The hotel lights had been dimmed to their lowest setting. The warm yellow glow was like a layer of viscous amber, sealing this room filled with the scent of blood and pheromones.
Silas Shen was curled beneath the covers. The thin silk duvet felt as heavy as a thousand pounds, yet it was his only armor. The fever brought by the inducer didn't just sear his skin; it felt as though it had carved a chasm into the depths of his frigid soul—and at the other end of that abyss was the intoxicating scent of sun-drenched oranges.
At the back of his neck, the gland—usually smooth and pale—was now a seductive, vivid shade of light pink. It acted like a reactor out of control, continuously pumping currents of "craving" throughout his body.
"Professor... are you feeling any better?"
Hunter knelt by the bed, his voice raspy beyond repair. His injured left hand hung limply at his side, the blood having partially congealed into a twisted, dark red pattern on his white shirt. Because they were so close, his pheromones—the scent of a top-tier Alpha with its violent defensive mechanisms—were involuntarily seeping into Silas.
Silas struggled to open his eyes; his vision was a blurred mess.
In his fractured sight, Hunter's face—usually wearing a devil-may-care grin—was now as taut as a drawn bow. Those obsidian eyes no longer held their usual mischief; in its place was a near-obsessive focus, along with a deep, overflowing sense of urgency and heartache.
That drop of blood that had fallen from Hunter's fingertip onto Silas's hand seemed to still pulse with a searing, residual heat.
Looking at the wound Hunter sustained to protect him, Silas's final line of defense—the one labeled "Mentor"—completely collapsed amidst that stabbing red.
He had always prided himself on being a disciple of logic, a cold deity in the laboratory. He thought he would spend the rest of his life relying on suppressants and isolation creams. He never imagined someone would break through his shell in such a tragic, clumsy way, touching his Achilles' heel with raw, naked vulnerability.
"Hunter Huo..." Silas spoke, his voice as faint as smoke scattered by the wind.
"I'm here. I'm right here." Hunter leaned down immediately, ignoring the pain in his arm to place his uninjured right hand gently over Silas's burning forehead.
Silas felt the dryness and stability emanating from that palm. The irrational, forced heat of the inducer had nearly incinerated the last of his "Professor Shen" pride.
He could feel it—the fir-scented pheromones inside him were screaming in extreme unrest. They craved to be suppressed, craved to be enveloped, craved to be thoroughly soothed by a stronger, warmer power.
Even if this soothing meant betraying every principle he had held for twenty-eight years.
Silas slowly reached out, his slender but weak fingertips trembling as he finally gripped the hem of Hunter's shirt with a death grip. At that moment, his usually cold eyes were veiled in a wet mist. The physiological crimson at the corners of his eyes was like rouge melting into the snow—heart-stoppingly beautiful.
"...Mark me," he heard himself say.
Hunter felt as though he had been struck by lightning. The hand he had intended to use to stroke Silas's hair froze mid-air.
"Professor, you... what did you say?" His heartbeat was so loud it was deafening; the agitation of his pre-rut state surged to the top of his skull at the sound of those two words.
"Mark me..." Silas closed his eyes, two crystalline tears sliding down his temples and into the bedding. "Just... temporarily."
He could no longer endure the agony of his soul being torn apart. In this moment, he wasn't a high-and-mighty professor or a scientist enshrined on an altar. He was merely an Omega on a tumultuous sea, broken by a tsunami of instinct, desperately craving a return to harbor.
And Hunter was his only lighthouse.
"Silas Shen..."
Hunter murmured the name low. No longer "Professor" with a tone of reverence, nor "Professor Shen" with a hint of playfulness, but for the first time, as a man, he called him by his given name.
There was a sense of finality in his voice, alongside a near-trembling tenderness.
Hunter braced one hand beside Silas and slowly leaned over. As he drew near, the sweet, blood-tinged scent of oranges pressed down like a collapsing sky.
Silas felt a heavy sense of pressure, but he didn't hate it. Instead, he instinctively tilted his head back, exposing his most fragile, burning gland without reservation.
It was a gesture of absolute trust—a sacrifice of the soul.
Hunter stared at the light pink gland, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. In his bloodshot eyes, predatory instinct and restrained love were locked in a final, brutal struggle.
He lowered his head, his nose brushing lightly against Silas's nape. The scent of fir after snow became exceptionally viscous, carrying a cloyingly sweet temptation, like a persimmon touched by frost, waiting to be plucked.
"If it hurts, bite me."
Hunter's voice was muffled. Then, he opened his mouth, his sharp canines flashing a white shadow under the dim light.
At the moment of the piercing, Silas's body arched violently, his fingertips digging deep into the muscles of Hunter's back. But immediately following, a surging, scorching torrent of Alpha pheromones—heavy with the fragrance of oranges—poured into his cold veins like molten magma through the wound.
It was a power entirely different from the inducer.
This power was domineering but not cruel; it acted like a patient pioneer, patrolling every inch of Silas's territory, driving out every bit of the chaotic, filthy synthetic pheromones and branding the land with the name Hunter Huo.
"Mngh..."
A broken moan escaped Silas.
The heat that had made him want to die just moments ago had transformed into an intoxicating tenderness. He felt his soul slowly knitting back together. The swaying high wall finally crumbled, replaced by a harbor of ultimate warmth.
Hunter didn't pull away immediately after the mark was finished like an ordinary Alpha. His movements were more tender and lingering than ever before. He held the warm flesh between his teeth, suckling with cautious care, as if treating a rare, world-class treasure.
The taste of blood diffused between their mouths and necks.
In that moment, they were no longer teacher and student, nor were they merely passersby thrown together by accident. In the deep night of Haicheng, amidst this blood-stained protection and sacrifice, their souls completed a profound game of chess and a perfect union through the bridge of pheromones.
After an unknown amount of time, Hunter finally released his hold.
He placed a kiss as light as a feather upon the now deep-crimson gland.
"Professor, you're mine."
Hunter's voice was incredibly soft, yet it carried an undeniable obsession.
Silas lay limp in the covers. The discomfort of the heat had receded, replaced by an extreme exhaustion and... a secret pleasure. He opened his eyes, looking at the youth who was gazing down at him with such tenderness.
Blood was still dripping from Hunter's arm.
Silas reached out a cool hand, stroking Hunter's face—now covered in sweat and dust.
"Idiot..." he whispered.
Outside, the sound of the tide grew louder, as if providing the soundtrack for this absurd yet destined accident.