The long corridor of the hotel was hollow and silent, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of hurried, heavy footsteps.
Hunter Huo carried Silas Shen, and with every step he took, blood from his left arm dripped from his fingertips onto the carpet, blooming into dark red, heart-stopping flowers. His face was deathly pale, and bouts of dizziness from the blood loss assaulted him, but the arms holding Silas remained as steady as forged iron.
The person in his arms had completely succumbed to chaos.
Silas's slender fingers clutched the front of Hunter's white shirt so hard his knuckles turned white. He was terrifyingly hot; his forehead rested against the crook of Hunter's neck, and his shallow, rapid breaths carried a desperate scent of cold fir. This was a heat cycle forced into premature ripeness by low-grade synthetic pheromones—violent and disordered, it was dismantling the young professor's prized logic inch by inch.
Beep—!
The moment the door was swiped open, Hunter kicked it shut with his back and carefully laid his treasure down on the massive, pristine white bed.
"Professor... Silas, we're back." Hunter's voice was hoarse beyond recognition.
Disregarding his left sleeve, which was almost entirely soaked in blood, he pulled the duvet over Silas, wrapping him tightly. Silas was currently trapped in a cycle of extreme chills and scorching heat, his body trembling uncontrollably. Those eyes, usually as clear as crushed ice, were now clouded with a thick mist, staring vacantly into the void.
"...It hurts." A fragmented moan escaped Silas's lips, like a fine needle piercing the center of Hunter's heart.
Hunter knelt by the bedside, his gaze fixed on Silas's face. He saw that habitually stoic, restrained countenance flushed with a sickly crimson; even the corners of his eyes were rimmed with a physiological redness born of pain.
"I'm not leaving. I'm right here."
Hunter took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the lingering violent aura from the fight. He closed his eyes and began to slowly, precisely mobilize his pheromones.
The scent of sun-drenched oranges—which had been spicy, manic, and tinged with blood in the alley—lost all its sharp edges upon entering the room. It became infinitely gentle, like shards of sunlight filtering through leaves on a summer afternoon, or the warm, slow-rising tide of the ocean.
The pure scent of oranges began to permeate the room, seeping bit by bit toward the center of the bed, tenderly and firmly enveloping the fir tree that was swaying in the storm.
"Mngh..."
Sensing the familiar pheromones, Silas's tightly knit brows smoothed slightly. He instinctively moved toward the heat source until his forehead pressed against Hunter's uninjured palm.
This was the primal soothing of an Omega by a top-tier Alpha.
Hunter watched him, his eyes filled with a tenderness so thick it was inseparable from pain. His injured left hand hung at his side, blood already sliding down his wrist into his palm, but he seemed unable to feel the sting. He simply continued to mechanically release soothing pheromones.
He knew Silas was in a dangerous state. The synthetic inducer didn't just trigger heat; it induced severe terror and dependency. If he left now to tend to his wound, Silas's nerves might simply snap.
"It's okay, Professor Shen. I'm right here," Hunter murmured, leaning his forehead against Silas's. "No one can hurt you anymore."
Time ticked away in the stillness.
Inside the room, the scents of orange and fir began a slow, tentative fusion. The orange scent acted like invisible hands, patiently smoothing the frantic flames licking at the branches of the fir. Silas's breathing gradually stabilized, but the profound weakness radiating from his bones made Hunter's heart beat faster and faster.
He saw Silas's long hair scattered across the white pillow—the extreme contrast of black and white creating a heartbreaking sense of fragility.
Suddenly, as if waking from a nightmare, Silas's eyes snapped open.
They were still unfocused, yet filled with panic. He reached out a hand, grasping weakly at the air until he caught the hem of Hunter's shirt, only then quieting down.
"Ranran..." he whispered, his voice carrying a brokenness that made one want to offer him the entire world. "Don't turn off the lights... it's so dark."
"The lights are on, Professor. They've been on the whole time." Hunter took his hand, finding Silas's palm covered in cold sweat.
Just then, a long-accumulated drop of blood from Hunter's arm finally slid down the wound. With a soft splat, it landed on the back of Silas's pale hand.
That smear of red was startlingly vivid in their line of sight.
Silas's pupils constricted. The heat of that single drop of blood seemed to sear through his skin and directly into the depths of his consciousness. He followed the trail of the blood until he finally saw the long, jagged gash on Hunter's arm.
The wound was gaping, still seeping crimson fluid, and the fabric of the shirt was a matted, ruined mess.
"You... you're bleeding." Silas's voice trembled violently. He struggled to sit up, but the fever of his heat had robbed him of all strength. "Go to the hospital... go, quickly..."
"I'm fine, it's just a scratch." Hunter pressed down on his shoulders soothingly, forcing a pale smile. "Really. I'm an Alpha; we heal fast. A cut like this will be fine after a night's sleep. Take care of yourself first."
Silas stared at the wound, and his eyes instantly reddened.
This arrogant student of his—this pampered scion of a financial tycoon who was always causing trouble and acting out—had actually been slashed like this just to protect him. And he, the professor, could only lie here, letting instinct consume his reason.
Self-reproach, guilt, and the overwhelming surge of love sparked by the merging pheromones finally shattered Silas's last line of defense.
"Does it hurt?" Silas reached out a finger, wanting to touch it but not daring to, his voice choked.
"Seeing that you're okay, it doesn't hurt anymore." Hunter leaned in closer until their noses almost brushed. The orange pheromones suddenly became intense, carrying a magical "comforting" power. "Professor, don't cry. If you cry, then I'm really going to die of pain."
Silas closed his eyes, letting tears slide down his temples and into his hair.
He could feel it—the gland at the back of his neck was thumping frantically, like a small star about to go supernova. His body was screaming for a mark. Not a superficial, temporary comfort, but a deeper, possessive sanctuary.
In the face of such a potent inducer, mere soothing pheromones were no longer enough.
Silas knew what the next choice meant. Once that step was taken, the fragile veil of the "teacher-student" relationship between him and Hunter would be torn to shreds.
But when he opened his eyes again and saw Hunter's exhausted yet fiercely protective eyes, all his reservations turned to dust.
The sounds of the Haicheng waves reached his ears, seemingly urging the lost to return to harbor.
Silas bit his lower lip and, using every ounce of his strength, shifted closer to Hunter. His hand, still clutching the hem of Hunter's shirt, did not let go; instead, it slid down the fabric and into the center of the youth's burning palm.