Vane was healing with a speed that defied medical logic. The doctors called it a robust constitution; Ren knew it was sheer, stubborn arrogance. Vane simply refused to let a bullet hole dictate his life. However, the "New Ren"—the one who had cleared a cannery with a .45—wasn't as easily intimidated as the boy who had first arrived at the estate.
Ren sat in the armchair by the bed, peeling an orange with a small silver knife, his eyes fixed on a book. He was dressed in a soft cream sweater, looking deceptively innocent despite the memories of the night before.
"Ren," Vane's voice was a low, gravelly vibration that usually made Ren's knees weak.
"No," Ren said, not looking up.
"I didn't even ask for anything yet."
"You were thinking it. I can hear your pulse from here, Vane. The monitor is literally telling on you." Ren pointed to the screen, where the heart rate was beginning to climb into a steady, rhythmic gallop.
Vane groaned, a sound of pure frustration. He shifted, the hospital gown straining against his broad shoulders. Even pale and bandaged, he radiated the strength of a thousand men—a caged predator waiting for the latch to slip. He watched the way Ren's throat moved as he swallowed, the way the light caught the silver thorn in his ear.
"I'm dying," Vane stated flatly.
"The doctor said you could be discharged in two days."
"I'm dying of boredom. And hunger." Vane's eyes darkened, dropping to the curve of Ren's hips. "I haven't touched you in a week, Ren. My blood is practically humming."
Ren finally looked up, setting the fruit aside.
He walked over to the bed, but instead of leaning in, he tucked the duvet tightly around Vane's waist. "Until you recover, Vane. Until the stitches are out and you can walk a mile without huffing. No. Intimacy."
Then, the impossible happened.
Vane Blackwood—the Lion of the North, the man who had burned a city to find his soul—pouted. His lower lip didn't move, but his brow furrowed, and he slumped back into the pillows with a heavy, dramatic sigh, looking away toward the window like a spoiled prince.
Ren froze, his hands still on the duvet. He was utterly shocked. "Did you just... are you pouting?"
Vane turned his head back, his eyes softening into a look of such calculated, puppy-like longing that Ren felt his resolve crumbling like dry sand.
"Isn't my love going to give me what I want?" Vane asked, his voice dropping to a silk-thin whisper.
Ren's face went from pale to a vivid, burning crimson. He was flushed and completely dumbfounded. The man who had once commanded him to kneel was now using "love" as a tactical weapon of seduction.
"This... this is a hospital! Stop this!" Ren hissed, looking toward the glass door where a nurse was passing by.
Vane reached out, his hand—strong and steady—snaking around Ren's waist and pulling him flush against the side of the bed. The strength in that grip was a reminder that even "weak," Vane was a force of nature.
"I can have you anywhere, Ren. No one can stop me," Vane murmured, his hand sliding up under the hem of Ren's sweater, his thumb tracing the skin of Ren's spine with a heat that made Ren's head spin. "The doctors, the guards... they all work for me. If I want to lock that door and keep you for the next six hours, who is going to tell me no?"
"Vane, please—"
Vane leaned up, ignoring the sharp tug of his stitches, and pressed his forehead against Ren's. His breath was hot, smelling of peppermint and the dark, familiar scent of cedarwood.
"Let me have you, baby," Vane whispered.
Ren turned a shade of red that matched the "In Surgery" lights. The word baby coming from Vane's mouth was a shock to the system—it was an endearment so out of character, yet so raw, that it felt like a brand.
"You're... you're whipped," Ren stuttered, his heart fluttering so hard it felt like it would burst.
"I am whatever you want me to be," Vane growled, his lips brushing against Ren's ear, "as long as you get into this bed and remind me why I bothered staying alive."
Ren looked at the door, then back at the dark, hungry eyes of the man he loved. He knew he should be the responsible one, the one to uphold medical advice. But Vane was looking at him with a mix of vulnerability and absolute power that was impossible to resist.
"One hour," Ren whispered, his hand reaching for the lock on the door. "And if you tear a stitch, I'm calling the nurse myself."
Vane's smile was triumphant and terrifying. He pulled Ren onto the bed, his arms closing around him like a trap made of velvet. "I'll take my chances."