Chapter Thirty-Three

"Do you really think I'd need to get you drunk to take advantage of you?" Kurogane let all his frustration, all his fury, seep into the words, painting them black. Syaoran leaned back, flinching from the accusation.

For a moment, not a word passed between them. Annoyed by the silence, Kurogane tightened his hold on the boy's wrist and pressed it to the counter, effectively pinning him. "Do you?"

Syaoran looked up at him, eyes wide, pupils dilated. All the color had washed out of his face, leaving him sickly pale. Still, he said nothing, his eyes flickering to the row of bedrooms.

Conscious of the vampire's sharp hearing, Kurogane lowered his voice. "Do you think I have that little self-control? Do you think I can't restrain myself when the others are in the next room, or when you're too drunk to put up a fight?"

Syaoran winced, leaning back even farther. His eyes darted around, looking everywhere but his face. Kurogane released one of the kid's wrists and coiled his fingers in Syaoran's hair, forcing him to look up again. His coffee-colored eyes shimmered with unshed tears. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. "No." Syaoran closed his eyes, tears spilling out of the corners. The salty beads caught the light, each shining like a crystal as they rolled down the kid's face. "No," he said again, shaking his head.

The microwave beeped, shattering the spell. Kurogane jumped back, jolted back into reality, and watched the boy rub his wrist, shoulders curling inward. Syaoran stood there, panting, bowing his head and shrinking back in an effort to make himself as small as possible.

Like a trapped animal.

Kurogane stepped away and turned his back, knuckles digging into his side. Behind him, he heard the kid's labored breathing, the faint rasp of terror. "Your soup is ready," Kurogane said. Even as the words left his mouth, he had to admit that was about the least helpful thing he could've come up with, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. All he could think about was the first time the boy had tried to kiss him, months ago, when he'd thrown him into a wall. Somehow, the guilt he'd felt then seemed like nothing compared to what he was feeling now.

The kid had trusted him. In less than thirty seconds, he'd shattered that trust.

Behind him, the kid thawed out enough to walk to the microwave. Kurogane listened to the door pop open, trying to lose himself in the mundane sounds of the kitchen. The domesticity of the situation seemed so jarring now that the intensity of the moment was fading. As much as he hated this apartment, everything about it was dull, ordinary—it seemed wrong that he should be able to strike fear into someone in such an unremarkable place.

"I'm heading out," he said, starting for the door. He half-expected the boy to say something as he donned his coat, but Syaoran was silent. A glance back revealed that he was stirring his bowl of soup with a spoon from the drawer, facing away from the door.

Sick to his stomach, Kurogane unlocked the front door and stepped into the stairwell, closing it behind him. He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. He felt like a monster, like the demons he'd slain in Suwa, only worse. Worse because he knew he was better than that, worse because he'd used intimidation to control the boy while a demon would've simply used physical force. Worse because Tomoyo had sent him away so he wouldn't be a monster, and now he'd failed her, too.

Behind him, he heard the front door lock. He turned, staring at the brass handle, disbelieving. The kid locked me out, he thought, a strange ache forming in his throat. Swallowing, he turned away from the door. It would be hours before the mage and the princess left on their daily walk, hours before he could get back inside to make things right. But if the kid wanted to lock him out, he had pretty good justification.

He hiked up the stairs, accepting his banishment. When he reached the lobby, he turned sharply toward the door, keeping his head down. The moment he stepped outside, a frigid wind assaulted him, pinning him where he stood. It was as cold as any winter night in Nihon, but he'd experienced worse conditions on this journey; he could endure this.

He'd have walked through fire if he'd thought it would rectify the situation.

Syaoran locked the door, throat tight with the tears he'd already let slip, feeling a twinge of guilt as he barred the ninja from returning to the apartment, but also a smattering of relief. This time, at least, he knew the indiscretion wasn't his own.

He walked back to the microwave, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. Better to appear relaxed in case the others saw him. At least that way, he could deny that anything had happened.

He took the bowl of soup back to his room and locked his bedroom door after him. He tried to tell himself it was habit that motivated his caution, but the thought of having one more barrier between himself and the red-eyed man right now was alluring. Syaoran doubted Kurogane would return so soon, even though he was perfectly capable of knocking down either door if he really wanted to get in. But then, he'd also doubted Kurogane would shove him against the kitchen counter and . . . And do what? Syaoran asked himself. Scare you? That's not a crime. Even if it was, how would you prove it?

The train of thought disturbed him, and he hurriedly went on to eat his soup. He didn't want to think of Kurogane that way, didn't want to think of him as a threat. Yet even now, his world felt out of control, spinning wildly around him. As he struggled to swallow another spoonful of soup, he realized his throat was too tight, his stomach too knotted up to eat. He set the steaming bowl aside and buried his face in his hands, breathing slowly as he remembered that Fai was likely on the other side of the thin wall behind him. He had to be careful about how much noise he made, with the others so near.

Unless Fai already heard something, he thought, panic shooting through him. His breath hitched, and he struggled to regain control of himself before he started crying again. Fai would wonder what was wrong, and then he would ask, or start fitting the pieces together, and Syaoran wasn't ready to face that conversation.

I'll have to wait for Kurogane to come back to talk to him, Syaoran thought, remembering the sound of the lock clicking into place. He wrapped his arms around his torso, stomach churning. Am I even ready to face him again?

He exhaled, trying to think logically. I shouldn't be so scared. Nothing happened. His fingers curled into fists as he imagined what could have happened. He'd seen the way Kurogane had jerked back when the microwave's timer had gone off—clearly he'd realized how threatening he'd seemed. It wasn't fair to judge the ninja for something he already felt guilty about.

Yet . . . Syaoran thought about the way the ninja had thrown him into the wall the first time he'd tried to kiss him, and that sadistic smile he got right before a fight. Syaoran had known from the beginning that Kurogane was prone to violent outbursts. Since the start of this relationship, the man had often asked him why he'd chosen to seek comfort with him instead of someone else. For Syaoran, it had only seemed natural to seek attention from the one person who hadn't been openly hostile to him after Tokyo.

Was I wrong? Syaoran wondered, ribs constricting around his lungs. He didn't want to think about this, didn't want to deal with it, but the thoughts kept coming anyway. Am I that desperate, that I can't even think about this logically? I shouldn't have even started this to begin with. He took a deep breath, sitting on the edge of his bed, legs folding so his knees were pressed against his chest. Again, he felt a growing ache in his throat and had to struggle to keep his emotions in check.

He'd never felt so out of control as he had in that moment, pinned against the counter. Worse, he had no idea how to get back in control. Frustration replaced the panic. How could I let it come to this? I'd have been better off locking myself in my room for good.

He curled up tighter, protecting himself from the rest of the world. After several minutes, he remembered the soup sitting on his desk and walked over to finish it. His room was cramped and cold and empty, but it was the only place where he could control everything. And he needed the control, right now. Needed it more than he needed to tell anyone about what had happened.

Needed it because everything else was spiraling out of control, and this was the only place he could hold onto.