That savage kiss—cold with rain yet scorching with fury—was like a devastating hurricane, tearing apart the last shreds of Su Xiaolan's consciousness in an instant. The pain of crushed lips, the suffocation of stolen breath, mixed with the unmistakable possessiveness in his domineering scent, burned into the depths of her soul like a red-hot brand.
Fear, rage, shame… every emotion surged to its peak—then snapped.
"Mmm…!" A broken whimper was trapped in her throat. The last thing she saw was Li Chenyuan's face, terrifyingly close, his dark eyes churning with storm and destruction. Then, endless darkness swallowed her like icy tides. Her body went limp, drained of its last strength, and she collapsed backward like a puppet with its strings cut.
But the expected pain of crashing against the cold wall never came.
A powerful arm caught her waist just as she lost all support, holding her firmly, unyieldingly. The hand that had gripped her chin released her, instead cradling the back of her head, pulling her tightly—so tightly—into a broad, rain-soaked embrace.
"Su Xiaolan!" Li Chenyuan's roar carried a trace of panic—one even he hadn't noticed—piercing through the darkness of her fading consciousness.
But Su Xiaolan could no longer hear him.
She slumped against him, her burning cheek pressed against the icy, rain-drenched fabric of his shirt. The feverish heat seeped through, scalding his skin.
Li Chenyuan froze.
All his rage, violence, and possessive madness were doused in an instant, like ice water dumped over flames. He looked down, his vision adjusting to the dim hallway light, and finally saw it—the unnatural flush on her pale face, her tightly shut eyes, the faint furrow of pain between her brows.
She was burning up.
And it was bad.
The realization struck him like a hammer to the chest. Outside, in the storm, his senses had been so consumed by fury and the obsessive need to keep her from escaping that he'd completely missed the warning signs from her fragile body.
A feeling he rarely knew—panic—coiled around his heart like a venomous snake, sharper and more unfamiliar than any corporate crisis he'd ever faced.
"Damn it!" he swore under his breath, all his fury morphing into urgency. He bent down, carefully lifting her feverish, weightless body into his arms, his movements awkwardly gentle—as if afraid of causing her even the slightest pain.
He carried her past the shattered door, stepping over splinters of wood and metal, and into the small but warm living room. His gaze swept the space, locking onto the worn but soft-looking couch.
He laid her down, and the moment her body touched the cushions, she let out a faint, pained whimper, curling in on herself.
The sound wrenched at his heart.
Shrugging off his soaked, dripping suit jacket, he tossed it aside. Cold rainwater still trailed from his hair, his face, splattering onto the carpet. He barely noticed. Kneeling beside the couch, he pressed a hand to her forehead.
Burning.
The heat seared his fingertips.
His expression darkened. He had to cool her down—now.
He stood, prowling through the cramped apartment like a caged beast, searching for water, towels, medicine.
In the tiny kitchen, he turned on the tap, filling a basin with cold water. He rummaged through cabinets until he found fever reducers and a digital thermometer. Every movement was efficient, precise—yet beneath it all, an unfamiliar tension thrummed.
Back at the couch, he wrung out a damp towel and pressed it to her forehead. The coolness seemed to ease her slightly. He grabbed the thermometer, aiming it at her temple.
Beep.
39.2°C.
His pupils constricted. Too high.
He quickly measured out the medication, then hesitated.
How was he supposed to get her to take it?
Su Xiaolan lay unconscious, her lips tightly sealed. He tried to pry her jaw open gently, but she only turned her head weakly in protest.
"Su Xiaolan, open your mouth," he ordered, his voice low and commanding—yet strangely strained.
No response.
A bead of sweat (or was it rainwater?) slid down his temple. Seeing her parched lips, her fragile state, a wave of helplessness and guilt crashed over him.
If only he'd noticed sooner.
If only he hadn't lost control like that…
Gritting his teeth, he took a steadying breath. Then, in a move that surprised even himself, he placed the pill on his palm, took a sip of water, and—
—leaned down, tilting her chin up.
This wasn't a kiss.
There was no desire, no domination.
Only urgency.
He pressed his lips to hers, parting them just enough to let the water—and the medicine—slide into her mouth.
She swallowed weakly.
He pulled back immediately, as if scalded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But the fleeting sensation—her feverish lips, the fragile trust in that act—lingered, sending an unfamiliar jolt through him.
He focused on replacing the warm towel with a fresh, cool one, dabbing alcohol along her neck and arms to bring the fever down. His gaze never left her face, his usual icy composure fractured by something deeper—worry, regret, and a tenderness he didn't recognize.
Time crawled. Outside, the storm raged on.
Eventually, whether from the medicine or his efforts, her breathing evened slightly. She shifted, murmuring something unintelligible into the pillow.
Li Chenyuan stilled, listening.
Fragments reached him—soft, childlike, vulnerable:
"…Chips…"
"…Thirsty…"
"…Mom…"
The words, frail and needy, brushed against something tightly wound inside him.
Looking down at her flushed face, her dry lips, the walls of control he'd built over a lifetime cracked.
Silently, he fetched a glass of warm water, lifting her gently so she could drink. She sipped weakly, her body relaxing slightly against his arm.
The contact sent a shock through him.
Her warmth, her unconscious trust—it unsettled him in ways he couldn't name.
In that tiny apartment, with the storm howling outside, two worlds collided.
And somewhere between the cold rain and burning skin, between fury and fever—something unspoken shifted.