Caesar's head tilted slightly with the force, but he barely even flinched. He just blinked, slowly turning his gaze back to Eun-jae with that same infuriating calmness. His cheek turned a faint red, but his expression?
Unbothered. Smug. And even more dangerous than before.
Eun-jae's hand was still trembling.
"You—you absolute snake. You disgusting, manipulative, sneaky, perverted—UGH!" he raged, pacing in tiny furious circles. "Did you seriously—seriously—mess with me while I was asleep?! What the hell is wrong with you?! What happened to human decency?!"
Caesar wiped the corner of his lip with his thumb like Eun-jae had just kissed him, not slapped him.
"I made sure you enjoyed it," he said smoothly. "You were moaning my name, darling."
Eun-jae sputtered, his face going red all the way down his neck. "I was unconscious, you sick freak!"
"You weren't saying no," Caesar said, walking casually back to the table. "In fact, you were clinging to me so tight I almost couldn't pull away. You seemed... desperate."
"Desperate?! Desperate?!" Eun-jae shrieked, dragging both hands through his hair in frustration. "You gaslighting bastard! My body is sore like I went to war!"
"You should've stretched first," Caesar added unhelpfully, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Eun-jae threw a fork at him.
Caesar caught it. With two fingers. Without even looking.
Eun-jae looked like he was going to explode. "You can't just—! You can't do things to people without asking!"
Caesar finally set down the cup and turned toward him, walking slowly across the room until he was right in front of him. "Then next time," he said lowly, tilting Eun-jae's chin up with two fingers, "why don't you ask me to do it while you're awake?"
Eun-jae glared up at him, eyes burning. "Why don't you go jump into a volcano?"
Caesar leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"Because then I'd miss that cute little whimper you make when you come."
"I'M GOING TO MURDER YOU."
Caesar stepped back with a smirk. "Breakfast?"
Eun-jae shoved the table so hard a teacup clattered to the floor.
The office was silent—eerily so. The only sounds were the scratch of a fountain pen and the faint ticking of the antique clock on the wall. Yaroslav sat at his desk, papers spread neatly before him in meticulous order. His silver-framed glasses perched low on his nose, the harsh white light above casting sharp shadows on his face as he reviewed report after report. He was the picture of cold efficiency—sharp suit, sharper mind.
A knock broke the silence.
Yaroslav didn't look up. "Yes?"
The door creaked open, and his assistant Boris poked his head in, visibly hesitant. His tone was cautious, almost unsure.
"Sir… there's someone here to see you."
Yaroslav finally looked up, arching a brow. "I'm not expecting anyone. Who is it?"
Boris cleared his throat. "He didn't give a name. But… he said you'd want to see him."
Yaroslav exhaled, already annoyed. "Fine. Send him in."
The door opened wider, and in stepped a tall, imposing man wrapped in a dark, lavish fur coat—the kind that whispered danger with every movement. His steps were smooth, almost theatrical. Yaroslav's eyes narrowed the second he recognized the face beneath the shadows.
"…Yevgeni?" he said sharply, standing from his chair with immediate tension. His hand slid into his desk drawer, retrieving a compact pistol with quiet, deadly precision.
Yevgeni raised both hands slowly in mock surrender, his lips curled in that annoyingly calm smile. "Relax, Yaroslav. If I wanted a war, I wouldn't have come in fur."
Yaroslav didn't lower the gun. "Then what the hell do you want?"
Yevgeni exhaled dramatically and took a seat without being asked, crossing one leg over the other like he owned the place. "I'm here because we have a common… problem."
Yaroslav finally lowered the weapon, but his eyes were still sharp. "Speak clearly. I'm not in the mood for your dramatics."
Yevgeni leaned back in the chair, his gloved fingers laced together. "Your stepbrother is holding my son."
There was a beat of silence. Yaroslav's expression didn't change, but his brow twitched slightly. "You're going to have to be more specific. I have a lot of brothers."
"You know which one I mean," Yevgeni said with a thin smile. "The beautiful one. The calculating one. The one who hides a knife behind every smile. Caesar."
