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Fadel had been certain the house was safe, at least for one night.
He’d circled the whole property three times, leaving Style handcuffed and gagged in the broken-down Jeep just beyond the trees, out of sight. He’d disabled the security system. All signs pointed to this being the fancy vacation home of some rich assholes who would never be caught this deep in the countryside during this time of year. Everything should have been fine.
But everything was not fine, and given Fadel’s luck lately, he really should have seen it coming.
Style seemed annoyed at being left behind in the car during the process, but he was a little too cheerful about the cuffs and the gag. He even winked. Fadel should have expected it, but it still caught him off guard—the way Style was so casual about all of this, despite Fadel’s gun and his threats, despite how his smoldering hatred lingered in the air like the smell of burnt rubber. Somehow, Style was still flirting, still bold and brash and kinky as hell.
It sent a fresh wave of rage scalding through him. How dare Style continue to act like nothing had changed between them, like they were just boyfriends on a road trip? Why was he insisting on keeping up the performance? The cat was out of the bag; the jig was up. There was no need for Style to pretend that he was at all interested in Fadel anymore—and he could stand to be at least a little more afraid, too.
Part of him wondered if this was just Style’s personality—if perhaps his actions towards Fadel had never been special in the first place, if perhaps he was just like this with everyone, all the time, regardless of others’ feelings. Maybe Style was simply always ready to have fun, to get laid. Maybe Style genuinely didn’t care about anything beyond his own hedonistic pleasure, even in the face of life-threatening situations.
Somehow, Fadel couldn’t bring himself to believe that.
Possibly, this was a coping mechanism for danger, and Style was just bluffing to cover the fact that he was actually terrified out of his mind. Fadel liked that explanation more, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that one, either. Style had seemed afraid for a minute there, at the pool, when Fadel was genuinely considering just shooting him, as if he’d known that his life was actually on the line in that moment. But that flash of fear hadn’t lasted long, and it hadn’t reappeared since.
As he circled the house for the third and final time, carefully peeking through all of the windows and keeping an eye out for extra security measures, Fadel finally landed on an explanation that made sense: Style was flirting and winking and insisting he really did have feelings for Fadel because he was trying to save himself from getting murdered and dumped in a shallow grave somewhere.
That has to be it—Style thinks that if he can persuade me he still loves me, I won’t shoot him.
But Fadel wasn’t about to let himself be persuaded, and he certainly wasn’t giving up his plan of shooting Style in the head the moment they found Bison.
He wasn’t changing his mind.
He wasn’t.
Because the only other possible explanation for Style’s behavior was that he really did feel something for Fadel, and there was no way in heaven or hell that that was true. People like Style didn’t fall for people like Fadel. No one fell for someone like Fadel and really meant it, not when push came to shove—he’d learned that lesson a long time ago.
No, Style was just trying to make it out of this alive, and while Fadel couldn’t blame him for wanting to survive, he also couldn’t let him live.
Right?
Don’t be an idiot. Focus.
Never mind that the sight of Style with a rag tied in his mouth and his hands cuffed above his head did something for Fadel when he arrived back at the Jeep. Never mind that watching Style push the Jeep up the drive meant getting to see his lovely biceps and quads in action, muscles straining underneath the clothes he’d borrowed from Fadel’s duffel bag in the trunk. Never mind that he sat in the kitchen while Fadel heated up the convenience store meals they’d bought and flirted the whole time—and never mind that Fadel found it more endearing than annoying, despite his own best efforts to the contrary. Never mind the way that Style stripped easily and pushed his way into Fadel’s bath as if they were still lovers, or the way he casually put his feet on Fadel’s chest, dragging his toes across Fadel’s clavicle—and never mind the shiver that Fadel had to suppress in response. Never mind how Style padded after him in another borrowed shirt and leaned seductively against the table as Fadel took stock of their supplies, organizing everything they’d picked up at a gas station a few miles before the Jeep broke down.
