HIS PRINCESS | K.TH

Hundred Pushups

TAEHYUNG

"V hyung."

Jungkook's voice is hushed as he tips his head towards the closed door. He winces as he runs a fingertip over the corner of his mouth.

My jaw flexes when I see a smear of red.

"Did he hit you?"

"My fault," He murmurs, his expression twisting. "I was thinking about something else, when I shouldn't have."

Then he motions. "He's in there. I'll be here just in case."

I nod. My lips purse in a flat line as I stride through the door, shutting it behind me. There's a pleasure snaking up my throat that I can barely suppress.

Finally.

Min Kian.

He was close to my father. Had been— until he'd recently been found sapping money for himself. My father had instantly stripped him of everything and had thrown him into Jungkook's mercy, with an order to kill.

He grins at me, a streak of blood drying on the side of his face.

"Interesting."

"What might the precious son of Kim Haein be doing in a place like this?"

I stare back, gaze fixed on his crooked smirk.

Cold-blooded snake.

He was only thirty. A few years older than I was, and had already murdered over hundreds under my father's orders. His beady eyes are sliding— flickering, everywhere. Even now, looking for a chance to escape his death sentence.

I laugh.

"I don't think you realize how serious this is."

My fist drives into his temple. And the chair binding him tips, crashing to the floor. He gasps, sputtering in shock. As if he hadn't expected that at all, from me.

Of course.

Only Jungkook and Jimin knew that I fought in the Underground.

A smile ghosts on my lips as I step on one of his hands, my foot angled closer towards his fingers. The blood drains from his face, and I lazily rock back and forth, playing with him and the fear slowly shadowing his face.

I could easily break his fingers. Any of them.

My voice is low as I whisper.

"That was for touching Jungkook."

Then I press down. And I hear the clean snap of bone as his ring finger gives under my foot, before his agonized screams fill the small room. I revel in the sound.

"And that's for Jimin, three years ago."

He continues screaming.

"I don't fucking know a Jimin!"

"Oh, I know," I muse. "You've hurt so many that it just all slips from your mind, doesn't it?"

My voice is deathly soft as I remind him, of what he had done. He's begging, barely listening to me through his pain. All I can hear is his pleads, echoing against the walls.

"You really don't remember about the bartender you made a fucking mess out of three years ago?"

His face dawns with realization.