Chapter 15
The metal bars through my nipples catch on the inside of my shirt for the hundredth time that day, a sharp little tug that makes me hiss and adjust the fabric.
It’s been four days since Suha had them done, and they still feel raw and tender, a low throb that flares up every time I move wrong.
I’m standing in line at a convenience store, trying to buy a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of water, and the simple act of reaching for my wallet makes the fresh piercings protest. I have to move slower, more carefully, like my whole upper body is suddenly fragile.
It’s nothing compared to the cage.
That’s a whole other level of awareness.
A constant, snug pressure that makes sitting, walking, even just existing, feel different.
It’s not exactly painful, just present. A reminder that sits right at the center of me.
I have to plan my bathroom breaks now, because pissing through the tiny hole at the top is a fucking ordeal that requires concentration and aim.
It’s humiliating in a way that’s almost funny, if I wasn’t the one living it.
Suha’s little lesson in ownership. My pleasure belongs to him, locked away behind a padlock only he has the key for.
And he hasn’t used the key in three days.
That’s what’s really starting to itch under my skin.
He called me over two nights ago, but it was perfunctory.
He’d fucked me against his office wall, hard and fast, unlocked the cage just long enough to get me off with his hand while he watched with those dark, unreadable eyes, then locked it back up before the aftershocks had even finished.
He’d barely spoken. Just took what he wanted and sent me home.
No creative torment, no drawn-out games, no lingering bites. It felt like checking a box.
I doubt you need to pretend you actually care about me.
The clerk rings up my things and I hand over the cash, my mind circling back to that moment in Suha’s bedroom, the way his voice had gone flat and cold when he said it.
It hadn’t sounded like a challenge or a taunt.
It had sounded like he believed it. Like he’d already decided that whatever was between us was a transaction—my body for his dominance, my obedience for his protection.
The bond was just a messy, accidental complication.
But if that was all it was, why say it like that? Why let that sliver of something else slip through the cracks in his control?
I pocket my change and my purchases, stepping back out into the damp Seoul afternoon.
The air is thick with the promise of rain.
I light a cigarette, the first drag doing little to settle the restless energy coiling in my gut.
It’s not just sexual frustration, though that’s a big, loud part of it.
The cage ensures I can’t get properly hard, can’t find any relief on my own.
Every twitch of interest is met with the unyielding press of metal, a literal denial.
It keeps me wound tight, hyper-aware of my own body in a way that’s exhausting.
No, it’s more than that. It’s the distance.
He’s pulling away, even as he keeps me on this short, electronic leash.
The calls are less frequent. The interactions are colder.
It’s like he’s proving his own point to himself: that this is all it is, that I’m just a troublesome possession he has to manage.
And it’s pissing me off. Which is stupid, because what did I expect? Flowers? Dates? We’re bonded because I stalked him and tricked him during his rut. Our relationship is built on kidnapping, torture, and a mutual appreciation for brutal sex. Normal relationship milestones probably don’t apply.
But the bond... the bond doesn’t feel like just a transaction.
It’s a pull in my chest, a quiet, persistent ache that gets sharper the longer I go without his scent, his touch, the heavy weight of his pheromones.
It’s a need that goes deeper than getting my rocks off.
It wants him. Not just an alpha, not just a dominant—Suha. Specifically.
And he’s over there in his fortress of a mansion, probably brooding over his missing uncle and deciding that caring is a weakness he can’t afford, least of all for the chaotic alpha he’s accidentally tied himself to.
I take a long drag off my cigarette, the smoke burning my throat.
Wooil’s words echo in my head. He seems fond of you.
At the time, I’d brushed it off. Now, I’m not so sure.
Letting me walk around, even with a tracker and a cage, is a kind of trust from a man like Suha.
The money he deposits, as if ensuring I don’t need to fight or steal.
.. that’s a form of provision. A fucked-up, controlling form, but provision nonetheless.
Maybe that’s his version of effort. Maybe in his world, ownership is care. Control is affection.
The problem is, I have no idea how to bridge the gap between his language and.
