Page 110 of Discordant Cultivation

Dangerous, that understanding. Useful. But dangerous.

But understanding didn’t erase the fact that Kieran hurt himself without Vale’s guidance, had chosen his own violation, had taken control of pain that was supposed to belong to Vale alone.

“The wounds need cleaning,” Vale said, returning his attention to Kieran’s damaged chest with a singular focus that masked the conflicted emotions churning beneath his composed exterior. “And proper bandaging.”

As he worked, cleaning the puncture wounds while Kieran dozed against his shoulder, Vale calculated the ripple effects.The performance would be dissected, analyzed, shared across every platform that mattered. Industry professionals would debate the ethics of using actual blood in live performance. But no one would be able to deny the authenticity of the performance. No one would be able to claim this was manufactured or fake.

The thought filled him with fierce satisfaction even as horror continued to pulse underneath—satisfaction at the artistic achievement, horror at the loss of control, pride at Kieran’s transcendence, fear at what eight minutes of focal seizures might have caused, possession at having created something so beautiful, and rage at having that creation happen without his explicit guidance.

“You were in the ‘Temple of Flesh’video.“ Jericho’s voice cut through Vale’s spiraling thoughts. He looked up to find her watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read—not accusatory, exactly, butassessing. Like she was fitting puzzle pieces together.

“The one holding him during the seizure,” she continued. “I watched that video a lot after it went viral. The hands that caught him in the chair. The way whoever it was knew exactly how to position his head, keep his airway clear.” Her gaze dropped to where Vale’s fingers were still carding through Kieran’s hair. “You touch him the same way now. Like you’ve been doing it forever.”

Vale’s hand stilled. “I’m his producer. I was there for the filming.”

“Mm.” Jericho returned her attention to picking glass from her palm, but her shoulders had squared slightly, her body angling toward Kieran. “Most producers don’t carry rescue medication in their jacket pockets. And most producers don’t look at their artists like...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Never mind. None of my business.”

Careful. She’s smarter than she looks.

“You’re right,” Vale said, letting warmth bleed into his voice, the particular tone he used when he needed someone to feel included rather than suspicious. “It’s not your business. But I appreciate you asking rather than assuming.” He met her eyes steadily. “Kieran has a medical condition. I take his care seriously. That’s all.”

Jericho held his gaze for a long moment, a silent challenge passing between them. Then she shrugged, returning to her wounds.

“Like I said. None of my business.”

But she didn’t look convinced. And the way she positioned herself—not between him and Kieran, exactly, butadjacent. Close enough to intervene if she decided intervention was necessary.

Interesting. She’s protective of him already. After one performance.

He filed the observation away for later consideration, returning his attention to the boy drugged and bleeding in his arms. Kieran’s breathing had evened out, the Versed doing its work, consciousness retreating to somewhere the seizures couldn’t follow.

Rest now, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.

And tomorrow, we’ll discuss what happens when you bleed without asking me first.

33

Humble in my chosen struggle, burst the bubble, end the trouble…

Kieran

Four days felt like four years.

Kieran sat curled against the couch on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, staring at the space where afternoon light painted geometric patterns across the hardwood. His fingers moved in unconscious circles over his sternum, tracing the landscape of healing puncture wounds through his shirt. The sensation was hypnotic—feeling the raised edges of scabbed skin that pulled tight when he breathed deeply, each one a reminder of choices he couldn’t unmake.

The morning after the performance, Vale had been waiting for him when he woke.

Not angry. That would have been easier to process. Instead, Vale had been calm, tender, almost loving as he’d guided Kieran down to the basement and positioned him on the familiar concrete floor. The collar felt heavier than usual against Kieran’s throat as Vale knelt behind him and wrapped steady fingers around his wrists.

“Show me,” Vale had said as soft as a prayer. “Show me what you did on that stage.”

And Kieran understood, with a sickening certainty, exactly what was being asked of him.

Vale guided his wounded palm to press against his chest until pain bloomed fresh where scabs had barely begun to form. The pressure applied was Kieran’s own, technically. His hand, his choice, his movement. But Vale’s fingers had been wrapped around his wrist the entire time, controlling the angle, the intensity, the duration.

“Harder.”

Kieran pressed until stars burst behind his eyes.