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And before anyone gets judgmental, yes, I considered leaving him there.

I stood over him for a few seconds and genuinely thought about walking away. The knife isn’t exactly harmless. The blade has poison on it, and I knew that if I left him there, he would die.

Maybe that should have been the easiest decision I’ve ever made.

Instead, I found myself dragging him into my car.

So much for having principles.

I give him the antidote first, carefully lifting his head and tipping the dose between his lips, waiting until I feel his throat move before lowering him back down. Then I pull his shirt up to reach the wound at his side and clean away the blood, checking that the bleeding has stopped before patching it as best I can.

I’m about to lower his shirt again when something near the bottom of his hip catches my eye. I nearly fucking jump. A spider. Not a real one, thank God, but a brand burned into his skin in the shape of one, its eight legs spreading around a darkened center. I fucking hate spiders. Those things are nightmare fuel. But I can’t look away. I’ve heard the stories about the Kazumas and their fire brand, the mark supposedly burned into members from childhood as proof of belonging to the family.

Suddenly, all I can picture is a smaller version of him with that mark being forced onto his skin, and it makes me see red. I shove his shirt back down before I can lose my temper, then lean back in the chair opposite the couch, arms crossed over my chest, and let my eyes wander over him.

He’s quiet like this.

It’s wrong.

Kento is never quiet when he’s awake. He’s always talking, provoking me, and wearing that infuriating smile like he’s three steps ahead and has already figured out everything I’m trying to hide. Those eyes are worse. He looks at me like he’s trying to peel me open layer by layer, just to see what’s underneath all of me. Like he could stare long enough and eventually find the one thing I’ve spent my entire life making sure nobody gets close enough to touch.

Now, though, he’s completely still.

His head has fallen slightly against the cushions, dark hair messy around his forehead. There’s still a little color missing from his face, but the antidote is working. His breathing has evened out, and every now and then his chest rises beneath his shirt.

I tell myself I’m checking for that.

His breathing.

That’s all.

I’m not staring.

I’m observing.

There is a difference.

And unfortunately, the more I look at him, the more obvious it becomes that he is beautiful.

Not that I’d ever say that to his face. I will take that secret to my fucking grave.

But he is.

His features look softer when he’s unconscious, stripped of that smug expression he wears whenever he’s looking at me.

He looks peaceful.

Almost innocent.

Which is hilarious, considering this is the same man who decided stabbing himself with a poisoned knife was an acceptable price for getting a kiss from me.

What kind of lunatic does that?

Apparently, mine.

I immediately grimace at the thought.

Mine?