Yaroslav clicked his tongue, rubbing his temple as realization dawned. "That little demon... What has he done now?"
"He kidnapped my son," Yevgeni said simply, adjusting his fur coat like he hadn't just dropped a grenade. "Eun-jae. Korean. Sharp mouth, sharper wit. Works for intelligence. And mine."
"Your son?" Yaroslav tilted his head. "The Korean spy... That's your son?"
Yevgeni smirked. "Surprised? He didn't get the mouth from his mother."
Yaroslav scoffed. "So Caesar took him. Why are you here? Do I look like a rescue team?"
Yevgeni's gaze hardened, voice dipping into something more calculating. "Because I know you hate him. Because you've wanted him gone for years. And now... fate has handed us a rare opportunity. Caesar may be powerful—but even he can't outrun betrayal from both sides."
Yaroslav gave a bitter laugh. "You're here trying to strike a deal."
"Not a deal," Yevgeni corrected. "An alliance. You get what you've always wanted: Caesar's empire shattered, his pride crushed, his reputation... burned. And I get my son back in one piece."
Yaroslav leaned against his desk, arms crossed. "And how exactly do you plan to do this? Caesar isn't easy to touch. Even my men are cautious when it comes to him. The man's like a shadow with nine lives."
"I know," Yevgeni said, his eyes darkening. "That's why I'm not relying on brute force alone. My men are already combing the region. Tracing his latest movements, combing through digital chatter. He's kept Eun-jae somewhere, and I intend to find him. But I need someone on the inside. Someone who knows how Caesar thinks. Someone who's hated him long enough to predict his next move."
"And that's supposed to be me?" Yaroslav asked with a half-smirk. "You think just because I don't like Caesar, I'm going to risk everything to cross him?"
"No," Yevgeni said smoothly. "I think you're going to do it because you want to win. Because you want to be the one who finally puts the mighty Caesar on his knees. And I'm offering you the perfect chance."
Yaroslav stared at him for a long time.
Then, slowly… he raised a hand.
"Fine," he said. "One common enemy. That's all."
Yevgeni leaned forward, shaking the offered hand with a firm grip. "Let's make him bleed."
Caesar stood in the center of his private study, phone pressed to his ear, the screen still lit with the secure line. As the voice on the other end confirmed Yevgeni and Yaroslav's newly-formed alliance, Caesar suddenly burst out into sharp, almost unhinged laughter. The sound echoed through the grand, echo-prone halls of the mansion.
"Они действительно хотят объединиться, чтобы меня свергнуть?" he said between laughs, speaking in smooth, condescending Russian. They really think they can join forces and bring me down?
He was practically doubled over now, one hand resting on the ornate wooden desk as his shoulders shook with amusement. "Ох, мои мои... жалкие, наивные крысы," he muttered with a grin, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye with dramatic flair. Oh my, my... pathetic, naive little rats.
There was a glint of something darker—anticipation, even pleasure—as he leaned back against the desk. "Я их жду," he whispered, voice low and icy. I'll be waiting for them.
He ended the call, phone sliding back into his pocket, then adjusted his black turtleneck and swept a hand through his tousled hair. Calm, smug, and dangerous. Like he was already three moves ahead on a chessboard only he could see.
Meanwhile, in the hallway just outside, Eun-jae had been lounging on a velvet chaise, nose buried in a thick hardcover book about Russian history—though he hadn't turned the page in over ten minutes. He'd been on edge all morning, nerves wound tight like piano wire.
When Caesar's laughter boomed through the estate, Eun-jae's eyes narrowed immediately.
"That freak is laughing again," he muttered under his breath, flipping the page with a little more force than necessary.
A moment later, Caesar appeared at the far end of the hallway, his footsteps unhurried, almost playful. His black turtleneck that clung to his form like sin and a chain around his neck that glinted under the chandelier light. He was still smiling, as if the entire world existed solely to entertain him.
"Well, well," Caesar said, clasping his hands in front of him. "Guess who's trying to play hero today."
Eun-jae didn't look up. "The rat in your bloodstream finally got brave?"