Never mind that Fadel found himself feeling more than a little bit seduced.
Never mind, because none of it was real, no matter how much Fadel’s heart—and other organs—ached to go back to how things were. Style had made his choice, and soon enough, he’d be dead.
Fadel needed to move on.
Unfortunately, his brain was so preoccupied with all the things he shouldn’t mind, trying so hard to push them all down, that he could hardly focus on doing anything else—like being constantly alert for signs of danger, the way he’d been trained.
So when the man with the shotgun called out angrily, “Hey! What are you doing here?” from the kitchen door, it took Fadel by surprise. He spun, reaching for the gun in his belt… only to realize that he’d left it on the other side of the table, neatly lined up next to his knives and flares.
Stupid, stupid.
The man was older, maybe in his 60s, with graying hair and a weathered face. His stained jeans and the way he held the shotgun easily, with a calm familiarity, told Fadel this was not the owner of the fancy vacation home but perhaps a caretaker who lived nearby or someone from one of the neighboring farms. The house was mostly secluded, but maybe he’d seen the lights on in the windows and come to check.
It didn’t really matter—he was here now, and he didn’t seem afraid to shoot.
Beside him, Style already had his hands up in the air, more placating than a sign of surrender as he immediately jumped into an explanation, pulling on a familiar cheerful mask, smooth and charming.
“Whoa, whoa, khun, there’s no need for all that. We rented the place. You know, AirBnB…”
The man flickered his gaze over to Style, and Fadel immediately seized his chance, diving sideways toward his gun.
But either his injury was slowing him down more than he thought or the old man was faster on the trigger than expected, because before he was even halfway to his weapon, he saw the shotgun jerk out of the corner of his eye, heard the sound of it firing…
And felt Style crash into him with a cry of pain, knocking them both to the floor.
His broken arm jarred hard against the tile, sending spikes of agony shooting up into his shoulder. Vaguely, he registered something wet seeping into that same shoulder—I must have been hit, he thought, too filled with adrenaline and already in too much pain to feel it.
After so many lapses in judgement, after so many mistakes, his training finally kicked in and Fadel moved without thinking, rolling sideways to get out from under Style, smoothly grabbing his gun from the table above and firing off two shots in quick succession from his knees.
Even in the midst of such chaos, his aim was good, and the old man collapsed immediately.
Fadel scrambled quickly to his feet, keeping his gun trained on the man’s lifeless form until he could push the body over with his foot and confirm that he was dead.
Something flickered uneasily within him as he realized this was the first time he’d killed an innocent person, even in self-defense. The man might have been firing a shotgun at him, but that didn’t make him evil, not in the way khun mae’s targets were always evil.
Why did I shoot to kill? He’d been in many similar scenarios before where it would have been easier just to kill someone who got in his way, someone who threatened him—but he’d always found an alternate solution, preferring to save murder for the people who actually deserved it. So why had his instincts led him to aim for the heart in this situation?
Part of him already knew the answer. Maybe if it had only been Fadel in danger, he would have responded differently, but this guy hadn’t just shot at him—he’d also shot at Style, and something primal in Fadel’s chest had stirred at that, lashing out, wanting to eliminate whoever dared threaten his boyfriend.
He’s not my boyfriend, Fadel reminded himself bitterly. And pretty soon, I’ll be shooting Style myself.
It was too late now for regret, though. The neighbor or caretaker or farmer, whoever he was, lay dead on the floor, and Fadel’s traitorous instincts had already revealed their true loyalties.
He reached up to check the wound on his shoulder, hoping the damage wouldn’t be too bad, considering his arm was already broken…
Only, he couldn’t find any wound. His eyes and fingers both scanned frantically over the wet fabric of his shirt, and yes, that was definitely blood soaking it, but there was no wound anywhere, not even a little scratch.
And if it wasn’t his blood…
Style was still curled up on the floor where he’d fallen, unmoving.
