The deep night of Haicheng felt as though the storm had finally swept from the ocean's surface into this cramped executive suite.
The temporary mark brought more than just physiological solace; it was like a torrential rain falling over Silas Shen's parched and desolate mental wasteland—a rain deep enough to submerge his ankles. Orange-scented pheromones raced through his veins, and wherever they touched, glaciers melted and greenery grew wild.
Silas had never felt so weak, yet he had never felt so whole.
As the effects of the inducer had not yet fully dissipated, Silas's fingertips trembled uncontrollably amidst that Alpha aura—an aura so potent it nearly set him ablaze. Like a drowning man clutching his only piece of driftwood, he gripped Hunter's shoulders with a death grip.
"Silas Shen..."
Hunter called his name, his voice low and raspy, each syllable resonating from the depths of his chest. His uninjured right hand cradled the back of Silas's head, his movements as gentle as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain.
Tonight, Silas did not push him away.
Not only did he stay, but under the invasion of the wave known as "instinct," Silas even tilted his chin up slightly, proactively pressing his nose against the side of Hunter's neck. There lay the purest scent of oranges, the only thing capable of momentarily canceling out the surging anxiety within him.
"Ranran..." Silas let out a fragmented murmur, so faint he could barely hear it himself.
Those two syllables utterly demolished the last shred of Hunter's prized sanity.
Hunter leaned down, his lips no longer lingering only on that burning gland. Instead, they began to travel across Silas's forehead, the space between his brows, and the tip of his nose, over and over again. These were clumsy kisses, carrying the unvarnished sincerity and treasure-like reverence unique to a youth.
He felt Silas's rapid, emotion-driven breathing; he felt those hands—hands that usually held scalpels with cold precision—now sinking aimlessly and frantically into the muscles of his back.
"I'm here. I won't leave... Silas, I'll always be here."
Hunter whispered into Silas's ear. The voice contained not only the possessiveness of an Alpha but a near-sacred vow.
The shadows in the room swayed with the rhythm of the waves. Beneath the covers, their body temperatures had long since become indistinguishable. Silas felt his soul was like an envelope sealed with wax, and Hunter was using the most searing heat to tear open his defenses, inch by inch.
The dizziness brought on by the fever left Silas's world containing only the person in front of him.
He saw the crystalline beads of sweat in Hunter's hair; he saw his own disheveled yet vivid reflection in those bright, dark eyes. He could even clearly feel that Hunter's left arm—though still throbbing with pain—remained firmly protective behind his waist, constructing a private, absolutely safe world for him in a guardian's stance.
"Don't... don't leave me." Silas's logic had long since crumbled into dust. He closed his eyes, allowing tears to soak into the pillow along his hairline.
This was a vulnerability Professor Shen had never shown anyone in twenty-eight years. He was always the one standing on the podium directing the world, the one in the lab strategizing every move. But in this moment, he was simply an Omega being marked, being needed, and being deeply loved.
Hunter felt he was going mad with heartache.
He kissed away those salty tears, using his own body heat to fill every tremor in Silas's frame. Though his movements were unrefined, they carried a dominant strength that brooked no argument, guiding Silas to find a foothold in the middle of this sensory tsunami.
Outside the window, the sea tides surged wave after wave. Massive swells crashed against the shore rocks, letting out muffled, solid echoes.
It was the pulse of the ocean, and at this moment, it perfectly masked all the messy, broken gasps within the room.
Under the excuse of a "temporary mark," something was growing savagely. It was no longer just about physiological attraction or mutual aid during a heat cycle. Those long-suppressed feelings—the ones they dared not touch due to status and age—finally exploded in this air where blood and sweetness intertwined.
Silas felt like a crystal that had been repeatedly purified in a lab; under Hunter's gaze and touch, he finally revealed his truest, most primal colors.
He began to respond.
Using the hands he usually used to record data, he reached out tremblingly to the back of Hunter's neck, mimicking the youth's actions, clumsily giving back.
"Hunter Huo..."
He called the name again and again, as if to carve it into his very marrow.
Tonight, the moon of Haicheng hid behind the clouds. No main lights were on in the room, only a dim wall lamp casting two overlapping, entangled silhouettes that finally became one.
The orange-scented pheromones had thoroughly stained the elegance of the cold fir. It was the most harmonious chemical reaction in the world.
Though the bleeding in Hunter's injured arm had stopped, the wound seeped slightly again due to the intensity of their movements. Those dark red traces rubbed off onto the snow-white sheets like a blood-stained contract, bearing witness to all the absurdity and deep affection of the night.
"I like you, Silas."
Hunter's final murmur landed steadily against Silas's heart just before the latter sank into a deep sleep.
Not "Professor." Not "Professor Shen."
But Silas.
The sound of the tide gradually receded, leaving only the sound of two steady, overlapping breaths in the room. Curled in that embrace filled with the scent of oranges, Silas's consciousness finally sank into a gentle, deep sea amidst extreme exhaustion.
He knew that when the sun rose, the world might return to its original orbit.
But in this out-of-control, blood-stained, bone-deep sweet night, he finally allowed himself to dream a dream of "being loved."