Caesar let out a soft laugh. "Cute. But no. Your father is really determined to find you," Caesar said casually, taking a seat directly across from Eun-jae. He leaned forward, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Isn't that sweet?"
Eun-jae didn't even bother looking up from his book. "Of course he is. He doesn't collect trash and leave it lying around. Unlike you."
Caesar chuckled, not the least bit fazed. "Mm, see, I like it when you get snarky. It's adorable how you pretend you're not just as dangerous as him."
Eun-jae finally looked up, slamming his book shut and fixing Caesar with a glare sharp enough to cut diamonds. "Don't compare me to you. Or my so called father. Or any of you psycho Bond villains. I actually have a moral compass."
"Do you?" Caesar asked, tilting his head mockingly. "Funny. Most people with moral compasses don't break a man's nose with a teacup and then call it 'light self-defense.'"
Eun-jae stood, stepping forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. "I only hit people who deserve it."
"Oh, sweetheart," Caesar murmured, brushing an imaginary speck off Eun-jae's shoulder. "You've hit me. Multiple times. What does that say about you?"
"That I have taste in targets," Eun-jae snapped, slapping his hand away. "Now say whatever twisted thing you came here to say and get lost. I have a book and inner peace to get back to."
Caesar leaned in even closer, his voice now silk wrapped around poison. "Your father and Yaroslav think they're being clever. But they forget—I've always been ten steps ahead of both of them. Always. If they think they can take you from me..."
His hand brushed against Eun-jae's cheek, almost tender—until Eun-jae slapped it hard.
SMACK.
"Touch me again," Eun-jae growled, "and I'll break every finger, alphabetically."
Caesar slowly turned his face back toward him, his cheek red, a smirk stretching across his lips like blood on snow.
"Oh, I do love when you play rough."
Eun-jae rolled his eyes and turned to leave. "Go flirt with a mirror, Caesar. You're wasting both our time."
As he stormed off, Caesar called after him, tone bright and mocking: "I'll have breakfast sent to your room again! Try not to throw it at the wall this time!"
Eun-jae flipped him off without turning around.
Caesar chuckled to himself as he watched Eun-jae disappear down the hall. Then, casually pulling out his phone again, he murmured, "Let them come. I'll burn every bridge they stand on."
Eun-jae lay sprawled across the wide velvet-draped bed, the soft sheets barely soothing the deep, pulsing ache in his lower back. His bare feet hung slightly off the edge, body motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. The ceiling above him seemed endless—white, ornate, and cold. But all he could focus on was the silence. Heavy. Suffocating. Deafening.
His mind raced. But on the outside, he looked like a doll left behind. A flickering thought crossed his face.
"My father is looking for me…"
He blinked slowly. The ache in his hips reminded him that time was passing, even if the world around him felt frozen.
"Would he even find me...? Can he? We're not even in Russia anymore. This place... wherever Caesar has taken me—it's far. Hidden. Probably beneath some fake name or sealed with some blood-stained mafia deal."
A quiet sigh left his lips as he threw an arm over his forehead. He didn't even know what country they were in now. Somewhere remote. Somewhere quiet. Too quiet.
His body felt... strange. Restless. Like he was burning up from the inside out. Not feverish—but hot. Skin too sensitive. Breath too shallow. He shifted slightly in bed and winced—the movement sent a dull, throbbing reminder through his lower body.
"Probably stress," he told himself. "Trauma. That's all."
But the flush that crept across his cheeks said otherwise. His throat felt dry. His heart had begun to thump with an odd rhythm. He tried to press his thighs together—subtly, instinctively—but that just made it worse. The heat only surged deeper, and his skin prickled like someone had lit a flame beneath it.
Unbeknownst to him, something deeper was awakening. Something primal. Dangerous. His heat was nearing.
Downstairs, the scent of vanilla and butter danced through the luxurious kitchen. The air was warm, golden sunlight pouring in through the tall windows, illuminating the polished marble counters. Caesar stood by the oven, sleeves rolled up, apron slung lazily around his waist—an image of domestic calm that didn't quite match the sharp, calculating gleam in his ice-blue eyes.
