Chapter 6 - Parallel Lines

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well.

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

And, as I said before, if you wish to read ahead, you can head over to my Patreon to get early access to all the translated chapters.

"Master?" The small hands, diligently tending to his wounds, hesitated when they caught the glimmer of interest in those crimson-brown eyes.

 

"Hm?" He responded lazily, unwilling to move his lips, partly due to the sting at the corner of his mouth.

 

It had been a long time since he'd been hurt. Grasping the youth's delicate wrist, he pressed the soft palm against the wound. The sharp tug of pain, like a nerve being pulled taut, brought forth a low, pleased chuckle.

 

Not far off, the flashing red lights of an ambulance reflected against the night. A stretcher was being lifted from the restaurant, ready to be loaded into the vehicle. From his vantage point, he caught the man's gaze—eyes deep and dark behind his glasses.

 

That man lacked the pale, flawless complexion he typically liked. Instead, his skin bore signs of a life lived on edge—dry, rough, with faint scars visible up close.

 

An Eastern man with dark hair and eyes, his demeanor exuded scholarly elegance. His smile carried a polite detachment, warm as a spring breeze yet distant, mismatched with the penetrating intensity of his unwavering gaze.

 

Noticing his stare, the man blinked, his lips moving slightly before wincing in pain. The sight deepened his amusement. The youth in his arms grew restless and turned to look, only to be stopped by a firm command.

 

"Don't look." The words were delivered in a calm, unhurried tone, yet they made the youth flinch and obediently fix his gaze back on him.

 

As the ambulance pulled away, the lawyer's secretary—Miranda, her fiery red hair catching the dim light—sighed in relief, her shoulders relaxing. She turned her sharp eyes toward him.

 

"How is Attorney Shuai?" he asked, her pronunciation of the name a peculiar mix of English articulation and Eastern nuance, giving it a distinctive charm.

 

"Alive, I hope," she replied. Miranda seemed startled by his directness, retreating half a step before composing herself. After a brief silence, she asked, "Would Mr. Brelini have time to meet with him?"

 

"Today, or two days later?" He plucked the cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out, then seized the boy's hand and brought it to his mouth, nibbling at it. The hand encircling his slender waist slid downward, tracing its way toward his round buttocks.

 

The atmosphere instantly grew thick with sensual tension. The youth, ever sensitive, let out a kitten-like whimper, his soft, red lips brushing against his ear in shy, reverent kisses.

 

The bustling city street seemed about to witness a scene of untamed passion.

 

Miranda, unfazed, stepped closer and pulled out a notebook and pen. "I assume you'll soon be occupied, so I'd like to confirm a time for Attorney Shuai. Would three o'clock, two days from now, suit you?"

 

"Three?" He chuckled but did not answer immediately. Instead, his tongue trailed languidly along the boy's delicate fingers, eliciting faint, wet sounds.

 

"Or," Miranda pressed, her tone steady, "should I arrange this directly with your secretary or housekeeper?" She had heard enough of Shuai Zhaomin's complaints to know he'd endured a forty-minute display of unabashed intimacy the day before. She doubted he'd want a repeat performance.

 

"No need. Let's settle on three in two days," he finally said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Meeting that Eastern lawyer again was something he greatly looked forward to.

 

Three? Miranda raised an imperceptible eyebrow but dutifully noted the time, silently hoping her employer wouldn't explode over this arrangement. It wasn't worth the hassle.

 

"Master?"

 

"Hm?" He stood, still holding the youth close. A faint, lingering pain in his lower body made him narrow his eyes with a wry smile. "My dear Fitch, your master was this close to being unmade as a man."

 

"Ah?" The boy blinked, his gold-and-green eyes wide with confusion, his flushed face tinged with worry. "Master, what can Fitch do to help?"

 

"You don't have to do anything. Just stay by my side." He ruffled the boy's golden hair dismissively, his crimson-brown eyes barely lingering on him.

 

"Fitch will always stay by Master's side—always!" The boy looked up at him with unadulterated devotion, his gaze more than mere admiration—it was outright infatuation.

 

"Good boy." He tousled the soft locks affectionately, pulling out another cigarette. The youth instantly produced a matchbox, lighting it with single-minded concentration.

 

"Miss Miranda." A sudden thought made him call out to the red-haired woman, who was already turning to leave.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Let me know which hospital Attorney Shuai was taken to. After all, I may have been a bit too rough." His tone was light, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. The brief exchange with that elegant yet defiant man had stirred a rare seriousness within him.

 

He hadn't planned to deliver that final blow, but the moment those dark eyes met his with their thinly veiled provocation, he couldn't resist. Like a predator drawn to the scent of blood, he'd unleashed the full force of his strength in that strike to the man's chest—and it had been immensely satisfying.

