I lean into him, the softness of his touch igniting a flutter in my chest. But just then, he separates me from himself—what an agony—and for a moment I forget that I am here to complete a mission, and glare at him with accusatory eyes that are still a little moist from our kiss. Our kiss. Why did he push me away? Is he still suspicious of me? Well who am I kidding he probably is. But what if it's because he thinks I am a bad kisser? Or does he resent my looks? How dare he!
And then I remember, I am me. This mission has got me overthinking on the dumbest things. I am now treading in dangerous territories. He's a mass murderer Fanyin. Snap back to your senses.
I calmly set my face back to the naive girl facade, but it's too late. He's seen me already. His eyes soften for a second and in a rare moment of tenderheartedness, he offers me an explanation, "you're hurt." His eyes linger on my knee, swirling with gloominess. The contrasting shift in emotions doesn't escape my notice. He's falling for me. Knowingly or not. And unfortunately I am not completely unaffected either. My best bet would be to keep reminding myself of his villain status and exit this world as soon as possible.
...
He leads me to the sofa, pushing me down gently to sit, but I refuse to look at him anymore. The cushions sink under my weight, and I cross my arms, glaring at the teapoy in front of me as if it's the source of my frustration.
"We need to get that bruise iced," he says, his voice low and rough, a hint of something unspoken beneath it.
The bruise on my knee? Right. Like that matters after he just shoved me away. But I keep quiet, letting the silence stretch between us. I stay slouched under the dim yellow light from the basic yet undeniably expensive lamp beside me. It casts soft, uneven shadows on the room's sleek, minimalist furniture. Wilde moves out of sight, his footsteps echoing slightly as he walks to what I assume is the kitchen. Probably to get the ice he so nobly chose over my kiss. Great choice, Wilde. Hope you and the ice are very happy together. Maybe even make little ice babies while you're at it. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking at my own pettiness.
The soft clatter of glass catches my ear, followed by the faint sound of water running. I glance at the modern art on the walls—black and white abstract swirls—trying to distract myself. Everything in this apartment screams of wealth and power, like its owner. But it also feels sterile, cold, like him.
I see him return from the corner of my eye, holding a blue ice pack and something else. I stubbornly keep my gaze fixed on the teapoy, the intricate wood pattern suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Drink some milk to warm your stomach," he says, placing a glass in front of me. His tone is different, almost soft, like a child asking for forgiveness. I could be imagining it. This man is a killer, after all.
But… I am hungry. And cold. Not that I'm giving him any credit for this.
Reluctantly, I grab the glass with both hands, the warmth from the milk soaking into my skin. I bring it to my lips, feeling the heat seep through me, and despite my best efforts, I catch a glimpse of him smiling. It's small, barely there, but I see it. And for reasons I can't explain, that tiny smile tugs at something in my chest.
Stay focused, Fanyin. I remind myself. He's dangerous. Cruel. This is just another part of the mission. Don't fall for him.
I take a sip of the milk, trying to ignore the heat spreading through me that has nothing to do with the drink. It's thick and slightly sweet, coating my throat as it goes down, but I refuse to let it soothe me. I'm still mad. I'm still… conflicted.
Wilde moves to the sofa across from me, the ice pack now in his hand, his expression unreadable. He's watching me, waiting, and I hate that I can feel his gaze on me, tracing over every inch of my face like he's searching for something—some sign of what I'm thinking.
I force myself to stay still, focusing on the sound of my breath, even as my pulse betrays me, quickening under his silent scrutiny. He's a killer. A villain. Don't forget that. I remind myself again, trying to shove away the memory of how his lips felt against mine, how my body had betrayed me with its response.
His eyes drop to my knee again, the faint bruise darkening against my skin, and without a word, he moves to kneel in front of me. The unexpected action sends a jolt of surprise through me.
"You're going to hurt it more if you don't take care of it," he says softly, carefully pressing the ice pack against my knee. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, like he's handling something fragile. Something precious.
I stare down at him, feeling my walls waver. The way he kneels at my feet, the weight of his hands so light against my skin, it all feels wrong—this man, a mass murderer, acting like he cares. Acting like he doesn't leave a trail of bodies in his wake.
"Why do you care?" I ask before I can stop myself. The question slips out, carried by the confusion swirling in my chest.
He pauses, his gaze lifting to meet mine. For a second, I see a flicker of something raw, something real in his eyes, before it's gone, replaced by the familiar cold mask.
"I don't know," he admits, his voice low, almost too quiet to hear. He stands, retreating back to his distant, composed self. But the damage is done. That vulnerability he let slip—it sticks with me. I can't shake it.
He crosses his arms, leaning back against the sofa, keeping his distance now. His eyes, though, never leave me, watching, waiting. I realize with a sinking feeling that I'm in deeper than I thought. The lines between my mission and my emotions are blurring dangerously.
I force myself to take another sip of milk, letting the warmth steady me. I need to stay focused. I can't let myself get tangled in whatever this is. He's the villain, and I have a mission to complete. My way out of this world is getting closer, and the last thing I need is to lose myself in someone like him.
But the way he looked at me—like I mattered—lingers, and I hate how much I want to see that look again.
...
Wilde presses the ice pack gently against my knee, the cold numbing the faint throb of pain. His touch, despite his rough exterior, remains light, careful. He glances up at me, but I refuse to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the remnants of warmth from the milk in my hands. Without a word, he moves away, disappearing down the hall.
A few moments later, he returns, carrying a neatly folded set of clothes. His clothes, but new. Crisp, clean, yet they carry his unmistakable scent, a mix of something dark and warm that lingers in the fabric. He sets them beside me, his movements careful, measured. "Wear these for tonight," he murmurs, his voice gruff, a subtle apology in his tone. "I'll take the study. You can have my room."
Still, I stay quiet, unwilling to acknowledge the gesture. His jaw tightens, the faintest crease forming between his brows as he watches me. I can feel the tension building between us—I'm still mad—frustrated, confused. And I know he knows it. His posture shifts slightly, as if he's bracing himself. The silence between us grows thick, oppressive.
Finally, unable to take it any longer, he steps closer. "You're still angry about before, " His voice is rough, but there's a hint of vulnerability beneath it, like he's not sure how to navigate this unfamiliar territory.
I don't answer. Instead, I take another sip of milk, letting the warmth fill the growing void between us. But just as the glass touches my lips, his hand reaches out, stopping me. With a swift, determined movement, he takes the glass from my hands and sets it down on the teapoy, his eyes locking onto mine.
Before I can protest, he leans in, his lips finding mine in a kiss that's slow, deliberate, and filled with the unspoken words from earlier. His hand cradles the side of my face, gentle yet firm, like he's trying to make up for what he took away before.
I melt into the kiss despite myself, my mind screaming at me to pull away, to stay focused, but my body betrays me once again. The heat from his lips, the way his breath mingles with mine—it's intoxicating, and for a moment, I forget everything. The mission, the danger, the man he truly is.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and for a heartbeat, the world feels still. His breathing is shallow, matching mine, and I can see the turmoil in his eyes, the same confusion that's been plaguing me.
"I won't push you away again," he murmurs, his voice low, almost a promise.
I want to say something, to tell him this is dangerous, that we can't do this—but the words don't come. Instead, I just nod, letting the silence stretch between us once more, knowing full well that the line I've been walking is getting thinner with every passing second.
And Wilde, the villain, is no longer the only one falling.
ROCK YOU WORLD AFTER WORLD © 2024 Kashish Mishra (bliss_incarnation). All rights reserved.