Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jeremy

Killian doesn’t bother looking at me as he inspects the wreckage of his room. His eyes track the smear of copper pooling on the hardwood, the kid unconscious on the bed, and Landon King—slumped, broken, and finally silent in the chair. He shakes his head, a sharp, dismissive motion.

“What’d you do to him?” Killian’s voice is a cold, clinical razor. He steps over a discarded tray of bloody gauze, his gaze judgmental. “Better question: what happened to him?” He pauses, the silence stretching as he snaps his gloves off with a sharp, violent pop. “No, never mind. Why are you even with him? And who’s the kid?”

He steps toward me, his movements fluid and predatory. He stops just inches from my chest, his shadow looming over Landon’s broken form. His gaze snaps between my blood-streaked skin and the mess in the chair, expecting an answer I’m not sure I want to give.

“Business.”

It’s as narrow as a word can be. A lead weight thrown between us.

“Since when was Landon business?” Killian questions, his lip curling.

“Since he made his way onto my turf. In this hotel. On owned land.” I don’t flinch. I just snarl the words, my voice a low, guttural warning.

“This is Landon we’re talking about, Jeremy. Landon.” Killian leans in, his presence a cold pressure. “Don’t tell me you’re getting soft on me. You played guardian angel for a man who lives to burn things down.”

“Landon has always been a thorn in my side, Killian. Everyone knows that.”

The air in the room turns toxic. Landon isn’t mine in any sensible way—never that—but he’s mine today. You can’t own a person like Landon King. He’s a reckless, uncontrolled variable; a fire that refuses to be contained. But I claim the right to be the one who puts him out.

“I know how you think, Jeremy, and he’s not yours. Not anymore.” Killian counters, his voice dropping into a silky, lethal tone. “Landon doesn’t get owned. No matter how many times you want to put a label on him or pin him down. He’ll always be the dirty, rotten thing that poisons the other plants. He’s a parasite. He’ll drain you just to see if you’ll bleed.”

Not anymore. The thought echoes in my head. Who gave it permission to change? Everyone’s moved on, sure.

I’ve moved on.

But the facts never change.

“That he will remain,” I growl, my hand twitching as I look at Landon’s pale face. “But I handle him. His life is claimed. Anything that harms him on my ground gets my authorization. And nobody gets to inflict more damage than me. He doesn’t get that privilege anymore.”

“Don’t let Landon take up your headspace, Jeremy. You know he’s bad news.”

That makes me grin—a sharp, jagged expression. “Are we really comparing?”

Killian stares at me for a long beat, searching for a lie in my eyes and finding nothing but the dark, rugged truth. He scoffs, turning away to wash the copper scent of Landon’s blood from his hands.

“Fine. He’s your property. Just don't come crying to me when he finally sets your world on fire. Again,” Killian dries his hands, his movements sharp and dismissive. “He’s stitched up. The kid is stable. Now get them both out of my sight before the police decide to follow that trail of ‘ketchup’ you left in the lobby.”

I don’t answer. I just walk over to the chair. Landon is dead to the world, his head lolling to the side, those sharp, arrogant features finally softened by unconsciousness. I reach down, sliding one arm under his knees and the other behind his back.

He’s heavy—dead weight and cold skin—but I lift him anyway. His head falls against my bare shoulder, blood smearing fresh and warm against my skin.

“There’s a room across the hall,” Killian mutters without looking back. “Come get the kid later, after I manage to put him in some clean clothes. And Jeremy?”

I pause at the door, Landon’s weight an agonizing burden in my arms.

“Next time he tries to die,” Killian says, his voice flat and final, “let him.”

I don't look back. I just tighten my grip on the man who I hate with every fiber of my being and walk out into the dark.

“There won’t be a next time,” I whisper into the empty hallway, “because I’ll be the one to finish the job.”

———

I kick the door open to the room—simple, sterile, nothing special about it. It’s a blank box with no character, which is exactly what I need right now.

I head straight for the bedroom, the weight of him pulling at my shoulders. As slowly as I can manage, I lower Landon onto the bed. It isn't a gentle gesture; it’s an act of mercy, nothing more. He hits the mattress like a corpse, and for a second, the only sound is the rhythmic, shallow pull of his breath.

He looks like a total goddamn mess. His hair is a matted disaster of sweat and road grime, he’s half-naked, and his skin is mapped in bruises and Killian’s black silk sutures. 

I feel like a mess, too—the copper tang of his blood is drying on my chest, turning tacky and dark. 

I stand there, looking down at him. Part of me thinks I should just leave him in his "glory”. The look on the maid's face when she finds the infamous Landon King looking like a shredded piece of roadkill would be worth every cent I’ve spent on this hotel.

Or... I could clean him.

Just in case he needs to act like he’s okay.

I look at my hands, stained to the wrists. Yeah, no. He’s going to have to wait until I scrub the stench of death off myself first.

I turn away from the bed, the sight of him making my own skin itch with the phantom sensation of the crash. I head into the bathroom, the harsh, diagnostic light reflecting off the chrome and white tile. I catch my reflection in the mirror—I’m a nightmare. Smears of dark, drying blood across my chest, glass dust glittering in my hair, eyes looking like they’ve seen the end of the world and survived purely out of spite.

I strip the rest of my ruined clothes off, including my gun, placing it on the sink counter and letting the rest hit the floor in a heavy, sodden heap.

The shower comes on hot—scalding hot. I step under the spray and let out the breath I’ve been holding since the first bullet. The water turns a sickly, pale pink as it spirals down the drain, taking the debris of the night with it. I scrub until my skin is raw, trying to wash away the feeling of Landon’s head on my shoulder, the weight of his body in my arms, and the sickeningly loud sound of his car hitting mine.

I scrub extra hard at my forearms, the hot water turning my skin a raw, angry red. Landon King. A man you only touch when you have explicit permission or a suicide note in your pocket. Not only have I been touching him this entire time, but I even had the privilege of getting a hug from his honor.

I can still feel the weight of him. The way his hands clawed into the muscles of my back.

And that whimper.