Fadel felt his stomach lurch painfully as he played back the events of the past sixty seconds in his head, reframing what he’d initially assumed had happened. Style hadn’t just knocked into him; he’d jumped in front of the bullet, pushing Fadel to the ground and putting his own body into the line of fire. The shot had connected—not with Fadel’s shoulder but with Style, who had cried out in pain. Hadn’t Fadel heard it?
He was already moving before his thoughts could fully catch up, kneeling beside Style and rolling him over, desperately feeling for a pulse, searching for a wound. Inside, his brain held nothing but screaming static, a fear that had completely taken hold of him and swallowed up everything else in his head. It was so strong that for a moment, Fadel lost track of his own senses, his vision blurred, his fingers shaking. He couldn’t tell if the skin beneath his right hand was smooth and whole or torn apart by a gunshot, couldn’t tell if the skin beneath his left was pulsing with a heartbeat or dead and still. Nonononono…
Style groaned, shifting slightly, and Fadel felt something that had been about to snap inside of him suddenly loosen a little, relieved.
“Style?”
“Mmmmm,” Style moaned in response, one hand moving, almost drunkenly, to rub at his head. “What happened?”
“You got shot, idiot,” Fadel snapped, somehow managing not to let the giddy bubble of relief that was swelling in his chest seep out and take the sting out of his words.
“Oh, yeah.” Style tried to push himself upright and immediately wobbled over again, leaning his head against Fadel’s knees. “Ouch.”
Now that he knew Style wasn’t dead, Fadel’s senses started coming back online, allowing him to make sense of what he was seeing, take stock of the damage. There was a section of Style’s hair that was matted with blood—he must have hit his head on the floor on the way down—and a section of his sleeve that was torn and bloodied where the bullet had gone through.
“It’s just a scratch, I think,” Style mumbled.
Fadel inspected the injury, noting that while the bullet had only hit the edge of Style’s arm, it had taken out a good chunk of flesh with it. Nothing critical had been damaged, but…
“It’s a bit bigger than a scratch.” Fadel grabbed a dish towel from the counter above and began tying it, none too gently, around Style’s arm. He’d need to go back and clean it later, but for now, staunching the still-flowing blood was the bigger concern.
Even more concerning, though, was the head injury. If Style had a concussion…
“What’s your name?” Fadel asked, leaning over to get a better look at the side of Style’s head. Despite the blood that had soaked through his hair, the wound itself didn’t seem to be very large. Still, when it came to potential brain injuries…
“Style.”
“And what’s my name?” He turned Style’s head towards him and waved one finger back and forth in front of his face, watching Style’s eyes carefully to be sure they followed the movement.
“Fadel,” Style replied with a woozy smile, then added, “My dear hitman.”
Fadel huffed with annoyance, but Style’s vision seemed to be okay. Just to double check, though…
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Not as many as you’d usually put inside me.”
If Style weren’t already injured, Fadel thought he might smack him.
He rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. “Come on, Style, be serious.”
Style pouted a bit, but finally murmured, “Two.”
“Good.”
Fadel managed to get them both to their feet and deposited Style in one of the fancy-looking metal chairs surrounding the kitchen table, grabbing another dish towel from a drawer and pressing it against the wound on his head.
“Hold this in place, and don’t move.”
Style obediently put his hand over the towel, whining, “Where are you going?”
“I saw a first aid kit in the bathroom,” Fadel called over his shoulder as he headed out of the room, feeling a twinge of guilt when he had to step over the old man’s body.
As he stomped up the stairs, Fadel tried to get ahold of his emotions, to calm his still-racing heart. You’ve been in worse scrapes than this. Get your shit together, Fadel!
But something about the memory of Style lying there on the floor, unmoving, looking for all the world like he was dead…
Fadel couldn’t quite shake the fear that lingered in him, nor could he shake the shame that spiked in his chest alongside it. He’d known that he still felt something for Style, but he’d convinced himself that it was already fading, tainted by the knowledge of Style’s betrayal.
