Chapter 8: Feverish Devotion
The fever arrived with the dawn, a sudden, punishing heat that chased away the lingering memory of the pool’s chill. Hyukjae woke to a world of liquid fire and shattering cold, his bones aching, his skin slick with sweat. The monochromatic room swam, the sharp lines of furniture bleeding into each other. A whimper escaped him, unbidden.
The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool. A wave of desolate panic, sharper than the nausea, gripped him. Then the bathroom door clicked open.
Donghae stood framed in the light, already dressed in a suit the color of slate. He was tying his watch, his face a mask of distant focus. Then his eyes found Hyukjae.
The change was instantaneous. The mask shattered. “Hyukjae?”
“Cold,” Hyukjae managed, his teeth chattering. “So cold.”
Donghae was across the room in three strides. His palm pressed against Hyukjae’s forehead, then his cheek. “Fuck.” He ripped his tie off, tossed it over a chair. His phone was in his hand, his thumb moving swiftly. Hyukjae caught flashes of text: Cancel… all of it… move the board call… no, I don’t care.
“Donghae, your meeting—”
“Shut up about the meeting.” The phone hit the bedside table. He left the room, returning moments later with a bowl of cool water and a cloth. He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, and wrung out the cloth. His movements were strangely clumsy, all his usual predatory grace gone. He pressed the compress to Hyukjae’s forehead. The relief was so acute Hyukjae moaned.
“Stay,” Hyukjae mumbled, his eyes closed, fingers fumbling to clutch at Donghae’s crisp shirt. “Don’t go.”
A beat of silence. Then Donghae exhaled, a long, surrendered breath. He stood, and for a terrible second Hyukjae thought he was leaving. Instead, he stripped off his suit jacket, his waistcoat, his belt. He unbuttoned the shirt, toeing off his shoes. In seconds, the imposing billionaire was gone, replaced by a man in simple pajama pants.
He slid into the bed behind Hyukjae, his body a solid wall of heat against the chills wracking Hyukjae’s slender frame. One arm slid under his neck, the other wrapped around his waist, pulling him back until they were fused together, spooning in the tangled, sweat-damp sheets.
“Shhh,” Donghae murmured into the damp hair at his nape. His hand splayed over Hyukjae’s stomach, warm and firm. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He began to massage the tense, aching muscles of Hyukjae’s abdomen, his touch unwavering. Hyukjae let himself dissolve into the care, the firm pressure of those fingers working through the pain. The world narrowed to the sound of Donghae’s breathing, the scent of his skin under the hint of expensive cologne, the absolute certainty of his presence.
“You canceled your whole day,” Hyukjae whispered, half-delirious.
“Yes.”
“For me.”
Donghae’s nose nuzzled the shell of his ear. “You’re my only schedule.”
---
The fever broke in the late afternoon, leaving Hyukjae weak and wrung-out, but lucid. He woke to find the room in soft twilight, the curtains drawn. Donghae was seated in an armchair by the window, a tablet abandoned on his lap, staring out at the city. He wore the same pajama pants, his hair unruly. He looked younger. Weary.
“You’re staring,” Donghae said without turning.
“You stayed.”
“I said I would.” He finally looked over. His eyes were shadowed. “How do you feel?”
“Empty. But better.” Hyukjae pushed himself up on the pillows. The sheets were fresh; Donghae must have changed them while he slept. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know I didn’t have to.” Donghae stood, walked to the bed, and sat on the edge. He picked up Hyukjae’s hand, his thumb tracing the veins on the back. “Seeing you like that… It scared me.”
The admission hung in the quiet room, more vulnerable than any nakedness.
“It was just a fever,” Hyukjae said softly.
“It wasn’t.” Donghae’s grip tightened. “It was a reminder. That you’re here. In my bed. In my life. That you can be taken. That I have something to lose now.” He brought Hyukjae’s hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to the knuckles. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” He gestured between them, at the room, at the discarded tablet full of unmet obligations. “Care without wanting to consume. Protect without building a cage. I only know how to own things, Hyukjae. Or destroy them.”
Hyukjae pulled his hand free only to cup Donghae’s jaw. The stubble was rough against his palm. “You’re not destroying me.”
“Aren’t I?” Donghae’s eyes searched his, desperate for proof. “The pool… that wasn’t just sex. That was me branding you. Because I’m terrified that if I don’t, you’ll realize this is a mistake and walk away.”