He stirred the thick cookie dough with one hand, the other holding a small glass vial between his fingers. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, almost clear but tinged with a faint, iridescent hue.
A drug.
One not easily found on the market. One used among underground circles—especially for those with... sensitive bloodlines.
A smirk curled on Caesar's lips as he uncorked the vial and slowly poured the contents into the dough. It blended in seamlessly, impossible to detect. A little something extra. Just enough to heighten what was already simmering beneath Eun-jae's skin.
"He doesn't even realize it yet," Caesar murmured to himself, licking a bit of dough off his finger absentmindedly. "But his body's already calling out for mine."
He slid the tray into the oven and leaned against the counter, listening.
He could sense it from here.
The change in Eun-jae's scent. The faint tremble in the air. The instinctual hum pulling at him. It was like music—subtle, deliciously slow. Eun-jae's heat was approaching, and Caesar had no intention of waiting passively.
"Oh, you'll come to me," he whispered under his breath, brushing flour from his fingertips. "You'll crawl, begging—desperate. And when you do... I'll be right here. Waiting."
The timer on the oven ticked softly in the background. Caesar didn't look away. He just kept smiling.
Upstairs, Eun-jae shifted restlessly in bed again, clutching the sheets tighter, unaware that the fire building inside him wasn't natural. It was nudged. Accelerated. Drugged.
His breathing grew heavier.
His thoughts scrambled.
And somewhere below, the scent of cookies beckoned—sweet, warm, and laced with something far more dangerous.
The knock on the door was light. Polite, even. Too polite.
Eun-jae didn't answer—still sprawled across the bed, one leg bent, the sheets tangled around his waist, the collar of his loose shirt falling off one shoulder. His hair was tousled, lips slightly parted, breath faintly uneven from the uncomfortable heat simmering inside him. He hadn't even noticed it getting worse. He just thought it was stress. Or the weather. Or the hundred other excuses he told himself.
The door creaked open anyway.
Of course.
"Do you ever knock?" Eun-jae groaned, sitting up with a sharp glare, brushing his hair out of his face.
Caesar stepped in with a tray in hand, moving like he owned the world—and the air around it. He was dressed in something too casual for someone that dangerous: a black cashmere hoodie, loose joggers that still somehow looked expensive, sleeves rolled up, a faint smear of flour on his forearm like he'd stepped out of some twisted, domestic fantasy. But there was nothing soft in the way he looked at Eun-jae. His eyes were sharp. Smiling. Calculating.
"I brought cookies," Caesar said lightly, like this was normal. Like they were two college roommates and not captor and captive. "Fresh out the oven."
He walked to the edge of the bed, holding the plate out casually. The cookies were golden brown, still warm, the scent sweet and just a little too inviting. Vanilla. Butter. A hint of cinnamon. Comfort food wrapped in a lie.
Eun-jae raised a skeptical brow. "You bake now? Wow. Didn't know the Russian mafia was offering culinary classes."
Caesar smirked, sliding one cookie from the plate and taking a slow, deliberate bite. "I'm full of surprises."
"And sins," Eun-jae muttered under his breath, crossing his arms. "What's next, tea parties? Knitting? Assassinations and aprons?"
"Don't tempt me," Caesar said with a grin, chewing leisurely. "But seriously, try one. Not too sweet, not too bland. Just the right balance. Like me."
Eun-jae rolled his eyes so hard they almost fell out of his skull. "The only thing balanced about you is how evenly insane you are."
Still, the smell was tempting. His stomach gave a quiet, treacherous growl. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, and his body was acting strange—hot, restless, kind of floaty. Maybe food would help.
He snatched one cookie off the plate, narrowed his eyes at Caesar, and sniffed it dramatically. "If I die, I'm haunting your bougie-ass house and smearing ghost goo all over your expensive furniture."
"I'd expect nothing less," Caesar said smoothly. "But you won't die. Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"I was many things," Caesar replied, voice low, smile growing more dangerous. "A perfect student. A heir. A walking nightmare. Take your pick."
Eun-jae made a face and bit into the cookie.