It was so goddamn vulnerable. A sound I never thought he was capable of making—a thin, broken noise that belonged to a dying animal, not the king of chaos. It’s a sound I want to exploit. I want to take it, bottle it, and use it to break his image into something pathetic. He doesn’t know what he just gave me. He handed me the keys to his undoing in a moment of weakness he won't even remember clearly.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe that’s exactly why the silence in this room feels so heavy—because that sound is haunting him even in his sleep.

When I step out, the room is thick with steam. I wrap a towel around my waist and head back into the bedroom, my damp feet silent on the carpet. Droplets dripping onto the polished wood.

He’s still out, just like Killian said he was gonna be. 

I should be at the docks. I should be checking the security feeds. I should be finding the person who had the balls to touch Landon King’s most prized possession. Aka his car.

But I find myself lingering. I want to be there when those eyes open. I want to see the exact second he remembers that I saw him break. I want to watch the pride crawl back into his throat and choke him.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, the damp towel around my waist the only thing between me and the cold air of the room. I watch him like a predator watches a kill that hasn't quite realized it's dead yet.

"Wake up, Landon," I mutter, my voice a lingering, detached thread in the quiet. "I've got so many things to hold over your head."

The shadows in the room shift as the moon climbs higher. Across the hall, the kid is getting dressed under Killian’s cold watch. Downstairs, the cleanup crew is probably scrubbing the lobby floor. And here? Here, I’m just waiting.

Waiting to see which version of Landon King wakes up. The one who fights, or the one who whimpers.

I walk over to the sink counter and scoop up my gun and a towel, the cold weight of the metal familiar and grounding against my palm. I don't leave it behind. In this building, even with Killian down the hall and the security details all reviewed obsessively, I don’t trust the air I breathe. I head into the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the floor, my mind already three steps ahead of the blood and the mess.

I need a bowl. Something to hold the water so I can finish what I started.

I pull open a cabinet and find a plastic one—cheap, white, unremarkable. It works. I set it in the sink and let the water run, watching it swirl.

Blake Frost.

The name feels cold, like the metal of the gun I just placed against my towel. He isn’t just a passenger or a stray Landon picked up on a whim. He’s a weapon, even in his sleep. A factor in a game so dangerous the board is already starting to catch fire. A-101. That designation is a brand, a serial number for a human being. It means there are others. Thousands of them, likely, being forged in the same dark rooms, facing the same fate of being used until they’re blunt and then discarded like scrap metal.

But Blake is different. I’ve seen enough soldiers to know the difference between a tool and a force of nature. A kid with a motive so visceral, so suffocating, that he was able to crack the very foundation of his creators at only fifteen years old.

He didn't just escape; he broke the machine.

I turn off the faucet and pick up the bowl, the water splashing softly. Then I grab whatever bottle is near me. “Dawn dish soap.” Well it’s the best he’s gonna get.

My knuckles are still tight. Landon King didn’t just save a kid last night; he stole a prototype. He hijacked a catastrophe and made it his own.

This time at least, he didn’t cause the chaos. He introduced it to us.

Maybe that’s exactly why he did it. Landon never did like playing for small stakes.

I set the plastic bowl down on the nightstand with a dull click, the pink-tinged soap bubbles settling into a stagnant froth. My gun follows, the heavy, matte-black slide meeting the wood with a solid weight that feels more honest than anything else in this room. Within reach. Always within reach.

I examine him—the absolute ruin of Landon King. He’s laid out like a fallen monument, stripped of the arrogance and the armor that usually keep the world at bay. The moonlight is unforgiving now, catching the raw edges of the stitches and the deep, ugly purple of the bruises mapping his ribs.

I exhale, the sound dragging through the quiet.

“Okay,” I air, my voice a low, exhausted rasp that barely carries. “Where to start.”

I don't mean the cleaning. I mean the fallout. I mean the fact that the hotel is currently a sanctuary for a boy who is actually a classified weapon, and a man who treats an eighty-mile-per-hour impact like a minor inconvenience. I mean the "A-101" stamped on a life that should have just been about school and mistakes, not breaking foundations and surviving assassinations.

I dip the cloth into the soapy water, wringing it out until it’s just damp. I start with his chest, slowly wiping away the dark smears of copper and the fine grey dust of pulverized carbon fiber. My movements are slow, managed—almost austere.

I take in his physique, the lean, hard-won muscle of his six-pack. Stronger than before. His skin is pale, though warmed by the lingering memory of the Italian sun. I brush my fingers against his pecs, his nipples a dusty pink—delicate and seemingly untouched, a stark contrast to the bruise ripening like rotten fruit against his collarbone.

I move lower, my hands finding his waist, narrow and firm. It was startlingly small. It didn't have the soft, flared curve of a woman’s hips, but it possessed that same narrow delicacy, a tapered V that made him look elegant even in his violence. When I pressed my palms down against his sides, my hands nearly met. Could be because my hands are large, but he was sculpted, every inch of him an intentional masterpiece. 

He had curated this body, deciding exactly what to sharpen and what to keep, like looking at a block of marble and knowing exactly what wasn't enough.

I purposely avoid the stitches, my fingers dancing in the heat of the skin around them. I can feel the rhythmic heave of his torso under my hand, his skin rising and falling. So I press my hand flat against his stomach, leaning into him—hard.

Landon’s breathing hitches. The steady, mechanical rise and fall fractured, his muscles jump under my touch. For a few seconds, I keep the pressure there, feeling the internal struggle of his composure. Then, I lift my hand.

He doesn’t gasp or shudder. He simply returns to that steady, cadenced pulse—masking the reaction as if it had never happened. Returning to his mask of calm.

The body of a breathing statue.

I erase the physical evidence. I need to know every inch of damage he took for that kid. Every scratch is a data point. Every flinch is a weakness I can catalog.

But as the soap clears away the grime, I find myself looking for more than just wounds. I’m looking for the motive. I’m looking for whatever it is that made Landon King—the most selfish, reckless variable I’ve ever known—accept my proposal and risk it all for a fifteen-year-old ghost named Blake.

I move the cloth to his left shoulder, and there it is—the Ouroboros. It peaks out from his side, a serpentine line of ink coiling over his ribs and onto his shoulder. It’s a sign, a permanent reminder that he’ll always be the same Landon, no matter how many layers of blood or heroics he tries to hide under.