The raw honesty was a greater intimacy than any physical act. Hyukjae slid forward, ignoring the weakness in his limbs, until he was kneeling on the bed facing Donghae. He kissed him, a slow, deep, tasting kiss. Donghae made a low sound in his throat, his hands coming up to frame Hyukjae’s face.
When they parted, Hyukjae was breathless. “I’m not going anywhere. But you don’t need to brand me. I’m already yours.”
Something dark and possessive flared in Donghae’s gaze. The fear melted, transmuted into a different, more familiar heat. “Prove it.”
He leaned forward, capturing Hyukjae’s mouth again, this kiss all hunger and reclaiming. His hands slid down Hyukjae’s back, over the flimsy cotton of his sleep shirt, gripping his ass and pulling him flush. Hyukjae could feel the hard line of Donghae’s erection through his pajamas, a demanding pressure against his own softening body.
“You’re still weak,” Donghae growled against his lips.
“I don’t care. I need to feel you.” Hyukjae’s own need surprised him, a sharp twist in his gut that had nothing to do with fever. It was a need for connection, for the solid, sweaty reality of them to banish the last ghosts of sickness.
Donghae stood, pulling Hyukjae with him. He stripped the sleep shirt over Hyukjae’s head, his eyes drinking in the sight of his pale, recovering body. Then he pushed him back onto the bed, following him down, covering him.
His kisses were everywhere—his throat, his chest, his stomach. He nipped at the tender skin over Hyukjae’s hipbone, then soothed it with his tongue. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Hyukjae’s shorts and pulled them down, tossing them aside. Hyukjae was fully hard now, his cock arching up against his stomach.
Donghae stared at him, his eyes blazing. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Even like this.”
He bent and took Hyukjae into his mouth without warning. The hot, wet suction dragged a broken cry from Hyukjae’s throat. His hands flew to Donghae’s hair, tangling in the dark strands. Donghae worked him with a focused, brutal expertise, his tongue circling the head before sinking deep, taking him to the back of his throat.
“Donghae… I can’t… I’ll come…” Hyukjae gasped, hips lifting off the bed.
Donghae pulled off with a wet pop. “Not yet.” He flipped Hyukjae onto his stomach with effortless strength. The cool sheets against his fever-warmed skin made him shiver. He heard the click of a cap, and then Donghae’s slick fingers were pressing against him.
One finger pushed in, then two, scissoring and stretching him quickly. It was rougher than usual, driven by a frantic energy. Hyukjae pushed back, wanting more.
“Please,” he begged, face pressed into the pillow.
Donghae positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against Hyukjae’s entrance. He leaned over, blanketing Hyukjae’s body with his own, his mouth at his ear. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You. Only you.”
With a deep groan, Donghae sheathed himself inside in one relentless thrust.
The fullness was staggering. Hyukjae cried out, his back arching, taking him deeper. Donghae held still, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort. “Every time,” he panted. “It feels like the first time. Like I’m fucking coming home.”
He began to move, setting a pace that was both punishing and reverent. Each thrust rocked Hyukjae forward on the bed, the slide of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. Donghae’s arm wrapped around his chest, holding him up, pulling him back onto his cock with every drive forward.
“Yeah, take it,” Donghae grunted, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. “Take all of me. Let me feel you, everywhere.”
Hyukjae was hurtling toward the edge, the friction against his prostate a blinding white pleasure. The weakness from his illness was gone, burned away by the inferno Donghae was stoking inside him. He reached a hand between his own legs, stroking his own cock in time with Donghae’s thrusts.
“I’m gonna come,” Donghae warned, his voice ragged. “I’m gonna fill you up. Mark you from the inside. Just like this.”
The filthy words, the claiming, pushed Hyukjae over. His orgasm ripped through him, convulsing around Donghae’s cock, milking him. Donghae shouted, a raw, undone sound, and slammed home one last time, pulsing deep within him.
They collapsed together, a mess of sweat and spent desire. Donghae rolled them to their sides, staying connected, his arms locked around Hyukjae’s chest. His breath was hot and fast against Hyukjae’s shoulder.
Long minutes passed. The room darkened further.
“I meant it,” Donghae said, his voice gravel. “You’re my only schedule. My only priority. The merger, the board… it’s noise. You’re the signal.”
Hyukjae laced their fingers together over his heart. Outside, the city lights began to spark on, one by one, indifferent to the small, fierce universe they’d built in this room. The contract was ash. The cage was open. And for the first time, Hyukjae understood the true shape of Donghae’s devotion—not a prison of gold, but a wild, terrifying, and utterly exclusive country where only the two of them existed.