[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 116: Terror

CASSIAN

Walking away from Noah was the hardest thing I had ever done. Every nerve in my body screamed to turn back, to catch him before he left the room, to grab his hand and tell him that I wasn’t the monster I was pretending to be.

His face, God, his face. I could still see it when I closed my eyes. He had looked like he was about to fall apart. His eyes had been glassy, his breath coming in shallow hitches, and for a terrifying second, I saw something in him that didn’t fit the narrative I had written for us.

Noah supposedly hated me. He had called me a criminal, a manipulator, a heartless bastard. So why did he look like I was his entire world and it was currently burning to the ground?

Maybe he’s just... good. The thought was a bitter pill. Maybe he isn’t like me. He’s soft-hearted, kind, the type of person who grieves for a TV show character or a stray dog, let alone a man he’s spent months with. And I had taken that kindness and thrown it back in his face just to protect my own bruised pride.

Am I in trouble? I asked myself as the hospital linoleum blurred beneath my feet. Not the kind of trouble involving lawyers or police. The kind of trouble that involves a heart I didn’t think I still had.

I followed the nurse down the hallway, my steps measured and controlled. I had to be the Wolfe. I had to be the one in charge. But then, a sound shattered the sterile silence of the wing.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!"

A scream. High-pitched, vibrant, and utterly terrified.

Cyan.

My heart didn’t just stop; it hammered against my bruised ribs like a trapped bird. I broke into a run, the pain in my side a dull roar I ignored. I pushed past the nurse, nearly knocking her into a cart of bandages, and burst through the door of Room 320.

The scene Inside was pure chaos. Cyan was thrashing on the bed, his face pale and eyes wide with a brand of terror usually reserved for shark attacks or sold out items. A nurse was hovering over him, looking both determined and exhausted, a syringe held firmly in her hand.

"No! No, get that thing away from me!" Cyan shrieked, scrambling backward until he hit the headboard. "Keep it back! I see the needle! It’s a weapon of the devil! Stay away from me!"

"Sir, please," the nurse pleaded. "This is just for the pain. You have a fracture— "

"I don’t care! I’d rather have the pain! I’d rather die of agony than let you stab me with that!"

I stopped in the doorway, forcing myself to assess the situation with clinical detachment. It was the only way to keep my own hands from shaking.

Cyan looked worse than I did. He had deeper cuts across his forehead and a long, jagged gash running under his right eye that would definitely need stitches.

His arms were already turning a sickly shade of purple and black from the impact. His left arm was the most jarring sight, held in a temporary splint at an angle that made my stomach turn. Broken. Clearly and painfully broken.

There was blood on his designer clothes, silk ruined by the realities of physics, and red stains smeared across the pristine white hospital sheets. But he was breathing. He was conscious. He was screaming.

He was fine.

Relief crashed through me, followed immediately by a surge of pure irritation.

Of course. Of course, we survived a rollover with a trailer truck only for Cyan to meet his match in a three-inch needle.

Cyan’s eyes darted to the door and landed on me. His face lit up as if I were a messiah. "Cassian! Oh Thank God! Save me from this sadistic woman! She’s trying to murder me! She wants to finish what the truck started!"

The nurse looked at me, her expression somewhere between a plea for help and a resignation to her fate. "Sir, I’m just trying to—"

"She’s trying to assassinate me with a giant, terrifying needle!" Cyan pointed dramatically, his chest heaving like he ran a marathon already.

I felt my jaw twitch. Despite the blood, the wreck, and the crushing weight of the Noah-shaped hole in my chest, I almost smiled. "Cyan," I said, my voice flat. "It’s a painkiller."

"It’s a spike! A jagged iron rod! Are we even seeing the same thing?"

I walked closer, the smell of antiseptic filling my lungs. "You have a broken arm, Cyan. Look at it."

"I am aware it’s broken! Which is why I need sympathy and perhaps a very expensive cocktail, not more stabbings!"

I turned to the nurse. "Give us a moment." She looked profoundly relieved and scurried out before Cyan could start another round of theatrics.

I waited until the door clicked shut, then turned back to my best friend. "Listen to the nurse."

"Huh?! I can bet my left ass cheeks you didn’t listen to yours," Cyan countered instantly, his eyes narrowing. "I know you probably brushed past her to come here. You look like hell, by the way."

"That’s different."

"How?"

"I don’t need painkillers," I lied. Every breath felt like a knife in my lungs.

"Neither do I!" Cyan shifted, trying to cross his arms, but the movement jarred his splint. He let out a strangled whimper, his face going even paler.

I sat on the edge of his bed, move-by-move careful, reaching for the stray pink hair sticking to his face and tucking it behind his ears gently. "You’re getting the injection. It’s not negotiable. You have a broken arm and God knows what kind of internal bruising. Stop being dramatic."

Cyan pouted. An actual, honest-to-god pout from a twenty-seven-years-old man. "I hate you. I truly, deeply hate you."

I smiled.

"You’ll survive."

The nurse returned with reinforcements, a larger, no-nonsense male nurse. Cyan eyed them like they were part of a firing squad. I reached out and held his good arm firmly. "Hold still."

"Cassian, "

The nurse moved with a speed that spoke of years of dealing with difficult patients. The IV was in before Cyan could finish his sentence. He yelped, a sound that was half-indignation and half-pain. "Ow! That... that was unnecessary! I hope you’re all happy with yourselves!"

"Ecstatic," I muttered.