The serpent devours its own tail. An endless cycle of desire, violence, and self-destruction. It’s the beauty of control consuming itself—creation through total wreckage. You destroy something just to make it beautiful.

That’s Landon. Finding the aesthetic in ruin, even when the cost is his own skin.

I trace the curve of the ink with the damp cloth, clearing away the filth from the scales of the snake. It’s a perfect metaphor for the man on the mattress. He doesn't just survive disasters; he curates them. He turned a high-speed assassination attempt into a kinetic masterpiece, and now he’s lying in this bed, waiting to be reborn from the ashes of his own McLaren.

Beauty and danger existing in the same breath.

"Always the same, aren't you?" I mutter, the soap suds white against the black ink.

I stare at the tattoo and then at the fresh stitches just inches away. The cycle continues. He destroys his body to save a kid, and now he’s here, relying on me to piece him back together so he can go out and do it all over again. He's obsessed with the fall, addicted to the moment where everything breaks.

I scrub a little harder, the skin beneath the tattoo turning a flush pink. I wonder if he realizes that by bringing the kid into this cycle, he’s not just destroying himself anymore. He’s feeding the snake something new.

Someone else he needs to factor in, or in his words—another pawn.

The towel reaches the center of the coil, where the head meets the tail.

"You're going to eat yourself alive one of these days, Landon," I hum, my voice hollow along with the rattle of the AC. "And I'm going to be right here to watch the feast."

I dip the cloth back into the bowl, the pink water swirling. I’m not just cleaning a wound; I’m preparing a canvas for the next disaster. Because with Landon, there’s always a next time. The serpent never stops eating.

I move to the next shoulder. The right one is a map of violence, bearing the brunt of the damage alongside his forearms. Killian didn’t stitch any of these; they are raw, angry weeping lines, but not as deep as the cavernous gash in his side. Killian likely didn’t care about the busy work, doing just enough to ensure Landon’s survival and leaving the rest to bleed out. The skin is mottled—angry purples and sickly yellows blooming around the lacerations like spilled ink on parchment. I pause, my mind running a hundred scenarios, and head to the bathroom cabinet to grab the first aid kit.

I return from the bathroom, the plastic kit heavy in my grip. The clinical scent of antiseptic and sterile gauze trails behind me, cutting through the heavy air. Landon is still—the AC the only thing breaking the sound of the heavy, unresponsive silence of the unconscious. A fallen god, stripped of his sharp tongue and his arrogance, leaving only the raw, broken machinery of his body.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I snap the latches of the kit; the sharp, mechanical sound is a gunshot in the quiet. He doesn't flinch. I pull out a bottle of saline and a stack of gauze.

I soak a pad and bring it to his right shoulder. Up close, the damage is a map of his failures. The lacerations are an eyesore, the edges beginning to pucker and crust. As the cold liquid hits the raw tissue, his body reacts even if his mind is elsewhere; a muscle in his shoulder jumps—a sharp, involuntary twitch that ripples down to his bicep. A thin bead of fresh blood wells up, a bright, startling red against his pale skin.

I work my way down to his forearm. These wounds are defensive—long, shallow scrapes from where he shielded his body. Now dead weight, arms heavy and limp as I lift them to clean the undersides. There’s no grip on the bedsheets, no resistance, just the terrifying vulnerability of his open arms.

I reach for the antibiotic ointment, my fingers steady despite the feverish heat radiating off him. Every time I lean in, I feel the shallow, erratic warmth of his breath against my neck. It is a strange, dim intimacy—the analytical precision of my bandages against the raw, helpless silence of his frame.

I begin to wrap the gauze. The white fabric spirals around his bicep, clean and blindingly bright against the mottled bruising. I tuck the end in and move to his forearm, binding the "statue" in white, turning him into a mangled sculpture of debt and desperation.

I move to his other forearm. Same mess of contradictions—long, shallow red scratches and blooming bruises that leave almost no skin untouched. Among the smaller marks are the unmistakable grazing of flying bullets, but one wound demands my full attention.

It is the deep, serrated gouge the kid gave him with the broken glass.

The glass had bitten in deep, slicing through the marble-like skin with a rugged cruelty the bullets lacked. Unlike the surgical precision of a professional hit, this is raw and messy. The edges of the skin are parted wide, a dark, weeping trench that refuses to close on its own. It needs more than just a bandage; it needs a needle.

I set the saline aside and reach back into the kit for the suture thread. My fingers are steady as I prepare the needle, looking down at the one part of his "perfect" body that was broken by a panicked child instead of a high-speed collision.

I take the needle between my fingers. I’ve done this enough for myself to mimic the movements, even if I lack professional expertise, I’m the next best option. It’s not something that would be better if you knew, it’s something that will keep you alive. Mafia expects injuries, fatal wounds.

I clean the wound one last time, the saline flushing out the last remnants of grit.

The gash is ugly. It’s a deep, vertical split that ruins the clean lines of his forearm. I start at the top, the needle piercing the skin with a small, sickening pop.

Landon’s body doesn't stay quiet. Even in the depths of his unconsciousness, the pain finds him. His bicep coils like a snake, the muscle cording under my touch. His hand, previously limp, curls into a half-clutch. I have to use my weight to pin his arm down, my knee pressing into the mattress to keep him steady.

I pull the first stitch tight, watching the skin pucker and close. Then the second.

I’m meticulous. I don’t just want him to heal; I want the scar to be as subtle as possible. I want to fix what the kid broke. The remnants of someone else’s doing washed away. Only for me to know what lies beneath.

I work in silence, the only sound the metallic clink of the tools and the heavy, rhythmic drag of his lungs.

By the fifth stitch, a bead of sweat rolls down my temple. The heat radiating off him is intense, a localized fever. I glance up at his face—still, pale, and impossibly beautiful despite the violence of the night. He’s at my mercy, his life held together by the decisions I make and the choices I decide.

Me.

I toss the heavy stuff back into the kit. The metal clinks and rattles, sounding way too loud in the dead quiet of the room. I’m done—until I spot a box at the bottom.