Here and now, though, confronted with the evidence…
He’d shot and killed a man without thinking because that man had threatened Style’s life. And when he thought Style was dead, even just for a moment, he’d felt like his entire world was collapsing.
I can’t kill him, can I?
Perhaps he’d known it all along. Perhaps that’s why he’d insisted that he needed Style’s help to find Kant and Bison, even though he probably would have been faster and more efficient working alone. Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger at the pool.
I’m still in love with him.
He had to pause in his digging through the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, suddenly overwhelmed with the knowledge of it, the pulsing feeling of aching love through his lungs and his gut.
Get. Your shit. Together.
But the stern internal voice, the willpower of steel that had always kept him on track in the past, regardless of emotion or temptation, wasn’t enough to keep tears from pricking at his eyes.
Fadel scrubbed them away with the back of his hand, trying to reign in the wave of feelings that roared through him. He felt love that he couldn’t deny—no matter how hard he tried—as well as the fear of almost losing Style, shame at his own weakness, the lingering adrenaline rush of a gunfight, guilt for killing a man who more than likely didn’t deserve it, annoyance—and fondness—at how Style was flirting his way through everything, even a possible concussion…
And, beneath all of it, anger.
He leaned into his own simmering rage as a way to keep moving, pushing past the wave of other, more distracting emotions to find the first aid kit and stalk back downstairs. Anger was a lifeline, something to cling to, because why in the hell had Style jumped in front of him like that? Why would Style spend all that time pretending to love him in order to avoid getting shot, only to willingly dive in front of a gun? Why put his life in danger to save Fadel’s? How dare he?
Back in the kitchen, Style was sitting right where he’d left him, head slumped down on the table, one hand still pressing the towel against his injured head, but he stirred when he heard Fadel come in.
“Sit up,” Fadel barked, grabbing another chair and slamming it down in front of Style.
The noise made Style jump, and he sat up straighter, watching warily as Fadel dumped the first aid kit on the table, then stomped over to the sink to fill up a glass with water.
“You’re pissed,” he observed when Fadel came back, setting down the glass with enough force that some of the water splashed out.
Fadel narrowed his eyes and didn’t dignify that with a response, instead jerking the towel away from Style’s head so he could clean the wound.
He dipped an unsullied corned of the towel into the water and started to pat at the bloody mess of hair and skin, ignoring Style’s hiss of pain.
“Why are you being grumpy?”
Fadel scowled, reaching for the antiseptic from the kit. “Why did you jump in front of a bullet?”
He could feel Style’s eyes on him as he dipped an oversized cotton swab into the little bottle and then dabbed the antiseptic over the wound.
“He was going to shoot you,” Style said simply. All of the usual flirty, energetic charisma had disappeared from his voice, leaving something more sincere.
It felt dangerous. It felt real.
“So? It’s not like I haven’t been shot before,” Fadel snarled, clinging to his anger more than ever.
“I couldn’t lose you.”
Fadel felt like his lungs were on fire. Style had to be lying, he had to, because there’s no way he really meant it, no way he really felt love. Not for Fadel. And yet…
He set his jaw, determined not to let it in, this softness that Style was offering him. It just couldn’t be real, no matter how sincere Style might sound.
“You already lost me.”
Against his better judgement, Fadel glanced towards Style’s face in that moment and was surprised to see him flinch, his expression suddenly pained.
“I know, but… I couldn’t watch you die. You might hate me now, but it doesn’t change how I feel. I love…”
“Shut up,” Fadel hissed, pressing a pad against the wound with more force than was really necessary. “Stop lying.” He wrapped a strip of gauze around Style’s entire head to hold it in place, awkwardly pulling it into a one-handed knot and yanking it tight.
“I’m not lying. Fadel, please,” Style begged, one hand coming to rest on Fadel’s knee.
He immediately shook it off.
“I took a bullet for you,” Style continued, undeterred. “Doesn’t that prove my love?”
