde I have.

“Not her. Hanjin.”

My heart thuds. “Who?”

“So pretty.”

A hot burn streaks through me, sudden and strange enough that it takes me a moment to catch my breath.

Jealousy.

Which is pretty messed up, considering Hanjin’s probably the name of the poor dead girl, the one he didn’t manage to save.

He’s delirious from drugs. That’s why he’s spilling secrets he never would before. If it was wrong for me to look at him while drugged, it’s even worse for me to question him.

“Hanjin’s the girl from the bagnio?”

His eyes are glazed, in another time and place. “You can’t have her.”

Suddenly I realize how little I know about him. Before it had seemed like enough, to know that he cared about me, that I trusted him.

I didn’t know all his secrets, but it was almost a game to uncover them.

This doesn’t feel like a game.

There’s something in the air—desperation, yearning.

God, did he love her? That makes her fate even more horrifying. I stand back up, taking a few steps away. A few feet to breathe.

Namjoon returns to the room with a fresh pair of gloves and a crisp white bandage. He applies it with surprising care, using medical tape to secure it. “With any luck he’ll actually let them heal.”

“I’ll make him rest,” I say, but even I don’t believe I have that power.

“He’ll be out for a few hours. I’ll take you to a bedroom upstairs.”

I shake my head. “I’m staying with him.”

Namjoon looks at me with begrudging respect. “You’re less of a spoiled little prince than I thought.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re just as much of an asshole as I thought.”

He laughs, folding the rest of the bandages over, turning away to leave.

“Wait,” I say, unease churning in my stomach.

“Will you answer something for me?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Who’s Hanjin?”

Confusion crosses his expression, and it appears to be genuine. I’m not sure why he would pretend with me anyway. He glances at Yoongi, his eyes hard. “If you’re asking about an ex, he’s never been with anyone. Not seriously and not for more than a few nights.”

“Okay.” I’m convinced it was the girl he protected at the bagnio.

Then why did I hear such longing in his voice?

Yoongi’s power, both in the business world and his physicality, makes me think of an older man. His vitality makes him younger.

I don’t know exactly how old he is, but how is it possible he’s never had a mate?

Why would he be talking about Hanjin when he’s drugged if she didn’t mean something more?

Namjoon shakes his head. “I told you once that Yoongi was dangerous for you. You didn’t believe me then. I don’t really expect you to believe me now.”

“I thought you said you were wrong about me.”

“About you, maybe. Not about him.”

“Then Hanjin—”

“Forget about her. I don’t know who she is, and I don’t fcuking care. The person you need to worry about is lying right in front of you, unconscious. If you’re smart, you won’t be here when he wakes up.”

I blink, uncertain what he’s implying. “Yoongi wouldn’t hurt me.”

A rough laugh. “What does he call you? His Virgin lily? I’m pretty sure you’re not anymore.”

!!~~~~!!

I drift off with my arms on the sofa, my knees curled underneath me. There’s a bed upstairs, another sofa across the room. And I can’t make myself leave his side, not when he’s vulnerable like this.

In my dream the earth crumbles to dust, only to form again in the shape of the woman. Soft grass covers her body, delicate white flowers dusted over her lush curves. She’s made of dirt and vitality, darkness come alive.

Water laps at her skin, nourishing at first. Surrounding her. She’s an island, alone.

The water keeps rising, rising, creeping over her skin before she realizes what’s happening. By the time she’s submerged, it’s too late. She can only press her mouth to the surface, one final gasp.

And then she drowns.

I come awake with a painful intake of breath, my lungs burning.

It takes a second to orient myself—to the sleeping man under my arms, to the strange sounds coming from the hallway. My limbs still heavy from sleep, I stand and peek out the doorway. It sounds like rain. Like thunder. Like a wild battle.