Princess bandaids.

A slow, dark smile pulls at my face. It is an absurd, glittering contrast to the carnage we just survived. I pick a few up, peeling the backing with steady fingers. I press them over the minor scratches—small, pink crowns and bright sparkles resting against his pale, lethal skin.

It looks insane. Here’s this sculpted, lethal weapon of a man—a literal breathing statue—and he’s covered in cartoon royalty. It’s a tiny way to mess with him while he can’t talk back. A reminder that I’m the one who put him back together after he broke.

I press one last sparkly heart over a bullet graze on his shoulder. He’s still dead to the world, totally clueless that he’s currently my canvas for a joke.

Once his skin looks like an audition for Disney, I push the first aid kit away and grab the bowl again. I move the cloth up to the base of his throat, his pulse a steady, stubborn thrum under my fingers.

It’s all clean—no scratches, no bruises. The perfection of it is an insult. It makes me want to ruin it myself. Before the thought even fully forms, my hand is on his throat. I don't just touch him; I claim him, feeling the vibration of his life against my palm. I steady myself with my other hand, leaning my weight over him until the heat of his body bleeds into mine. I turn his face to the right, forcing his chin up to expose the long, pale line of his neck.

I lean down, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. I let out a bleak, notched chuckle. “You’re so vulnerable right now, kukolka,” I whisper.

The reaction is instant. He lets out a tiny, broken squeak—a sound of pure, helpless sensitivity. Even half-dead and unconscious, his body knows my voice.

The sound is an invitation, a taunt to see just how much he can take before he snaps. My fingers curl, my grip tightening around his windpipe. I don't stop until he’s choking, his chest heaving for air that isn’t there, his body twitching under me in a desperate, silent plea. I press harder, burying my thumb into the soft tissue, feeling the frantic leap of his pulse against my skin.

I wait until the very last second before I let go.

I pull my hand back, and there it is—my handprint, a violent, blooming red against his marble skin. It’s a brand. I trace the edges of the bruise with a feather touch, my fingertips ghosting over the damage I just caused.

"You’re going to tell me everything," I whisper, leaning over him until the scent of the soap and the metallic tang of his blood are all I can breathe. "Every name. Every number. Every reason you brought this war to my door."

I slump back, the adrenaline ebbing into a low, dim hum. I grab the bowl again and move to his face. There it is, the cut on his cheek—the one I deliberately ignored earlier, letting it exist while we dodged bullets and the grim reaper.

I leave it for last.

I wash the rest of his face first, the cloth dragging away the dried sweat, the grit of the road, and the dust from the crash. I wipe away the smears of blood until the face I know so well—the face that haunts me—comes back into focus.

Then, I move to the cut.

I wipe it slowly. The violence from a moment ago is gone, replaced by a touch so gentle it feels like a lie. I watch the water turn pink as I clean the edges of the wound, my eyes fixed on the way his skin yields to the damp cloth. I’m meticulous, tracing the curve of his cheekbone with a softness that shouldn't belong to hands like mine.

Once I’m done, I scan his face, searching for any speck of grime I might have missed. I reach back into the kit and pull out one more princess bandaid.

Aurora.

He’s going to kill me when he wakes up. I press it onto his cheek, admiring the way it sits against his skin—a pink, shimmering crown on a man made of shadows.

But as I lean back, my eyes catch a hint of black. It’s barely there, tucked deep behind his left ear. I shove his head to the left, my pulse spiking as I get a clear look.

Holy fuck. It’s a spider tattoo.

How have I not noticed this before?

I stare at the ink, the black lines sharp and deliberate against the pale skin behind his ear. A spider. It’s small, but the weight of it is massive. Spiders weave intricate webs—symbols of creativity, craftsmanship, and a great level of patience. The mark of someone who builds their life carefully, someone who takes a twisted kind of pride in their work. Like Landon with his art.

But there’s a flip side to the web. It’s the ultimate symbol of being stuck—caught in a situation you can't crawl out of. Or maybe, for Landon, it’s about the escape. Overcoming the struggle by becoming the thing that owns the web.

It reeks of mystery, danger, and the kind of fear that keeps you looking over your shoulder. A spider sits at the dead center of its world, controlling every vibration, every movement that touches its threads. It’s about power. Total, absolute control.

It is exactly what Landon represents. A king and his pawns. Even in his sleep, even covered in princess bandaids, the bastard is still trying to tell the world he’s the one pulling the strings.

“I’ll be your praying mantis, baby.” I scoff, leaning back to look at the wreckage I’ve mended. He is stable, for now. But then my eyes catch his hands, and I realize I’ve left them filthy.

I dip the towel into the bowl, watching the water turn a deeper, murkier red. I take his right hand in mine, my fingers sliding between his. It is slim, the fingers of a sculptor—elegant and haunting. These are his lifeline. His wrists, his knuckles, his palms—without them, he can't breathe life into stone. He can't make art.

He’s nothing without these hands.

The weight of his hand in mine is a heavy reminder of how easily things break. There’s a predatory stillness in the room, a silence so thick it feels like a physical presence. My grip tightens just slightly, enough to feel the friction of skin against skin, a silent testament to the control I hold over this moment.

One by one, I wipe his fingers clean. His hands are refined, sculpted by his own craft, yet in this light, they appear devastatingly vulnerable. My own hand dwarfs his, the contrast between my broad palm and his slender fingers highlighting a quiet, looming threat. Even with the callouses from his work, his skin is warm, radiating a heat that seems to pulse against my own.

I linger on his thumb, rubbing the damp cloth over the pad of the finger, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart through the fabric. I find myself holding his hand longer than necessary, my thumb tracing the path of the veins on the back of his wrist, right where his life beats against the surface. The air between us is charged, balanced on a knife's edge between care and something far more volatile.

I’m the architect of his recovery, and the only witness to his most fragile hour.

Anyway, I think I'm pretty much done. I’m not taking off his pants—that’s a bridge too far. Too weird, even for a night like this. I set the bowl down on the cabinet next to where my gun is resting, the metal of the frame a cold reminder of the world outside this room.

I roll over onto the opposite side of the bed, putting as much distance as possible between us.