.. whatever it is I’m starting to want. I don’t do feelings.
I do fucking, and fighting, and running.
I do sharp grins and careless taunts. I don’t know how to say, Hey, I know I’m a lot, and this started because I’m a masochist with a death wish, but this bond thing is making me feel weirdly invested in your continued existence and I’d like it if you looked at me like I’m more than just your problem to solve.
I snort to myself, flicking the cigarette butt into a gutter. Yeah, that’d go over great. He’d probably lock me in a different kind of cage.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart does a stupid, hopeful little jump before I can stop it. I yank it out, but it’s just a spam text about a loan. I stare at the screen, at Suha’s contact name—just his initials, Y.S., no emojis, no cute nicknames—and that familiar frustration twists tighter.
He’s out of his depth. I’m out of my depth. We’re two broken, violent men tied together by biology and bad decisions, and neither of us has the first clue how to do anything but clash.
But the not-knowing is starting to feel worse than any punishment he’s ever given me. The silence is worse than the screaming. This weird, cold limbo where I’m his but he’s not really mine, not in any way that matters beyond a piece of metal in my ass and a lock on my cock.
I shove my phone back in my pocket, the movement making the nipple bars pull again. I wince, pressing the heel of my hand briefly against my chest. The piercings throb in time with my heartbeat.
Two reminders. One high, one low. Both saying the same thing: You belong to him.
I just wish he’d act like he wanted to keep me.
I busy myself with the side jobs I asked Wooil for.
They’re mostly boring—delivering mysterious packages to shifty-looking people in back alleys, picking up payments from sketchy characters, acting as a lookout while Wooil does his hacker thing on a mark’s computer system.
It’s busywork. It keeps my hands occupied and my mind from chewing too hard on the cage between my legs or the weird, cold silence from Suha.
It’s during one of these jobs, sitting in a shitty internet cafe waiting for Wooil to finish siphoning data from some accountant’s laptop, that the idea drifts in.
I’m killing time, scrolling through news archives on the grimy public computer, not really looking for anything.
My fingers type in “Yoon Kyungho” almost on their own.
The search brings up a few dry business articles from years ago, back when the Phantom Lotus was still under Suha’s father.
Corporate mergers, charity galas, the usual rich-people nonsense that fronts for criminal empires.
I click through, yawning, my eyes skimming over paragraphs about market shares and philanthropic foundations.
Then I find the funeral announcement.
It’s a society page photo from a newspaper, grainy and black-and-white.
Funeral Services for Syndicate Leader Yoon Jaesang.
A crowd of somber men in black suits stands around a gravesite.
My gaze slides over them, looking for a younger Suha maybe, but he’s not there.
Then I spot a man near the front, his head bowed, his profile sharp against the overcast sky.
Yoon Kyungho.
I lean forward, squinting at the screen. The picture is small, but something about the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders... It’s familiar in a way that makes the back of my neck prickle. I enlarge the image. The pixels blur, but the resemblance doesn’t.
I don’t believe it.
My mind starts turning over, pieces clicking into place with a series of quiet, definitive snaps.
I stare at the photo, but the longer I look the more sure I am.
I’ve just been handed a grenade of information by accident. But what do I do with it?
A plan starts forming, not in a flash of inspiration, but slowly, taking shape like a shadow growing longer.
It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. Suha explicitly told me to stay out of it.
He’d see it as disobedience, as me sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.
He might even see it as a betrayal, like I’m working for the other side.
But he also looked at me with something close to resignation when he said I was the one who always runs. When he said I didn’t need to pretend to care.
This wouldn’t be running. This would be walking straight into the dragon’s den, just from a different angle.
The idea settles in my gut, a heavy, thrilling weight. It’s a terrible plan. The chances of it backfiring spectacularly are about ninety-nine percent. Suha will be furious. He might lock me up for real this time.
But he might also... look at me differently.
It’s more motivation than it really should be, especially for the absolutely suicidal shit I’m about to pull. But that’s enough for me.