Chapter 24

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Cherriot sulked easily, though his moods shifted just as quickly. The fear lingering beneath his expression had not entirely vanished, yet he carried the resilient air of someone who chose to savor the moment rather than brood over misfortunes he could not immediately resolve. To Yuri, it was a refreshing change from watching him paralyzed by terror—though, as he observed Cherriot, he couldn’t help but wonder if the man was treading dangerously close to reckless optimism.

“Wolfie, the water’s colder than I thought,” Cherriot said.

He had been clamoring to go for a swim since before they arrived and had rushed straight to the lake the moment they returned. But after dipping his feet in, he had promptly retreated. Yuri glared at him, a flicker of unease tightening in his chest—like watching a child left near deep water. Finding the coast clear and no real danger present, he eventually let it go. Cherriot was no child. He was well into his twenties, a professional athlete, certainly capable of handling a swim.

“Then why not just stay quietly inside?” Yuri asked dryly.

“But the lake is so pretty.”

Yuri didn’t bother answering. Instead, he began unpacking the groceries. He had never bought so much food in his life and had no idea how to store it all. As he stood there at a loss, Cherriot pressed close to his side.

“I’m starving, so we should eat first. What should we have?”

“Sandwiches,” Yuri replied, in a tone that implied the question was absurd.

“Are you serious?”

Yuri was ravenous, and nothing could be prepared faster than sandwiches. He shrugged, retrieved the bread, and began tearing off pieces of the iceberg lettuce Cherriot had insisted on buying. Heading for the sink, he could feel Cherriot leaning against the kitchen island, eyes following every movement with a weight that felt slightly intrusive. Still, Yuri kept to his routine.

He rarely touched jam, though he occasionally mixed marmalade with peanut butter. None was available here. He placed two slices of bread on the counter, layered the washed lettuce, rinsed a plate from the cupboard, and added strips of bacon. Cherriot, watching the entire process, groaned as if in physical pain.

When Yuri placed the bacon in the microwave and shut the door, Cherriot darted forward, his voice rising to a near-scream.

“How can you possibly heat bacon in a microwave?”

Yuri turned to see him looking utterly horrified.

Such a fuss over nothing.

“One minute and twenty seconds cooks it well enough,” he said flatly.

“Something heated like that isn’t food,” Cherriot declared, aghast.

Unbelievable.

Cherriot snatched the plate from the microwave and physically steered Yuri away from the kitchen.

“I’m starving,” Yuri protested, reaching to reclaim the plate. “Why don’t you mind your own business and make whatever you intend to eat?”

“What is that supposed to mean? If I’m making food, I should make enough for two!”

“Then let me make the sandwiches.”

“This isn’t a sandwich. This is a monstrosity made with untoasted bread and raw bacon.”

“The bread is already baked. Why bake it aga—”

Before Yuri could finish, Cherriot clamped his hands firmly on his shoulders, lowered his head to meet Yuri’s gaze, and spoke with solemn gravity.

“Please leave the kitchen for just ten minutes. I’ll make them in that time.”

Well, look at that.

Cherriot’s grip was surprisingly strong; Yuri couldn’t easily pull away. Pushing him off would only escalate the mood, so he swallowed a sigh.

“Ten minutes,” he agreed.

“Take a shower or something,” Cherriot said. “I’m only suggesting it because, unlike me, you haven’t had a chance to wash yet.”

Yuri remembered he had intended to wash immediately upon arrival. Despite disliking the feeling of obeying Cherriot, he turned toward the bathroom. As he tried to recall whether he had seen any towels, Cherriot spoke again, as if reading his thoughts.

“The towels here all need to be washed first, so use the one I took out. It’s on the sofa.”

Yuri glanced over and saw a large beach towel draped across the sofa. He wondered if Cherriot had meant it for the lake, but his need to wash was too insistent. He grabbed the towel and went inside.

In the bathroom, Yuri stripped off the shirt Cherriot had provided. He had been aware of its high-quality fabric the entire time he wore it, but now he noticed blood on the left sleeve. It hadn’t seeped through fully, yet the smeared lining made for an ugly sight. The injury pulsed with reality.

Raising his arm to the mirror, he studied the long, vertical laceration tracing the bullet’s path. It had closed overnight, likely requiring no stitches, but it clearly demanded care. Since he had no fever, it seemed free of infection. After a moment, Yuri wet Cherriot’s shirt with warm water.

The blood had dried while they were out, and warm water did little to cleanse the fabric. Frowning, he stepped into the shower booth. He could afford to replace the shirt, certainly, but the guilt of having ruined clothing lent in kindness gnawed at him. It felt as if he had defiled a piece of Cherriot.

Technically, he had been dragged into Cherriot’s business, yet it still felt wrong.

As water soaked him, the dried blood around his wound began to run, gathering at his feet. The stinging pain he had ignored surged from his forearm, and Yuri quietly cleaned the wound before washing the rest of his body. After finishing, he rinsed the shower booth thoroughly to ensure no trace of blood remained.