I just need to relax. My back is absolutely killing me. I walked away without anything too serious—just a collection of bruises and some deep scratches—but I feel like I gave a fatass hippo a piggyback ride across a minefield. The adrenaline is finally bottoming out, leaving my muscles feeling like lead.

Landon is a good amount away, and that’s exactly how I want it. I’ve touched him more than enough for one lifetime tonight. 

Everything that happened today is just the start of what’s going to keep happening. I’m not particularly worried. This is a side game compared to what I’ve had to deal with. It’s more like an opportunity to invest in something else for a change.

I stare at the ceiling, the silence of the room heavy and thick, listening to the synchronized rhythm of our breathing. Insomnia, something I deal with quite a lot. I would've thought that if it were in a competition with fatigue it would win. But that was until I felt my eyes finally start to get heavy.

—————-

I wake up with the feeling of my head snapping to the left aggressively. I jolt up but there’s something keeping me down on the mattress, straddling me. My eyes focus instantly. Hands grabbing what’s keeping me locked. 

There’s a gun in my face. 

The impact feels disorienting, my brain lagging half a second behind my body. My shoulders tense hard against the mattress, fabric bunching under my fingers as I try to orient myself. The metal at my face is cold enough to cut through the fog of sleep instantly, turning instinct into sharp, managed panic.

Before I can do anything I instantly recognize the face.

Landon.

He just punched me—I can feel the blood pooling in my mouth, metallic and hot.

My tongue shifts automatically, tasting it, the coppery sting spreading as my jaw aches in delayed protest. My cheek throbs in slow waves that only fully register now that I’m aware of them.

“You fucking bitch! I told you I was going to kill you! How absolutely fucking dare you—you piece of elephant shit!” He’s screaming way too early in the—morning? The light bleeding through the curtains agrees. I don’t even know what he’s yelling about. With him, the list is endless. I just relax into the pillow and close my eyes again.

The daylight is thin and pale, filtering in like it’s unsure it wants to be part of this scene. My eyelids drop not from calm, but from exhaustion so deep it feels like surrendering momentum rather than peace.

Wayyyy too early in the morning.

“Don’t you fucking ignore me!” The words hit sharper than the volume suggests, like frustration made physical. His weight shifts slightly as if to force a reaction out of me.

The cold metal presses harder into my forehead, spiking my headache. My hands clutch at his thighs, trying to shove him off. He doesn’t budge.

The pressure locks my attention into a narrow tunnel of sensation: cold, pain, restraint. My fingers dig in harder, searching for leverage that just isn’t there.

“You were better when you were cosplaying sleeping beauty.” I groan. forcing my eyes open. Any hope of more sleep is dead.

My voice comes out rough, scraped up by fatigue, while my eyelids fight to stay half-lowered like they’re negotiating for mercy that isn’t coming.

“I’ll make you cosplay Mufasa, bitch!” Ugh, why are we cosplaying again? My entire body is a map of soreness. I take a good look at him; he’s seething. Eyebrows furrowed, jaw tight, eyes pure fire. I start to reach for the gun, but he speaks through gritted teeth before I can even close my hand.

“Try it, I dare you.”

The challenge hangs in the air, sharp and immediate, his grip and posture reinforcing that he means every syllable.

With an exhale I let my hand fall back onto his thigh with a dull slap. He looks even more furious now.

“Landon, what are you crying about? I literally saved your life,” I ask, my voice husky with sleep.

The words come out slow, weighted by exhaustion, it makes it sound like I’m dragging them up from somewhere deeper than thought.

“You held me down and let Killian stick metal into my skin until I passed out. Without consent. If I reported that, your “pal” would lose his medical license. Career over.”

His breathing sharpens between phrases, shoulders tightening as he speaks, anger sharpening into something more arranged, more cautious.

My fingers press harder, grounding frustration into something physical, if I hold on tighter maybe the situation will become slightly more containable.

“I’m not a morning person, Landon.” I growl

The words come out rough, dragged up from sleep and pain, but there’s something sharper under them now. I stay still. Not because I’m trapped in any real way, but because I’m choosing it. My body registers everything at once—his weight straddling me, the gun steady at my face, the heat of anger radiating off him like a live wire—but I don’t react. Not yet.

There’s a split second where I could flip this. I know exactly how. One shift of my hips, a twist of leverage, and he’s not on top of me anymore. The gun changes hands, the room changes rules. Easy. Clean. Final. But I don’t move. I let it hang there, suspended, like I’m holding the moment still by force of will alone.

My patience is the only thing keeping the violence from happening. Not weakness. Not hesitation. Control. Regulated, caculated control that sits heavier than his grip or the barrel pressing into my skin. I watch him instead, breathing steady, letting him think he has the upper hand while I decide how long I’m willing to let him believe it.

“Glad I’m not the only one having a horrible morning.”

His voice comes out sharp, almost bitter, like it’s meant to cut through the air more than reach me. The gun doesn’t move, still pressed in that same cold, steady line. His weight stays on me, straddling like he’s trying to keep the world from shifting underneath him.

I just look at him.

Not up at him like I’m trapped under him. Just… at him. Like I’ve got time. Like I’m not in a rush to match his temperature.

The gun presses a little harder for a second, like he’s testing if I’ll flinch.

I don’t.

Instead, my head tilts just slightly, enough that the barrel shifts with me by a fraction. Not enough to matter to anyone who doesn’t understand angles, but enough that I know he feels it.

“Yeah?” I say finally, voice rough around the edges. “That why you broke into my personal space, or is this just your version of emotional support?”

His jaw tightens instantly. I can feel the shift in his weight before I even see it in his face.

He’s looking for escalation.

I don’t give it.

That’s the problem.

The room is still, but not empty-still. It’s the kind of stillness that has decisions buried in it, waiting to be picked up.

Rage burns fast, but it also burns sloppy.

I just wait in it.

Let him be the one filling the silence.

Then I add, quieter, almost bored, “If you’re going to threaten me properly, at least don’t sound like you’re multitasking.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I see it land.

Landon’s expression snaps.

It’s not gradual. It’s like something in him just gets yanked too hard and finally gives up pretending to be controlled.