“It proves your stupidity.” Fadel jerked Style sideways in his chair to get a better look at the wound on his arm. “What was I supposed to do if you died?”
“Why do you care? Weren’t you planning to kill me, anyway?”
“That’s not…” Fadel faltered, lost for words.
I should kill you, but I can’t.
“Fadel,” Style said softly, pulling Fadel’s hand away from the blood-soaked dish towel and cupping it gently in both of his own. “Please believe me.”
“Stop this,” Fadel tried to order him, but his voice came out thin and wobbly. He realized, to his horror, that he’d started to cry, tears somehow leaking out past his usually impenetrable defenses, escaping the iron grip he normally had over his own behavior.
“I love you.”
“You already won, okay? You played me and I fell for it. You don’t have to keep putting salt in the wound. Just stop. Please.”
He was begging, desperate, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be ashamed, not if it would finally get Style to end this torturous ruse…
“I love you, and I would take a bullet for you any day.” Style’s voice sounded so sincere, so fucking dangerous.
“Shut up, shut up!” Fadel yelled, jumping up so fast that he knocked his chair over.
Find the anger. The lifeline.
“You’d take a bullet, huh?” He reached for the gun that he’d left on the table what felt like a lifetime ago now, gripping it tightly in his shaking hand and leveling it at Style’s chest. His vision blurred again as tears continued to leak out without his permission. “For me? Really?”
Style’s expression didn’t change. He met Fadel’s eyes, just as stubborn and brave as he’d always been in the face of Fadel’s rage.
Why is he so fucking brave?
“Yes. Always.”
Fadel stalked closer, pressing the barrel of the gun to Style’s temple. “Why are you like this?”
“Because I love you.”
Style said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world, a few stray tears dripping down his own cheeks.
“Why… why would you do that?”
“Why would I love you?” Style sounded incredulous.
Fadel wasn’t really sure what he was asking. Why would you trick me? Why would you jump in front of the gun for me? Why would you love me?
He leaned in closer to grip at Style’s shirt with his other hand, the one still limited by a cast and sling… only to brush up against the bloody towel covering the gunshot wound on Style’s arm.
The feeling of it, injured arm to injured arm, broke something in him. The memory flashed once more through his head—Style pushing him to the ground without hesitation, the sound of a shotgun ringing through the kitchen, followed by Style’s heart-wrenching cry of pain, all of it echoing against the fancy tile and the marble countertops, the sight of Style in a heap on the floor, the way Fadel’s heart nearly stopped at the thought of losing him…
“Fadel, how could I not love you?”
His knees buckled, pulling him down until his head was in Style’s lap, shaking with sobs he couldn’t hold in any longer. His arm fell, too, dropping the gun with a clatter on the tiles, and he distantly registered that he’d left the safety on. Even with his gun pressed against Style’s head, desperate to make him stop talking, he couldn’t endanger the person he loved—not really.
“Don’t do that again,” he whispered into the warmth of Style’s thigh, his voice broken and wet.
“What, get shot?” Fadel didn’t need to look up to know exactly what sort of cocky smile appeared on Style’s face in that moment. “Unfortunately, my boyfriend is a hitman, so I can’t make any promises. Dangerous lifestyle and all that.”
Fadel felt his hand tighten involuntarily where it had come to rest around Style’s ankle.
“Hey, look at me,” Style said, more gently, his fingers appearing under Fadel’s jaw and pressing his head upwards until their eyes met. “I’m okay, I promise. And I love you.”
Fadel tried to reach for his anger, but he couldn’t find it, the embers of his rage having dwindled into nothing but a dull ache. He was just so tired, exhausted from his fight against a truth that had been right in front of him the whole time. Style had started pursuing him because of a silly challenge, a dare from Kant and Bison, so he should have backed out when he learned about Fadel’s real occupation—but he’d stayed. He’d invited Fadel to his house, introduced him to his dad, all while knowing exactly how dangerous he was. In the bowling alley the other night, Style had been more concerned about people thinking Fadel was dating someone else than about the angry man with a gun. Even after Fadel threatened to shoot him, Style had still insisted on flirting, still insisted on acting like his boyfriend. And now—Style had indeed taken a bullet for him, putting his life in danger to save a man who had promised to kill him.