 

It wasn't just a fight. It had been a clash of two beasts.

 

"I think Attorney Shuai would prefer you not go out of your way," Miranda replied after a thoughtful pause, her tone neutral yet firm.

 

If another fight broke out in the hospital, it would undoubtedly disrupt next week's trial. As his secretary, ensuring everything proceeded as planned was her responsibility.

 

"Only one way to find out," he laughed, the implication clear.

 

With a sigh, Miranda flipped open her notebook. "Saint Michelle's Hospital. Mr. Brioni, you can personally pay a visit in two days at three o'clock. Until then, perhaps…"

 

"Tsk. Fitch, won't you help your master with a little favor?" Without waiting for Miranda's reply, he led the boy toward the car.

 

"I'll do anything!" The youth's gold-green eyes sparkled with glee, an otherworldly shimmer like that of a mischievous sprite.

 

"Why not use that lovely mouth of yours to comfort your injured little master? Enough to bring him to tears of joy?" He slid into the car, where the spacious interior allowed the boy to kneel between his legs. The youth rested his delicate jaw against his thigh, nuzzling like a kitten.

 

"Yes, Master! I'll do my best."

 

Soft teeth gripped the zipper, tugging it down slowly. The black underwear beneath was already stretched taut, revealing its contours. The boy's face flushed crimson as his pink tongue pressed against the fabric, tracing the shape beneath.

 

The damp cloth only emphasized the weight and heat of the flesh it concealed. With trembling breaths, the boy shifted to plant gentle kisses.

 

"Good boy," he murmured, gazing down at the youth through half-lidded eyes. There was no tenderness in his expression, only a detached hunger gleaming in his crimson-brown gaze. His hand rested on his chin, shadowed with stubble, as he lazily observed the boy struggle to bite through the underwear. When the garment finally snapped free, the springing erection smacked against the boy's flushed cheek, drawing a low chuckle from the man's lips.

 

***

 

For Shuai Zhaomin, there was a short list of people he absolutely didn't want to see when he was sick or injured.

 

The first was his younger sister—he couldn't bear to see her sadness, as it made him want to punch himself. The second was his parents. His injuries already ached enough without adding a guilt trip over "dishonoring his body, a gift from his parents." And the third… he sighed, regretting that he'd allowed Miranda to answer his phone.

 

From the time he received the news to the arrival of the man himself, only 30 minutes had passed. Damn it! Even food delivery wasn't this fast and efficient!

 

"I'm fine," Shuai Zhaomin lied, though the truth was painfully obvious.

 

His left arm was in a cast, his chest bound in a brace, and his bruises were swelling to grotesque proportions. His face likely resembled a puffy steamed bun. Still, he'd managed to hold his ground in the fight. If nothing else, this "bun" hadn't been earned in vain.

 

"Zhaomin." The man standing by his bedside had strikingly refined features, his skin a creamy chocolate tone. His long black hair flowed down to his waist, and his tall, lean figure was draped in a loose Middle Eastern robe.

 

There was no scolding in his tone, only an unmistakable warmth in those luxurious eyes framed by thick lashes. They carried a subtle sadness, enough to make Shuai Zhaomin avert his gaze, coughing awkwardly.

 

Damn it! Even his beloved sister didn't have this kind of power over him.

 

Hell! Why, as the injured party, did he feel like a criminal hauled into prison, battered from a brutal interrogation? All because he'd been "stretching his muscles"? What nonsense!

 

"Serg, please, don't look at me like that," he grumbled, unable to relax even as he lay there.

 

"I'm not scolding you," the man replied with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Zhaomin, I only want to know why you ended up injured and in the hospital."

 

"Just stretching my muscles," Shuai Zhaomin replied with exaggerated clarity, as if reciting poetry. He smiled faintly, his voice painfully deliberate, enunciating every word like a professional orator.

 

Damn it! What man wants to recount his own defeat, especially at the hands of some garbage? Worse, that garbage had now become his responsibility. Damn it all to hell!

 

Irritated, he adjusted his glasses and scratched his cheek. "Serg, you must be busy. Don't you have a store to run?"

 

"I came because I heard you were hurt. Don't worry; Dawson is watching over the shop," the man said, pulling a chair closer to sit beside him. With a soft sigh, he added, "Do you not trust me?"

 

"Please, don't guilt-trip me with that line," Shuai Zhaomin grumbled, pushing up his glasses again as he glared at the man's obsidian-black eyes. "Anyway, it's my problem. At least it's resolved now."

 

Win or lose, one thing was clear—that damned Tengshe seemed to be very satisfied with him, so much so that he'd practically gone into heat on the street. This case was like gum stuck to Shuai Zhaomin's shoe—no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake it off.

 

He would handle this bastard's case as fast as possible. Fuck it!

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