“You think this is funny?” he hisses.

The gun shifts closer, likely bruising my face now, he’s trying to force a reaction out of me through sheer pressure alone. His arm is steady, but everything else isn’t. His shoulders are tense, his breathing sharper, uneven at the edges like it’s fighting him for control.

I blink slowly.

Still don’t move.

If anything, I look more fed up than anything else.

“That depends,” I utter sparingly. “Are you done doing the dramatic villain monologue, or is there an intermission I should be aware of?”

His grip tightens on me, and I feel the skin pull hard under his hand. He leans in closer, in this version proximity is supposed to make this more threatening.

It doesn’t.

It just makes him easier to read.

“You don’t get to talk,” he snaps. “Not after literally everything you did. What are you good for, kidnapping and stalking? Jeremy Volkov—good for nothing—and yet you keep pushing like there won’t be consequences.”

My eyebrows lift slightly, actually considering that.

Then I hum softly, almost thoughtful.

“That’s interesting,” I continue. “Because I feel like I’m doing a pretty good job for someone currently being held at gunpoint in their own bed. Multi-tasking, really.”

Well, it’s not exactly my bed, but who cares for the details.

His face twists harder at that, anger finally spilling past containment. The kind that’s less regulated rage and more raw, reactive heat.

“Careful. You’re starting to sound brave, and I hate fixing that. Crazy fuck.” he expresses through clenched teeth.

I smile a little then. Not warm. Not friendly. Something sharper around the edges.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “But you’re the one sitting on me at sunrise with a gun, Landon. So I think we might be sharing notes at this point.”

That gets him.

It's not exactly subtle.

His jaw locks so tight I think it might crack. The gun jerks just slightly, not off target, but unstable for the first time. His control flickers, just for a second, like it’s slipping through his fingers.

His ass is on my hips, and when he grinds—I realize I’m only in my towel.

Whoops.

“Stop smiling,” he asserts, voice lower now, more dangerous than loud.

I tilt my head again, slow, purposely unbothered.

“Make me,” I dare.

It’s not a challenge the way he wants it to be.

It’s worse.

It’s almost playful.

Almost.

I’m bored enough to be entertained by the idea.

His eyes go sharper, duskier, and for a bit I can tell he’s not just angry anymore. He’s trying to decide what kind of problem I am.

I let the silence sit between us for a beat, then add softly, conversationally, “You always this intense in the mornings, or am I just special?”

“Say one more thing,” he grumbles low, voice shaking with something more volatile than rage, “and I swear I’ll make you regret waking up.”

Right. I’m afraid you're too late.

“You done?” I ask audibly.

Not soft. Not loud. Flat enough that it doesn’t feed the fire either way.

But enough to hit something in him—not so much to stop him, but enough to hesitate. Just a flicker. The kind that costs him control for half a second.

That’s all I need to know he still has it.

I exhale through my nose, slow. My hands are still where they were, not grabbing, not pushing. Just resting in a way that looks lazy, if you didn’t know better. If you didn’t know what restraint actually looks like when it’s doing all the work.

Outside, the morning keeps pretending this is normal life.

Inside, I finally let my voice drop just slightly lower.

“If you’re going to shoot me,” I say, eyes steady on his, “you should at least decide why.”

“Don’t talk like you know me.”

“Same here,” I add quietly, voice flattening just a touch. “If your interpretation of me is correct in any way, you should know I’m letting you stay on top of me.”

“You talk a big game, but I know for a fact you won’t be able to back it up.”

"Landon, look at yourself," I mutter, my hands still anchored to his legs. "You’re covered in pink sparkles and cartoon royalty. You really want to play the big, bad hitman right now?"

His eyes drop for a split second, catching the glitter and heart-shaped bandages littering his chest and arms. His jaw ticks so hard I think his teeth might crack. The gun doesn't move, but his hand shakes—not with fear, with pure, unadulterated rage.

Okay, so he didn’t know about them. My mistake. Just added another thing to the list.

"You... you put stickers on me," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave into something truly dangerous. "While I was unconscious. You mocked me."

"I mended you," I correct him, my voice dropping into that low, jagged growl that usually shuts people up. "I sat here picking dirt off your skin and sewing your forearm back together because you were too busy playing real life Fortnite to stay awake. So if I wanted to put a crown on your cheek, I earned it."

He leans in closer, the barrel of the gun bruising my skin. I can feel the heat radiating off him—the fever from the wounds or maybe just the fire in his blood.

"I didn't ask for your help," he spits. "I would have rather bled out in that wreckage than owe a single second of my life to you."

"Too bad. You’re a terrible investment to let die, and I don't like losing money."

I watch his finger twitch on the trigger. It’s a gamble. Everything with Landon is a gamble. I could take the gun; I could flip him and have him pinned in three seconds flat. But I’m tired, my back is a mess, and there’s something about the way he’s scrutinizing me—seething and alive—that is far more entertaining than another round of wrestling.

"Get off me," I voice, my thumbs tracing the line of his quadriceps through his pants. "Before I decide to add a matching handprint to your cheek."

Landon's snarl is sharp, his finger tightening on the trigger until the knuckles turn white. For a moment, I actually think he’s going to pull the trigger. The air between us is thick, charged with the kind of electricity that only comes right before a storm—or a murder. Then, the sudden, distinct click of the door handle breaks the silence.

My heart stops. Did I forget to lock it? No, I'd never forget.

A surge of adrenaline hits. The certainty of having locked the door replaced by a flash of doubt, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

Landon freezes at the sound, his focus momentarily fracturing for a split second as his head whips toward the door. That split second is the only opening needed. I move with a sudden, violent surge, throwing my weight into him and flipping our positions in one blurred motion.

Landon is thrown back onto the mattress, and the weight of the struggle shifts as he is pinned down. Now I’m the one straddling him, pinning him deep into the mattress with his legs locked around my waist, creating a frantic, suffocating proximity where every ragged breath and heartbeat is felt between the two.

The gun is the priority, but Landon is quick—even battered and half-dead, he’s a fighter. He stretches his arm out, keeping the gun just out of my reach as we scramble against the pillows. His muscles cord with effort, refusing to yield even as he’s held down.

