Captive: Sold To The Fox-eyed Alpha Who I Hate Chapter 38: I’m staying where I can breathe

Ren bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted his own blood. He was at a disadvantage, caught between his hatred and the pragmatic reality of their survival. If Cilian’s wound beca infected here, they would both die. And if the villagers grew suspicious, there were no guards to hide behind.

"Fine," Ren hissed, stepping forward into the cloud of steam. The heat hit his face, damp and heavy. "But don’t you dare say a word. Not one."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Cilian murmured, though the triumph in his eyes said otherwise, and Ren scowled at him.

Ren reached out, his fingers brushing against Cilian’s chest as he took over the task of unbuttoning the ruined shirt. The fabric was stiff with dried brine and blood. As the shirt fell away, Ren’s breath hitched. The wound was in pretty bad shape. The stitches he had carefully placed days ago were shredded, the flesh raw and scrunching.

Cilian let out a low groan as the air hit the injury, his head falling back against the bamboo pole of the hut. For a mont, he wasn’t the monster or the master; he was just a man breaking under the weight of his own stubbornness.

"Sit and don’t move," Ren commanded, his voice softening despite his resolve to stay mad.

He guided Cilian toward the edge of the stone basin. The water hissed softly as they approached, the volcanic rocks beneath keeping the temperature at a steady, soul-deep heat.

Ren began to peel away the rest of their salt-ruined clothes, his movents fast and precise, trying to ignore the way the steam made Cilian’s skin glisten, or the way the Alpha’s eyes never left his face.

As they both lowered themselves into the water, the heat was an agonizing relief.

Ren felt the salt wash away, feeling all his tensed muscles release and relax.

Hah, this is great. He thought, already on the verge of closing his eyes, but as he turned to face Cilian in the mist, he realized that ’Ah, I’m bathing with Cilian.’

It was not a regular bath, but it was still a bath that required both to be naked, and right now, facing each other in their naked bodies, anything could happen.

His face heated up right away, and he quickly turned to head to the other end of the stone basin. Though it was not huge, it wasn’t small enough that they had to gum bodies together.

The water was clear, the steam was thick, and they were trapped in a circle of stone and secrets. And he would rather not have to deal with the ’secret’ part.

"Where are you going, Ren?" Cilian asked, having that lodic hum in his voice which made Ren certain that he would rather be on the other end than face Cilian’s insistent taunts.

But Cilian wouldn’t exactly leave him be, now, would he?

The steam had beco a thick, white shroud, cutting off the rest of the world until there was nothing left but the hiss of water and the heavy, chilling scent of Cilian’s pheromones.

Even in the tropical heat of the basin, Cilian’s scent hit Ren like a sudden winter—the sharp, biting sll of frost, and it made Ren’s skin prickle with a familiar, agonizing tension.

Ren stayed on the far side of the stone basin, his back pressed against the rough, warm rock. He watched Cilian through the mist. The Alpha was slumped against the rim, his head lolled back, and his eyes closed. The water around his right shoulder was clouded with a faint, swirling pink where the salt was drawing the blood from his raw, mangled skin.

"What are you doing over there, Ren?" Cilian’s voice was a low, lodic hum that vibrated through the water, shivering against Ren’s skin.

"None of your business."

"But why are you over there?"

"I’m staying where I can breathe," Ren snapped.

He tried to focus on the feeling of the water on his legs, trying to ground himself in the physical reality of the bath rather than the man across from him.

And then, as if he already knew what Cilian would say next, he cut through,

"Don’t call for help; clean yourself. You have a good hand. Use it."

"Ah, can you read minds now, Ren?" he asked, his voice still lodic, despite how much pain he was in.

Everything seed like a joke or playti to Cilian. He never stopped smiling like a damn fox, and even when it looked like they were about to die on that plane, his lips were still curled, like he had the entire situation under control. Or like they were shooting a movie, and he could ’redo’ the takes.

It was so annoying. So infuriating, and so...

Ren heard a soft, wet splash and the sound of Cilian’s breath hitching in a sharp, pained roughness.

Ren didn’t move at first. He told himself he didn’t care. He told himself that if Cilian bled out in the water, it was only justice for the Pierce na.

But then he heard the scrape of Cilian’s nails against the stone as he tried to reach for the cloth, followed by a low, broken grunt.

Ren’s eyes snapped open to take a quick peek at the situation.

Cilian was leaning precariously over the edge, his right arm dangling uselessly, his face pale and slick with sweat and steam. The sight of it—the raw, physical vulnerability of the man who had always seed invincible—hit Ren like a physical blow to the stomach.

The sight of it made him unable to remain completely calm and unbothered even in this mont.

But he told himself, ’The locals won’t look at nicely if they find out my presud ’husband’ died while I was in the bath with him.’ Yes, that was his perfect excuse.

"Dammit," Ren whispered.

He moved. His body moved before his mind could hatch any more excuses to justify helping the enemy, cutting through the water until he was kneeling in the shallows right beside Cilian.

He snatched the cloth from the rim, his movents jerky and frustrated.

"I told you to sit still," Ren hissed, but as he pressed the warm, damp cloth against the edge of the wound, his touch was instinctively light.

Cilian didn’t make a joke. He didn’t tease Ren about being a nanny. He just let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned his weight into Ren’s shoulder, his forehead coming to rest against Ren’s collarbone.

The contact was electric. Ren could feel the heat of Cilian’s skin and the erratic thrum of his heart.

"The salt," Cilian murmured, his voice stripped of its armor. "It feels like glass in the muscle. It stings a lot, Ren."