The night in Haicheng was as thick as ink. Outside the window, the tides rhythmically crashed against the jagged rocks—a pulse that felt like a steady, heavy heartbeat.
Inside the Executive King Suite, the warm yellow floor lamps cast circles of hazy, amber light. When Silas Shen emerged from the bathroom, he was still draped in a thin veil of steam. His usual rigorously buttoned-up shirt had been replaced by a soft, silk bathrobe. Perhaps because of the heat of the bath, a faint, plum-blossom flush had crept onto his usually frigid face, looking like a crushed peach petal scattered across the snow.
He cast a glance at Hunter Huo, who was sitting upright and formal on the small sofa, and spoke in his typical cool tone. "The bathroom is free."
Hunter was currently busy adjusting himself on the narrow armchair. While the leather was premium and the texture refined, it was undeniably "miniature" for an Alpha who stood at 188 centimeters with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. At the sound of Silas's voice, he looked up. The moment his gaze brushed past Silas's slightly damp collar, his pupils constricted sharply.
"Oh... okay." Hunter stood up obediently. In that instant, his sun-drenched orange pheromones seemed to be diluted by the lingering steam in the air, becoming exceptionally sweet and intoxicating.
Silas averted his gaze as if nothing were wrong and walked toward the massive bed.
The bed was truly enormous. The pristine white sheets were spread so flat there wasn't a single wrinkle, and the plush pillows exuded the faint, high-end fragrance unique to luxury hotels. Silas reached out and traced an invisible line down the exact center of the mattress. His tone was solemn, as if he were demarcating a sterile zone in his laboratory.
"Let's define the boundaries. Student Huo, you sleep on the sofa; the bed is mine." Silas paused, then added a cold postscript. "No objections, I assume?"
Hunter, who was currently clutching an extra pillow, flashed a textbook "puppy" smile. The corners of his eyes drooped, making him look both submissive and chivalrous. "No objections! Professor, I'm tough; I can make do anywhere. As long as you can rest well and aren't delayed for tomorrow's conference report, I'd be happy to sleep on the carpet."
Seeing him agree so readily, an unidentifiable sense of guilt—the kind one feels when bullying someone honest—rose in Silas's heart. However, it was quickly suppressed by his formidable logic. He nodded, turned off the main lights, and left only a dim bedside lamp glowing before sliding under the covers.
The night deepened.
Silas had always been a light sleeper. In this relatively enclosed space, even though his back was turned to the sofa, he could clearly hear the movements behind him.
There was the rustle of fabric rubbing against leather, followed by the dull thuds of Hunter's long legs shifting repeatedly as he tried to find a way to stretch out.
Thump. That was the sound of a foot hitting the sofa's armrest.
Hiss— That was Hunter's low, sharp intake of breath.
Silas kept his eyes closed, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. He remembered how, on the plane earlier that day, Hunter had acted as a human pillow for the entire flight just so Silas could sleep soundly. Half of the boy's shoulder must have been numb from the pressure.
Just as Silas's internal conflict between logic and emotion began to peak, the atmospheric pressure in the room shifted silently.
Hunter was not doing well.
Due to the extreme humidity of Haicheng combined with their prolonged physical proximity during the day, the pre-rut symptoms in Hunter's body were erupting like a long-dormant tide in the dead of night.
He felt as if two opposing forces were tearing through his veins: one side was scorching like molten lava, while the other was as freezing as an ice cellar. This was "Pheromone Craving Syndrome," triggered by the lingering resonance of their recent mark. On the eve of a rut, an Alpha instinctively seeks out the Omega they have marked, craving their comfort and warmth.
The sofa was too cold. The thin blanket was no match for the chill rising from the depths of his bones.
Hunter rolled over, curling his body into a tight ball, his jaw shivering slightly. His consciousness began to blur. His mind was entirely filled with the scent of cold fir from Silas's nape. To him, that scent was more effective than any high-potency suppressant.
"...So cold," he murmured, his voice fracturing and scattering into the air.
In the chaos between wakefulness and sleep, instinct completely shattered his "good boy" disguise. With his eyes still closed, Hunter crawled down from the sofa using both hands and feet. He didn't even remember how he stood up; he only knew that in the pitch-black room, the direction emanating that faint, ethereal scent of fir was his only salvation.
Silas was just hovering on the edge of sleep when he suddenly felt a corner of the mattress sink.
Before he could open his eyes or let out a cry of shock, a scorching-hot body had already slid through the gap in the covers.