"Give it up, Landon," I growl, my chest heavy against his.

I reach down and dig my thumb directly into his wrist, the one marked by deep bruises —also the one the kid spent half the night clinging to. He hisses, a sharp sound of agony catching in his throat, face contorting as he curses. 

“Fuck! That hurts!”

The pain causes his grip to falter, and I feel the heat of his skin through the struggle. We're tangled together, the scent of his fever and my sweat mixing in the cramped space.

The gun clatters onto the mattress, landing inches away from our heads. Neither of us make a move for it immediately. 

The intensity of the moment lingers as we remain locked in place, breathing the same air, eyes fixed on one another. The heat of the struggle and the looming threat of whoever is at the door create a tension that is as suffocating as it is quiet.

I hear the door swing open. My fingers find the grip of the gun, and I snap it toward the entrance in one fluid motion. Footsteps click on the hardwood, closing in on us.

As I shift my weight to aim, I end up crushing his hips deeper into the mattress. Landon's legs bend further, the movement pulling violently at the fresh stitches in his side. He lets out a choked, broken whimper that vibrates right through my chest.

"Stop moving!" he hisses, his voice strained and tight with pain.

My mind short-circuits. The command, the sound of his voice right in my ear, and the sheer vulnerability of that whimper make my arm waver. My aim lowers just a fraction as someone finally clears the doorway. I blink myself back to reality and shove the gun forward again.

“Oh! Sorry! I didn't know this room was in use!”

It’s a cleaning lady. Right. This isn’t our place; it’s a temporary stop. Her face turns a deep, embarrassed red as she takes us in. From her angle, she sees me on top of him, our tangled limbs, and the frantic way we’re breathing. She looks down instantly, her hands clasping together in a nervous flutter.

“I-I’ll leave you to it! Sorry to interrupt!”

She scrambles out, pulling the door shut with a frantic click.

Fuck is she talking about?

I look back down at Landon. He’s still pinned beneath me, his face flushed and his chest heaving. The gun is still in my hand, but the "threat" is gone. We’re just stuck here, locked in this position, the silence of the room suddenly feeling a lot heavier than it did a minute ago.

“Did I just hear you whimper? Again?” I smirk, leaning into his space. It’s the perfect time to get on his nerves.

“You didn’t hear shit!” he snaps. He won’t even look at me when he says it, his eyes darting toward the door as if he’s wishing the cleaning lady would come back and save him.

I lower the gun, the cold metal of the barrel tracing the sharp line of his jaw. I follow the curve of his face down to his chin, forcing him to keep still. “You sure? Because it didn’t sound like that to me.”

His breathing is still jagged, his pulse leaping where the gun-sight brushes his skin. He looks like he wants to bite me, but he’s trapped under my weight, bound by those pink princess bandaids and a body that’s failing him.

“Maybe it was the 'squeak' from earlier,” I murmur, my voice dropping an octave. “You’re making a lot of noises today, kukolka.”

“Stop being a fucking creep and get off me!” Landon shoves at my chest, his palms flat against my skin, but I don’t budge. I just lock onto those icy blue eyes and lean back a fraction, enjoying the way his pupils blow out. He’s half-naked, draped in bandages and princess crowns, and I’m still in a towel.

Or I was.

The knot chooses that exact moment to give up the ghost. I don't even feel it slip until the heavy cotton is pooling around my thighs on the mattress. I’m glad it didn’t happen when the first cleaning lady was here; that would’ve painted a picture even I couldn't explain away.

Landon’s breathing hitches—a sharp, ragged intake of air. His eyes drop, his throat working as he swallows hard, before his gaze snaps back up to mine, ten times wider than before.

“Jeremy... why is your dick out..?”

“I took a shower last night. It’s just a dick, what’s the big deal? You have one too.” I look at him like he’s the one being slow.

“Your dick is touching me?!” His voice goes up an octave, a mix of genuine horror and sheer disbelief.

“I’m not insecure, Landon.”

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re not insecure—the problem is that it’s touching me!” He enunciates every word like he’s trying to beat the reality into my head.

“Well, what do you want me to do about that?”

“Get off?!”

I sit up on my knees, shifting my weight so I’m hovering directly over him, his legs still hooked stubbornly around my waist. I reach behind me to grab the towel, unbothered. He’s probably just pissed that mine is likely bigger, though you can’t exactly run a fair comparison right now since I’m as soft as a cloud. He doesn’t look embarrassed, though. He just looks murderous.

I grab the fabric, but before I can wrap it back around my waist, I catch a glimpse of dark ink peeking out from the top of his waistband. It wasn't there last night—I must have had his pants pulled up too high while I was playing nurse.

“What’s that?” My hands fly to his clothed hips, fingers digging into the denim.

“None of your business, you crude fuck. Now put your towel on.”

Not a good answer. I hate being told no. I start unbuttoning his pants, and after the first one pops, he lets out a frantic shout. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

He tries to bring his knee up to my chest, but he’s too far out of alignment to get any power behind it. I snatch his ankle mid-air, pinning it to the mattress while I work the next button with my free hand. He tries to lurch upward to stop me, but the sudden movement yanks at the stitches in his side. He falls back against the pillows with a strangled groan, his face going pale.

“Landon, stay still,” I mutter, ignoring his protests. The physical discomfort from his injury finally forces him to stop fighting, though his eyes remain narrowed and filled with frustration.

I reach the final button, my focus entirely on the mystery of the ink. Just as I begin to pull the denim back to reveal the mark, the door handle turns. The sound is deafening in the quiet room.

A different cleaning lady stands in the doorway, a stack of fresh clothes in her arms. Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene: the disarray of the bed, the bandages, and the compromising position. She doesn't say a word; she simply turns on her heel and retreats, the door clicking shut with a finality that seems to echo. The clothes in her hands forgotten on a nearby cabinet. Killian probably told her to bring some fresh clothes—although they all look like mine. 

Landon lets out a breath that’s half-sob, half-laugh of pure exasperation. “Great. Just great. Everyone in this building is going to have a story by lunch.”

