RDM | MW [✔]

09. Mingyu

Wonwoo's pain was palpable, and it was so fucking potent, I wanted to shove my fist inside his chest and tear it all out. Hot tears accompanied his rigid gasps, rolling down the base of my neck. The evidence of his sadness burned holes into my tight skin the same way acid would.

The sharp sound of a door slamming drew a harsh flinch from his lithe body, and my boy curled into me as though he was trying to disappear beneath the safety and security of my arms.

"Bad," he sniffled. "Bad. Bad. Bad."

He fingered the stiff fabric of my collar, sweeping his quivering knuckles across the area he'd saturated in blood. He lingered on a rough patch that'd already begun to dry and started to trace it.

"I'm a bad boy," he cried, dragging his blunt nails across the tender spot until small beads of blood broke through the surface and joined the others in coating his fingertips. "Bad. Bad. Bad."

Christ.

Each broken whimper felt like a bullet to my lungs. The jagged holes they left behind filled my chest with blood, making it difficult to breathe as I stood there, holding him in my arms.

Wonwoo was a lot of things—feral, obsessive, misunderstood, curious—but he wasn't fucking bad. My boy had spent his life quietly learning how he fit in a world that wasn't quite capable of understanding him or the bruises he wore across his skin.

I pressed my lips to his ear, kissing along the shell of it. "You are not a bad boy, sweetheart. No fucking way."

"I didn't know it was a secret, Daddy. I swear I didn't."

"I believe you."

Slipping my fingers through his hair, I brushed my thumb across his temple and tried to tamper the irritation I felt swelling beneath my rib cage. The last thing I wanted was for him to note my exhale and blame himself for the sharp, uneven motion.

What the fuck was he even doing here?

Wonwoo worked from home. Six goddamn years he'd worked for Seungcheol and not once had he'd ever been ordered to step foot outside of his apartment.

"Kim." Seungcheol stepped forward, the tone of his voice like a boulder—solid and brutal as it tore through the room. Cold eyes assessed me where I stood, and though I was a bubble of impending rage and unanswered questions, I kept my fucking mouth shut until he spoke again. "Would you like to explain to me what the fuck is going on here?"

"Actually, sir, I was hoping you could explain. Perhaps, you could start by telling me what the hell Wonwoo is doing here."

My words pummeled him the same way a fist to the jaw would. Disrespect wasn't a habit of mine, and I didn't miss the fists he held at his sides or how heavy they looked. When he palmed the place his gun was stored, I knew I'd fucked up.

I just couldn't seem to give a shit.

"If you wanted Wonwoo in this meeting, sir, I would've brought him myself."

"Wonwoo is my employee, Kim, I don't need your fucking permission to call him into my office."

"Wonwoo is mine. He belongs to me. As far as I'm concerned, you need my permission to breathe in his fucking direction."

Silence swept the room, and for a moment, all I heard was the sound of my blood pumping violently beneath my skin and my boy's uncertain whimpers. With a flick of his feeble fingers, Wonwoo reached for the edge of my sports jacket and lifted it just enough that he could bury his head beneath it.

"The last man to speak to me in that tone found himself rotting at the bottom of fucking Pacific. Tell me, Kim, do you have a death wish or are you just stupid?"