He attempted to hand-wash the shirt again after hanging it up briefly, but the stain only spread.

This is troublesome.

He usually wore black, and on the rare occasions he donned a white dress shirt and blood splattered it, he simply burned the garment. He had no knowledge of removing such stains from white fabric. His mother probably did.

Staring at the cloth in his hand, Yuri finally gave up. He would simply buy a new one. Opening the bathroom door, he nearly jumped when he found Cherriot standing directly outside. His reflex almost drove him to throw a punch.

“…What exactly are you doing out here?” Yuri asked.

“You were taking so long I thought you’d collapsed,” Cherriot said.

It had to be a joke—but Cherriot’s face was paler than before. The genuine worry etched into his features completely disarmed Yuri. He couldn’t fathom what had made Cherriot leap to such a conclusion.

“Was I in there that long? I thought it was about fifteen minutes.”

“You were in there for twenty minutes,” Cherriot whispered, his voice tight. He gazed up at Yuri, green eyes filled with unwavering concern. It was too serious to dismiss as mere fussing. Much like when he spoke about trust, there seemed to be a deeper reason behind his intensity.

Yuri parted his lips, then slowly said, “I’m fine.”

Cherriot, in turn, responded with his eyes, not words. His gaze locked onto the exposed flesh near Yuri’s left shoulder, conveying no intention of relinquishing his concern. Ultimately, Yuri had no choice but to explain his delay.

“I got blood on your clothes. I tried to wash it out, but the stain’s already set. If you tell me the price—“

“Do you think that matters right now? The wound is worse than I thought.”

Before Yuri could protest, Cherriot grabbed his wrist. Considering how many times Cherriot had gripped him only to risk being struck, the fact that he continued doing so made it seem like an unbreakable habit. Yuri wondered whether to mention that it was unpleasant for Alphas to touch each other this way, but he fell silent when he noticed the bandages and antiseptic on the table near the sofa. He had assumed Cherriot had gone out only to buy suppressants, but apparently, he had picked these up as well.

“The blood had dried, so I couldn’t see the wound properly earlier. If it’s split open like this, shouldn’t we go to a hospital? I can’t believe you walked around with your arm injured like this without saying a word.”

“Lacerations are visible. If we go to a hospital, there’s a possibility they’ll call the police.”

At Yuri’s reply, Cherriot frowned. “Do you think that’s what I’m asking?”

“Then what—“

With a movement full of dissatisfaction, Cherriot led Yuri to the sofa. Still gripping his wrist, Cherriot guided him past the table, sat him down, and inspected the wound once more. Unable to comprehend why Cherriot was reacting so violently to a wound that had already begun to heal, Yuri simply stared.

Cherriot frowned as though he were the one in pain, then sat beside him with the antiseptic and bandages. The distance was far closer than it had been in the car. The sofa sank under Cherriot’s weight, and the warmth of his body as he touched Yuri’s bare arm felt distinct, almost jarring.

Suddenly, Yuri’s scar-covered upper body was exposed once more. Cherriot had been so focused on the wound that he hadn’t given Yuri a chance to worry about the scars, causing them to momentarily fade from his mind. At such close proximity, they must have been obvious and unpleasant, yet Cherriot’s eyes remained fixed solely on the injury, his handsome brows furrowed in concentration.

“It might hurt, so just bear with me for a moment. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

“…I’m not a child.”

“Adults and children both feel pain.”

Answering firmly, Cherriot tore open a package of povidone-soaked cotton, then carefully wiped around the wound. Unlike his initial recoil, his hand felt surprisingly practiced, and Yuri grew curious as to why.

It had been so long since he had felt curiosity toward another person that he could not bring himself to ask aloud. Instead, he observed Cherriot. He had not meant to study him, but his gaze wandered there anyway, and Yuri found himself admiring the man’s face.

He really is handsome.

Yuri had thought that even a handsome Alpha would have no effect on him, but that had been a false assumption born of never having seen someone like Cherriot. Cherriot, concentrating with his head slightly bowed, was beautiful enough to seem unreal. The bridge of his nose descending from his straight forehead looked sculpted, and the smooth yet sharply defined tip was a shape that could never be crafted artificially.

Unlike his thin upper lip, his lower lip was slightly fuller, and his angular jawline harmonized with his long neck, giving him a decidedly masculine impression. Perhaps because of the beautifully straight lines etched into his face, Cherriot felt closer to a classically handsome man. The sort of man who should have been photographed in black and white.

But black and white could never capture the color of those eyes and that hair.

Just as Yuri thought this, Cherriot lifted his gaze. Because his eyes, which had been fixed on the antiseptic, met Yuri’s with no chance to evade, Yuri’s arm twitched. Realizing he had been staring too hard, a strange embarrassment bloomed in him, and he was about to look away when a very gentle question was offered.

“Does it hurt badly?”

The soft baritone touched his ear as if stroking it. Cherriot, tilting his head slightly as he examined him, seemed so gentle in that moment that goose bumps rose along Yuri’s spine. A ticklish sensation spread through his body until his toes curled.