Ignoring the interruption, I finally pull the fabric down just enough. It isn’t another spider or some dark, abstract design. It’s a set of lips, tattooed in a deep, striking red right against his hip bone. The detail is sharp, looking almost like a fresh stamp against his skin.

I reach out, my index finger hovering just above the ink, tracing the shape of it without actually making contact.

“Does Mia know about this?”

Landon exhales a long, rocky breath, his head falling back against the pillow as he gives up on the struggle. “It’s her lips locked on my hips, ” he utters, voice flat and tired.

The answer doesn't sit right. There's a possessive edge to the mark that feels like an intrusion. I study the way the red ink stands out against his pale skin, a permanent reminder of someone else’s claim.

Whatever. I finally shove myself off the bed and knot the towel back around my waist, leaving Landon to hiss and curse at the ceiling. I need my phone. Where the hell did I put it? Right—the pockets of my discarded jeans. I stalk into the bathroom, my bare feet clicking against the tile as I start scouring the pile of ruined clothing on the floor.

Then it hits me. A cold, sharp realization that makes my blood turn to ice.

Oh my god.

I completely forgot to cover myself up. In the chaos of the crash and the adrenaline of the morning, I hadn't even thought about it. My arm tattoos were on full, vivid display the entire time I was straddling him. Did he see them? Did he recognize the ink? Landon is sharp, even when he's half-dead, but I’m praying to whatever god is left that the concussion and the blood loss kept his vision blurry. I grab my jacket from the grime of the bathroom floor and shove my arms through the sleeves, zipping it up to my chin. Better safe than sorry. I can’t afford to be a body he remembers.

I reach down into the mess of denim and finally wrap my fingers around my phone. I tap the screen and the light nearly blinds me. 7:02.

Holy fuck.

I am so beyond done for. I’ve been off the grid for hours. I swipe through the lock screen, my eyes scanning for any sign of disaster, when I see a notification from Cecily.

Be home late! Don’t wait up. Hanging out with the others. ❤️

My grip on the phone tightens until the glass groans. Who the hell are "the others"? And who told her she could go out without me? We’re in Italy, a place where she has no business wandering around unsupervised while I’m tied up in this mess. To say I’m jealous would be an understatement; I’m livid. It’s a white-hot, possessive anger that makes me want to put a fist through the bathroom mirror. I need to know exactly where she is, exactly who she’s with, and exactly what they think they’re doing with what belongs to me.

Don’t wait up?

Oh, I’m waiting, Cecily. I’m going to be waiting right by the door, and she’s going to wish she’d stayed in.

A jagged groan rips through the quiet, dragging my attention away from Cecily’s infuriating text. I shove the phone into my jacket pocket and step out of the bathroom just in time to see Landon tumbling off the bed. His movements are clumsy, his face pale as he tries to find his center of gravity. He actually manages to stick the landing, though it’s about as graceful as a newborn giraffe.

He’s leaning so hard against the mattress that his knuckles are white, his chest heaving under the glittery princess bandaids.

"Where are you going?" I demand, my voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. He’s supposed to be immobile, not staging a pathetic breakout.

He gazes up at me, his eyes glassy but sharp with spite. "Some of us have lives, Volkov. Also..." His gaze rakes over me, a sneer curling his lip. "What the fuck are you wearing? Did Pocahontas have an aneurysm, or is that your new signature look?"

"You're meant to sit still," I snap. I don't give a damn about the jacket; my skin is still crawling from the memory of him seeing my tattoos. I need him gone, but I need him compliant.

"Oh, shut the fuck up. You're not my mom," he rasps, a tremor in his hand as he tries to stand straighter. "Also, when I told you to cover up, I meant your lower body. Not whatever the hell this is."

I look down at my towel-and-jacket combo, then back at his mangled side. "Yeah, okay. Just walk out there half-naked with fresh stitches and glitter on your face. Let’s see if Mia likes the answer you give her when you stumble through the door looking like a crushed disco ball."

"Oh, fuck you," he spits, the anger bringing a faint flush to his cheeks. "I know exactly what I’m gonna tell her."

"Oh yeah? Don’t keep me waiting." I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest, watching him struggle to keep his balance.

He hesitates, his mouth hanging open for a second as he searches for a lie that actually holds water. "I—"

"If you were gonna say you tripped," I cut him off, my voice cold, "I’ll personally escort her back here so she can see the carbon fiber wreckage herself."

"Kill yourself." The words are a tired snarl.

I ignore the death wish, my mind already halfway out the door and halfway across Italy, tracking Cecily. I walk over to the stack of clothes the cleaning lady left and sift through the pile until I find a thick, black hoodie. Without a word, I whip it at his chest.

Landon catches it instinctively, but the sudden reach yanks at the stitches in his side. A sharp, pained hiss whistles through his teeth as he doubles over slightly, clutching the fabric to his gut.

"You fuck!" he gasps, his eyes watering from the jolt. "Couldn't you have just handed it to me like a normal human being?"

"Wear it," I command, my patience for his theatrics non-existent. "Unless you want the whole world seeing the proof of your inability to duck."

"Absolutely not." He glares at the hoodie as if it’s poisoned.

"Okay, suit yourself. Let me just call Mia and check where she might be. I bet she’d love to know why her lover is bleeding out in a random hotel room." My thumb hovers over my phone screen, my expression stone-cold.

Landon’s voice sharpens, his eyes narrowing into lethal slits. "Why the fuck do you even have her number?"

"Let’s ask her." I don't blink. I just wait for the inevitable surrender.

"I hope you die," he mutters, finally shaking the hoodie out with a trembling hand.

The hoodie is massive on him. It’s meant to be loose on my frame, but on his lean, battered body, it’s a black void that practically swallows him whole. He yanks his pants back up with a grimace, finally concealing that red kiss mark and the mess of my handiwork above. He looks like a ghost in oversized streetwear, pale and dangerously fragile.

He starts to shuffle toward the door, his movements stiff and pained, but he freezes mid-step.

A knock.

A real, heavy, deliberate knock. Not the frantic fumbling of a cleaning lady or the accidental turn of a handle. Someone is standing out there, waiting.

“What is it now?” Landon growls out.