Page 157 of Discordant Cultivation

God, he needed this. He needed Vale’s hand there like he needed air.

Then there was a knock on the door.

Vale pulled back, breathing hard. “What?”

“Sorry to interrupt.” Eliza’s voice came from the other. “It’s about that thing. The delivery.”

Vale sighed, still squeezing Kieran’s throat and watching him with hungry eyes. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, okay?” He released Kieran’s throat and pulled out his wallet, handing Kieran a black credit card while sucking on his own lower lip like he was savoring the taste of him. “Get yourself something from the vending machines. Dr Pepper, right?”

Kieran nodded, still catching his breath as he yanked the bottom of his hoodie down to hide his erection.

“Good boy.” Vale kissed him once more and left.

Kieran stood against the wall for a moment, disheveled and flushed, looking at the bag of clothes on the couch. Tonight. A real date.

It was going to be a good day.

The hallway was empty, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Kieran walked toward the vending machine area, Vale’s card in hand, his hair still messy and lips still swollen. His hoodie was back in place, but he knew he probably looked exactly like what he was—someone who’d just been thoroughly kissed.

Kieran inserted the card, pressing the button for his soda, and grabbed the cold bottle quickly. He opened it and started drinking from it as he walked, wanting to get back to the green room as soon as he could. It wasn’t that heneededto be around Vale every second, he just felt better being near him. Especially being so far from home.

Then there was an impact—a shoulder slamming into his sore one.

Kieran stumbled sideways, spilling the soda down his face and chest. He opened his mouth to say something—

“Still sore from the basement, huh?”

The voice was already walking away, not even looking back. Kieran stood frozen, watching the person disappear around the corner. A male voice. A studio tech maybe?

How did he know about that basement?

His throat felt like it was closing. The gauze was soaked, clinging to his skin, the pressure all wrong. Not comforting like Vale’s hand, it was actually suffocating, choking—

They know about the basement.

His hands trembled. Soda dripped from his fingers, from the ruined gauze, pooling on the floor around his feet.

The A.T. message flashed through his mind: “Did Vale approve that?”

Kieran’s chest constricted. He couldn’t breathe. He had to get back to the green room. He had to rewrap before Vale saw.

He stumbled down the hallway, leaving a trail of soda behind him.

The door closed behind him with a soft click as he rushed to the mirror mounted on the wall and saw a disaster—soaked gauze at his throat, sticky and uncomfortable, his face flushed and eyes too wide.

He tried to pull off his hoodie but it was wet too, clinging to him. His hands didn’t want to grip the fabric right. When he finally got it over his head, he stood there in just his undershirt, staring at his reflection.

Kieran’s fingers found the edge of the gauze and started unwinding, but his hands wouldn’t stay still. It came away in pieces, damp and ruined, exposing his throat underneath.

In the mirror, he could see the marks. Vale’s fingerprints from fifteen minutes ago, from two days ago, from ten days ago, all pressed into his skin like brands. His arms fared no better—bruises layered on bruises, a timeline of lessons written in purple and yellow and green.

Kieran turned to the bag on the couch, desperate for clean gauze. Vale always packed extra. He unzipped it with unsteady fingers—

Just clothes. Nice clothes for the date.

No gauze.

His heart kicked against his ribs. Once. Twice. Then faster, faster, too fast.