Chapter Eighty-Six: The Devil's Homecoming
The sound of the front door slamming shut cut through the storm like a gunshot.
I was already off the bed, already running, my bare feet slapping against the cold marble, the flashlight forgotten on the nightstand. The hallway was dark, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning through the windows, but I didn't need light to find him. I would have found him in the dark. I would have found him anywhere.
He was in the foyer, dripping water onto the marble, his black shirt plastered to his chest, his hair dark and slick against his forehead. Rain ran in rivers down his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He was breathing hard—not from exertion, but from something else. Something that looked like terror.
His eyes found mine.
And the world stopped.
"You idiot."
The words tore out of me, raw and broken. I launched myself at him, my fists slamming against his chest, over and over, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make a point. "You idiot! You drove through that storm? You could have died! The roads are flooded, you can't see anything, you—you—"
He caught my wrists, his hands warm despite the rain, his grip gentle but unbreakable. He didn't try to stop me, didn't try to calm me. He just held my hands against his chest, over his heart, and let me feel it pounding beneath my palms.
"I could have died," he agreed, his voice low and rough. "But I didn't."
"That's not the point!"
"It's the only point."
I looked up at him, and the tears came again—hot and furious and helpless. "You scared me. I was alone, and the power went out, and the thunder kept coming, and you weren't here, and I thought—I thought—"
His hands released my wrists, sliding up to cup my face. His thumbs brushed away my tears, gentle despite the rain still dripping from his hair. "What did you think, Angel?"
"I thought you weren't coming back."
The words hung between us, fragile and terrible. I saw something crack in his expression—that careful control, that iron mask—and beneath it was the same fear I'd been drowning in. The same terror. The same desperate, clawing need.
"Angel." His voice broke on the word. "I will always come back. Through storms. Through fire. Through whatever hell this world throws at me. I will always come back to you."
"You could have died."
"Then I would have died driving toward you." He pulled me closer, his forehead dropping to mine. "There's no better way."
I hit his chest again, but there was no force behind it. Just the need to touch him, to feel him, to prove he was real. "You're insane. You're absolutely insane."
"I'm in love." His lips brushed my forehead, my temple, the corner of my eye. "It's the same thing."
A sound escaped me—half laugh, half sob. I was crying and smiling, clinging to him like he might disappear if I let go, and I didn't care. I didn't care about the water soaking through my clothes, about the cold, about the storm still raging outside. He was here. He was warm. He was mine.
"I hate you," I whispered into his chest.
"I know."
"I hate you so much."
"I know, Angel."
He held me for a long moment, his arms wrapped around me, his face buried in my hair. The rain dripped off him, pooling at our feet, but neither of us moved. The storm howled outside, rattling the windows, but in the circle of his arms, it was quiet. It was safe.
Then I pulled back, sniffling, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "You're soaking wet. You're going to get sick."
"I don't get sick."
"Everyone gets sick."
"I'm not everyone." He smirked, that familiar, infuriating smirk, and something in my chest loosened. "I'm your husband. I'm invincible."
"You're an idiot."
"Your idiot."
I grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the stairs. "Come on. You need to change."
He let me pull him, his fingers laced through mine, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin. The house was still dark, still cold, but the storm seemed farther away now. Or maybe I just couldn't hear it over the sound of my own heart.
---
The bathroom was cold, the tiles like ice under my bare feet. I flipped on the flashlight, setting it on the counter so its beam bounced off the mirrors, filling the room with soft, fractured light.
Taehyun stood in the middle of the room, dripping onto the floor, watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"Take off your clothes," I said.
His brow arched. "Angel—"
"You're dripping everywhere. You're going to catch a cold." I crossed my arms, trying to look stern, trying to ignore the way my heart was racing. "Take them off."
A slow smile spread across his face—that smile, the one that made my knees weak and my pulse stutter. "Are you trying to seduce me, wife?"
"I'm trying to keep you from dying of pneumonia." I grabbed a towel from the rack and threw it at his chest. "Now strip."