The heavy oak door to the Inferna stands open, dark slashing rain a grim backdrop for Kim Taehyung. I’ve seen a hundred different smiles from this man—the mercurial enigma, the joyful deviant. Never have I seen the features of his handsome face etched into grief.

Rain darkens his suit, dampens his black hair around his temples.

He holds a lithe boy in his arms, his skin sickly pale, almost blue, kicking the door shut.

I gasp. “Is he—”

“Dead?” Taehyung asks, his voice tighter than I’ve ever heard him. He auctioned me off to a roomful of sadistic billionaires with ease, but he looks like he’s about to crack. Whatever he’s just come from has nearly broken him.

“He’ll wish he was.”

I can’t tell whether that’s a threat. He isn’t going to hurt the boy, is he? The boy looks bad enough.

“What can I do?”

“Blankets,” he mutters. “Every single one you can find.”

A breath of relief fills me. He’s going to help him.

I follow him upstairs but continue to the end of the hallway to a closet. There are plush down comforters and creamy knitted throws. With my arms full I find him in a bedroom decorated with antique cherrywood.

A high bed sits on a platform in the center of the room.

The boy lies on top of the sheets, his legs bare. As I watch, Taehyung tears away sodden blue fabric from his skin. I can see the blue veins in the boy’s chest. He must be freezing. There are bruises and a lot of them. Like he was fighting. A dual. Or...

Or...

What happened to him?

Part of me is horrified, but the other part springs into action. Taking one of the throws, I approach and use it to dry his skin with invigorating strokes while Taehyung yanks away the rest of his clothes.

His hair is a limp mass, turned pitch-black from the rain. I wrap the blanket around it and squeeze. The boy doesn’t stir, even when I accidentally catch a lock around my pinky. He feels like ice to the touch.

I glance back to ask what happened, only to stop, my mouth open. Taehyung’s suit jacket lies in a wet heap behind him, his shirt half-unbuttoned. As I watch, he pulls the soggy fabric apart, ripping the rest of the buttons. His hands move to his belt before I can speak.

“What are you doing?”

He gives me a dark look. “Fcuking his limp body. What do you think?”

I look back at the helpless naked body on the bed. I have no idea who he is or what he’s been through.

Was Kim Taehyung the one who did this to him?

Taehyung isn’t really trying to have sex with him. I see the line between his eyes, the tension in his body, rippling through muscles I never guessed were under those finely tailored suits.

That doesn’t mean the boy would want Taehyung around himself.

“I can do it,” I say, reaching back for the zipper of my dress.

Taehyung gives a caustic laugh. “As much as I’d love to see the two of you in my bed together, I don’t want to see what happens when Yoongi finds out I saw you naked.”

“You saw me naked at the auction.”

“That doesn’t count. You weren’t his then.” Taehyung tosses the belt aside and pushes down his pants.

I know I should be worried about the poor boy on the bed. I should be worried about Yoongi being shot. And I am...but there’s another part of my mind reserved for the words: You weren’t his then.

Do I belong to Yoongi now? He bought me, my body. Not my soul. And definitely not my heart.

I manage to look away in time, hearing the sounds of him climbing into the bed.

“I’ll go find Namjoon.”

“Really intent on making this a threesome, aren’t you?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“He lost his license.” I watch as Taehyung wraps the boy in his arms, their intimacy obvious despite the heavy down blanket covering them. The tenderness in his movements makes my breath catch.

“Yoongi said it was fine. Namjoon stitched his gunshot wound.”

Taehyung’s dark eyes sharpen. “Yoongi was shot?”

“Grazed. On his neck.” I’m silent a moment before confessing. “The bullet was meant for me.”

“You don’t know that Bluebell.” comes a low voice from behind me.

!!~~~~!!!!~~~~!!

A/N : Now there will be ten continuous updates of Villaintine here for the rest of the week. I don't want you guys shuffling for both the stories to AO3 to blog. So bear with me. Though I will complete Villaintine on AO3 too but it's your wish where you choose to read.