Page 55 of Ruthless Touch

Whatever condition ails Gun is clearly serious enough to send him running for pharmaceutical relief in the middle of a conversation.

It’s serious enough to make him keep a pharmacy’s worth of pills within easy reach.

And I’m going to find out exactly what it is.

Things stay awkward and tense between Gun and me for the next two days, the air in the apartment thick with unspoken words and strategically maintained distance.

When he finally leaves on what he calls “business,” I’m almost relieved.

…until I discover Joon will be my babysitter, sprawled across the couch with a bag of chips and more corny pick up lines.

“It’s okay if you’re not feeling Gun, cutie,” he says, winking. “He thinks just because he’s handsome, rich, and powerful that that’s what women want. But I keep telling him they want a true romantic… like me. The kind of man who’ll hold your hair back when you vomit and recite Shakespeare to you afterward, you know? I’m a ride or die. And hey—if you’re ever interested, it could just be between me and you. Gun doesn’t have to know.”

“Uh… right.”

I half consider taking him out, running through various scenarios where I incapacitate Gun’s loyal sidekick and make my escape.

But the rational part of my mind reminds me there could be more security positioned throughout the building. More eyes watching than I’m aware of.

Then I’d wind up in the same situation as the other day.

If I’m going to make another escape attempt, it needs to be through stealth rather than confrontation.

When Gun returns hours later, I can’t help but press him about where he’s been.

“Cheongryong business,” he says vaguely.

The non-answer only confirms my growing theory: Gun is still covering for me.

He’s keeping the truth about Black Silk’s identity from his father and the rest of the syndicate. He knows exactly who I am and what I’ve done.

For reasons I can’t really fathom, he’s chosen to protect that information rather than cash in on the glory it would bring him.

By day four, my body finally starts to feel like my own again.

The worst of the bruises have faded from deep purple to ugly yellow green, and my ribs no longer scream in protest every time I take a breath.

I’ve been keeping up with exercise despite the cramped quarters—sit-ups and push-ups and shadow boxing routines that help me feel less like a prisoner and more like the weapon I was trained to be.

I’m in the middle of my third set of sit-ups when the bathroom door opens and Gun emerges in a cloud of steam, water beading on his skin like liquid diamonds. He adjusts the towel wrapped around his waist, his muscles distractingly on display.

He has washboard abs and defined arms. His pecs are sculpted, and his shoulders look harder and broader than ever.

Our eyes meet across the small space, and that familiar smirk curves his lips as he catches me staring.

“Like what you see, Goyangi-ne?” he teases, running a hand through his damp black hair.

“You wish,” I shoot back, quickly looking away

“True. But I know I’m not alone.”

His hands hover near the fold of his towel as if he’s about to drop it, then he laughs and walks off.

I glare after him before giving my all during my next rep of sit-ups.

This is the problem with living in a confined space like this. It’s not even that I’m forced to cohabitate with my enemy.

It’s the fact that Gun’s presence takes over the entire apartment. That he looks so damn good doing it.