He caught the towel, his eyes never leaving mine. His fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, slow and deliberate, undoing them one by one. The wet fabric clung to his skin, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the fading bruise beneath his ribs where the bullet had nearly ended him.
I swallowed. Looked away. Looked back. Couldn't help it.
"You're staring," he observed, his voice low and amused.
"I'm supervising."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Shut up and take off your shirt."
He laughed—a real laugh, warm and rich—and shrugged out of the wet fabric, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy splat. His skin glistened in the flashlight's glow, water tracing paths down his shoulders, his chest, the lines of muscle that made him look like something carved by a vengeful god.
I grabbed another towel and stepped toward him. "Bend down."
"Excuse me?"
"You're taller than me. I can't reach your head. Bend down."
He bent, just slightly, just enough to bring his face level with mine. His eyes were dark, warm, dancing with something that looked like joy. I wrapped the towel around his head and started drying his hair, rubbing vigorously, trying to ignore the way his breath fanned across my face.
"You're being very aggressive with my hair," he murmured.
"Your hair is very wet."
"You're enjoying this."
"I'm tolerating this." I pulled the towel away, fluffing his hair with my fingers, trying to ignore how soft it was, how good he smelled despite the rain. "There. Presentable."
He caught my wrist, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. "You're blushing."
"It's cold in here."
"It's not that cold."
I tried to pull away, but he held on, his grip gentle but insistent. His other hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip.
"You were scared," he said quietly.
I looked away. "I was fine."
"You were scared. And I wasn't here." His voice dropped, rough with guilt. "I should have been here."
"You had business—"
"Nothing is more important than you." His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. "Nothing, Angel. Not the business. Not the empire. Not the whole damn world. You're the only thing that matters."
My throat tightened. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because—" I swallowed. "Because it makes me feel things."
His lips curved. "What kind of things?"
"Annoyed things. Frustrated things." I pressed my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "Things I don't want to feel."
He leaned closer, his forehead resting against mine. "Feel them anyway."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I don't know how."
"Then let me teach you."
His lips brushed mine, soft and tentative, like he was asking permission. I gave it, leaning into him, my hands fisting in the damp towel still draped around his shoulders. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet and achingly tender, and I forgot about the storm, about the dark, about the fear that had been choking me.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Better?" he murmured.
"Maybe." I bit my lip. "Do it again."
He laughed—that warm, genuine sound that made my heart flip—and kissed me again. Harder this time. Deeper. His hands slid down my back, pulling me against him, and I could feel the heat of his skin through my thin pajamas.
"You're still wet," I said against his mouth.
"Get used to it."
"I'm trying to dry you off."
"You're trying to drive me insane." His lips found my jaw, my throat, the sensitive spot below my ear. "And it's working."
"Taehyun—"
"Angel." His voice was rough, urgent, desperate. "I drove through a storm for you. I would drive through hell. I would burn down heaven. I would tear apart the fabric of reality itself if it meant finding you on the other side."
My breath caught. "That's very dramatic."
"I'm very dramatic." He pulled back, his eyes dark and serious. "I love you. I know you're not ready to hear it. I know you're still figuring out who you are, who you were, who you want to be. But I need you to know—I love you. I've loved you since before you knew my name. I'll love you until the stars burn out and the universe collapses into nothing."
The tears came again, but I was smiling through them. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm yours."
I pulled him down and kissed him, fierce and desperate and full of all the things I couldn't say. He made a sound—something between a groan and a sigh—and lifted me, setting me on the edge of the counter, stepping between my legs.
"Wife," he murmured against my lips.
"Husband."
"Stop trying to dry my hair."
"Stop being so distractingly wet."
He laughed, the sound vibrating through me. "I can't help it. I drove through a storm."
"For me."
"Always for you."
I pulled the towel off his shoulders and wrapped it around his neck, tugging him closer. "You're an idiot."
"Your idiot."
"Mine."
Something shifted in his eyes—something dark and possessive and achingly tender. "Say that again."
"Mine."
He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the taste of my breath, the sound of the small, helpless noise I made when his teeth grazed my lower lip.
"Yours," he whispered. "Always yours."
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