𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

28.

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.