BW C10

Chapter 10

Hoeun hurried after him, but Taemuk’s stride was so long it was hard to keep up. For every step he took, Hoeun needed two, even three—nearly a run. His frail body soon begged for air.

“Haa… haa…”

Every footfall ached through him. From dawn until now he had overtaxed himself: the ceremony, the hospital, the hotel… It felt as if he’d poured a week’s worth of movement into a single day.

Taemuk strode into a narrow corridor beside the dining room lavatory. Stairs led up toward the guest floors. Gold lamps burned; a deep-crimson carpet muffled sound; the place was secluded, empty of people.

Hoeun parted his lips. He hadn’t known this existed in the hotel. How did Taemuk?

“Speak.”

Arms folded, Taemuk leaned sideways against the wall, urging him on. His forearms strained the cloth tight—thick enough to threaten seams. Unbothered, he brought a cigarette to his mouth.

“Haa…”

Hoeun pressed his sleeve to his brow, blotting sweat. He wanted to lean on the wall, too, but it felt improper before a superior, so he folded his hands neatly and spoke in a composed voice.

“Deokwoo is all right. He’ll limp for a time, but it’s temporary. They say he’ll be right as rain in a few months.”

“…”

Exhaling smoke, Taemuk lifted a brow—as if he couldn’t fathom what Hoeun was saying. Hoeun sighed faintly and added,

“I mean the servant you threw—in the hall.”

“Ah. The one who charged me with a chair without an ounce of fear.”

“…He did it to save me.”

At the quiet retort, Taemuk snorted.

“Right. He had to save you—from me.”

The meaning was unclear, but Hoeun didn’t ask. That wasn’t the point now. Composing himself again, he stepped a half-pace closer.

“It’s late, and I wrestled with it—but it seemed only right to come and give thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“Yes. For postponing departure. Because you’ve let us stay a night here, I can greet my family and pack. Thank you, truly.”

“Thanks…”

Taemuk took the cigarette from his lips and slicked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Then he straightened and came toward Hoeun. Hoeun held his ground.

By the third step, he had to retreat. The man didn’t look inclined to stop; the oncoming bulk felt like a wall bearing down.

Clomp—clomp.

Shuffle—shuffle.

Hoeun backed; Taemuk advanced—until Hoeun’s shoulders struck the wall. No farther to flee. He looked up, fear in his eyes, as Taemuk leaned down to meet his gaze.

“Tell your father this.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t bother with foolishness—say he shouldn’t toss a crate of bombs in here when there’s not a soul who’d die from it.”

“…Why would Father do such a thing?”

“Who knows. To kill me?”

Hoeun blinked fast, long lashes fluttering hard.

Taemuk frowned—as if the brush of those lashes tickled his jaw. He edged his head back; Hoeun, instead, lifted his chin, eyes blazing with a fire he hadn’t shown before.

“Father acted to repay the service of those who defend the nation. Kill you? Absurd.”

“Bullshit.”

“Mind your tongue!”

Startled by Hoeun’s sudden bark, Taemuk chuckled. Rubbing one eyelid with the hand that held his cigarette, he scolded without preface,

“Not as bright as you look, are you.”

“What now…”

Anger creased Hoeun’s pale face. Taemuk closed in, quick—Hoeun jolted, cracked the back of his head against the wall, too shocked to feel the pain. Bowing a little lower, Taemuk spoke, voice deeper than before.

“If I die—a Military God—then you, a guide, can be discharged.”

“Dis…charged?”

“Right. You’d be useless as a guide, so they discharge you. That’s the law.”

Hoeun repeated it, eyes unblinking. So his father would kill Taemuk to keep him from the front—and then he could be legally discharged?

Not just anyone—this was a general. The man said to have slain more monsters than any in history. The one most needed in this era of ruin. And the only person to whom Hoeun’s usefulness might ever matter. Murdered, by his father.

His lip trembled.

“I think you’ve forgotten I stood in that ceremony.”

“…”

“If Father bore such intent, he would not have sent me there to begin with. That would be simpler than throwing bombs, wouldn’t it?”

“…”

“Don’t misread his intentions so shallowly.”

Hoeun was angry. Treat him however one wished—but not his father. He did not deserve such treatment. It seemed best to end this meeting now. Any more words would only sour into worse feeling.

He shifted to slip past Taemuk and the wall. Thump. Taemuk braced an arm against it.

“Ah, you’re right—try to understand me. I’m that sort. Think short thoughts, short on learning.”

Hoeun’s face twisted. What now?

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“Then that’s that.”

“Why do you keep—”

“So. Will you come with me tomorrow?”

“Hah… Yes. I will.”

“Know where we’re going?”

“No. You haven’t told me. But if you go, I go. You are my Military God; I am your guide.”

“…”

For a moment, Taemuk’s eyes settled. He tapped the wall with his finger—tok, tok, tok. The sound pricked; Hoeun hunched, then straightened.

“Hard country for a polished young master to set foot in.”

“I’m prepared.”

“How much?”

“Sir?”

“How prepared are you.”

Hoeun felt belittled. As if to say, What could you possibly be ready for? Better you don’t get in the way. Whether Taemuk thought it or not, Hoeun felt it keenly.

“I’ll do anything.”

His tone was firm. He hadn’t walked into that ceremony without that much in mind. He had thought it through—to the end. To dying on a battlefield, eaten by monsters.

“Anything?”

“Yes. Anything.”

Taemuk thrust the cigarette toward him—close, as if to brand his face. Hoeun squeezed his eyes shut against the nearing ember.

Sssk—

Thankfully, the tip ground out beside his ear. Hoeun blinked, brows lifting—another crude tease, he thought. And then—

Grab.

Taemuk caught his jaw, rough and sudden—then their mouths locked.

“…”

Hoeun’s eyes flew wide. He froze, slow to grasp the act. When Taemuk drew in his whole lower lip—slurp—his mind snapped back.

“What are—”

He shoved at Taemuk’s chest, propriety be damned. Taemuk didn’t budge. Instead, his large hand clamped Hoeun’s jaw and cheek together, and his tongue thrust deep through the parted teeth.

It was hot. It tasted of tobacco, of liquor—none of them friends to Hoeun. And most foreign of all was Taemuk’s taste—if one could call it that; yet it was his.

“Mmph—gh—mm…”

Taemuk ravaged him without care—sucking, biting, tangling, spearing at teeth and palate. With each stroke, Hoeun’s pale cheeks bulged and flattened. Sometimes the tongue pushed so deep he gagged short and sharp.

His mouth felt seared, as if pressed to a brazier. When breath failed and his throat worked on its own—gulp, gulp—Taemuk’s saliva slid down with it, intolerably degrading.

“Hmpf—hng—mm—mph!”

Even with his mouth stopped, he tried to cry out, clawing at the hand on his jaw—but the tighter he fought, the deeper the kiss seemed to drive.

At last their teeth clicked—tak, tak—and when Taemuk misjudged his force, the tongue slipped free to rake his philtrum or chin.

Hoeun struck, shoved, kicked—fiercely. The fury didn’t last.

“Hh…”

His limbs went slack. Resistance took strength. He had never spent it like this; the world spun. Fever again—or heat stolen from Taemuk—burned through him.

Feeling the fight gutter, Taemuk crushed him closer, an arm cinched around that fine, narrow waist, and ravaged more ardently still. The lovely silk crushed under his hands, wrinkled to ruin.