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He will be the death of me, literally.

Kento

My parasite: Come to me tonight, prince. I want to draw you.

My prince: I’ll block you.

My parasite: No, you won’t. Now be good and come to me.

My prince: No.

My parasite: You’re being difficult because you think it gives you control. It doesn’t, and it’s starting to piss me off, Ilya. This little game where you pretend you don’t want me was fun at first, but it’s getting annoying.

My prince: Since I’m so annoying, then do yourself a favor and stay out of my life.

My parasite: Last chance. Come willingly.

My prince: Still no.

My parasite: Okay. We’ll do it my way.

I put my phone away.

A few hours later, I’m at his door. If he thinks he can push and pull forever, he’s wrong. He can’t just go back into his shell and ignore me whenever he wants.

After I finger-fucked him, he more or less kicked me out. I thought we were making progress, but obviously his walls are back up, so here we go. Back to zero again.

His father opens the door himself, which is unfortunate, because I was hoping no one would be home. The moment he sees me, his whole face brightens. “Kento,” he says, smiling too widely. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Neither did your son.

The only reason I don’t put a bullet in his head every time he starts sounding delighted to see me is because, regrettably, he helped create Ilya. For that alone, the man gets to keep breathing a little longer.

I give him a nod. “I was nearby.”

He steps aside at once, already trying to be useful. “Alya isn’t home.”

“I’m here for Ilya.”

That throws him a little. I can see the confusion flicker across his face before he smooths it over with manners.

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “He’s upstairs.”

“Mind if I talk to him?”

His brows tighten just slightly. “He didn’t upset you, did he?”

“He didn’t.”

He sighs in relief. “Then of course.”

I nod once and walk past him before he can ask anything else, already picturing the expression Ilya is going to make when he realizes exactly what my way meant.

When I walk upstairs, I expect to find him lying on his bed with a bunch of sweets around him.

What I do not expect is this.

Ilya is curled into the corner of his room, knees pulled to his chest, one shoulder pressed to the wall like he’s trying to disappear into it. The curtains are half-drawn, and for one second my brain refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing because he looks so… small.