There was no anger left, but Style had thrown him a different sort of lifeline—and Fadel thought it might shatter him from the inside out.
Fuck.
Facing down the truth that Style really did love him was somehow worse than facing the pain of Style’s betrayal. Scarier, harder to swallow. The thought of it—that someone like Style really could feel that way about someone like him—felt sharp and impossible, hard to hold onto. Terrifying. But neither his head nor his heart could deny the evidence that was now piled in front of him, all too real.
When Style leaned down to kiss him, Fadel didn’t resist, allowing his lips to move with Style’s in a rhythm he thought he’d never experience again. It was quick and gentle, no heat behind it, but the feeling of it settled something fundamental in Fadel’s ribcage and it felt like he could suddenly breathe for the first time in several days.
For a moment, it was just the two of them, forehead to forehead, the rest of the world forgotten, from the blood that was still congealing on their clothes to the dead body lying on the other side of the room, from the Jeep parked outside that still wouldn’t start to wherever in the world Bison and Kant were hiding—assuming they were still alive.
But it couldn’t last forever, because all of those things were still waiting for them, needing to be dealt with.
Fadel felt raw and hollowed out, the paper-thin shreds of his heart too much out in the open for his liking, and even if Style’s love for him was real—It is, isn’t it? Fuck—he didn’t think he could do much more emoting or confessing or coming to earth-shattering realizations right now. He needed a nap and a beer and another bath first, at the very least.
He started pulling together the scattered pieces of his willpower, slowly but surely, allowing his brain and body to fall back into the familiar process of doing what needs to be done. If he could focus on the tasks at hand, move down the list, check things off, then maybe he could get his heart back inside his chest where it belonged.
Only this time, he wouldn’t pretend that Style didn’t belong there, too.
“I need to bandage your arm,” he said, voice embarrassingly gruff, pushing himself out of Style’s lap.
“What, that’s it? You’re not gonna say it back?”
Fadel rolled his eyes, retrieving the chair he’d knocked over and settling back into the task of cleaning and dressing the gunshot wound.
“Ouch!” Style yelped when he peeled the partially dried, bloody towel away from his skin. “You can’t be gentler with your boyfriend? I could have died, you know.”
Fadel glared at him, although without the usual fury behind it.
“I haven’t forgiven you yet,” he grumbled.
“For saving your life?”
“For being an idiot. And for lying to me.” He began wiping away the blood from Style’s arm, markedly more gently than before—although he’d never admit it. “And I’m still cuffing you tonight.”
“Ooh, can’t wait,” Style said with a familiar, flirty grin, waggling his eyebrows suggestively when Fadel tried to pin him down with another unamused glare.
But when he finished bandaging Style’s arm, Fadel pushed the sticky hair away from Style’s forehead with more tenderness than he thought himself capable of and thought, I love you. When Style helped him bundle the old man’s body into a trash bag and haul it outside with no complaints, instead making completely inappropriate comments every step of the way, Fadel pretended to be exasperated and thought, I love you. When they ran another bath and Style once again insisted on joining him, this time sitting directly in front of him and leaning back against his chest, Fadel merely skimmed his fingers up and down Style’s skin in the cooling water and thought, I love you. When they crawled into bed with only Fadel’s one-armed embrace to keep Style from running off in the night—no cuffs after all—he pressed his nose into the soft hair at the back of Style’s neck—his boyfriend’s neck—and thought, I love you.
And if, in the morning, he whispered the words into that same soft hair in the pre-dawn light, letting his fragile heart peek out for a moment and shiver in the face of the impossible truth of Style’s love—well, that was between Fadel and the sunrise.