[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 174: Alive

CASSIAN

I stood in the doorway for a long beat, my hand still resting on the cool brass of the handle. My mind was a battlefield of corporate strategy and my father’s icy warnings, but the second my eyes landed on the bed, the noise of the Wolfe family legacy simply... stopped.

He looked soft. He looked like he hadn’t moved since the breakfast I’d left him.

Then, his eyes flicked toward the door.

The reaction was instantaneous. His entire body jerked with a violent, full-body startle. A sound escaped him, not a scream, but a high-pitched, undignified squeak that sounded like a rubber duck being stepped on.

Because he was so tightly cocooned in the charcoal duvet, his arms were trapped, flailing uselessly against the fabric as he lurched sideways.

He lost his balance entirely, sliding toward the edge of the bed.

"Ahh—!"

He barely caught himself, one hand shooting out to grip the edge of the mattress as he dangled precariously half-off the bed.

His blonde hair was a chaotic nest, his face was flushed, and his eyes were wide with genuine terror.

I didn’t move. I didn’t help him. I just watched, a slow, genuine sense of amusement curling in my chest for the first time all day.

"Did you see a ghost?" I asked, my voice low and warm with a smirk I didn’t bother to hide.

Noah scrambled to right himself, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the sunset. He aggressively yanked the blanket back over his shoulders, trying to regain some semblance of dignity while still looking like a human burrito.

"How long have you been standing there?" he demanded, pointing a trembling finger at me. "Staring like a complete creep?"

"A minute," I said, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind me. I began to unbutton my cuffs, the movement fluid and unhurried. "Maybe less. You should be more aware of your surroundings, Noah. Anyone could have walked in."

"It’s not my fault!" he defended, pulling the blanket tighter as if it were armor. "I’m exhausted. For... for reasons." He gave me a pointed, accusatory look that made the heat in my stomach flare.

Then he gestured toward the screen. "And that is a very compelling telenovela. I couldn’t look away. The betrayal was imminent."

I watched him, defensive, ridiculous, and utterly comfortable in my space.

He didn’t look like an employee. He didn’t look like a "distraction." He looked like he belonged there. The thought was dangerous, a sharp blade against my resolve, and I pushed it away before it could take root.

"Where did you even go?" he asked, trying to sound casual, though the underlying curiosity was plain. When I didn’t answer immediately, he added, "And why didn’t you wake me before you left?"

I stopped at the edge of the wardrobe, looking back at him. My expression softened into something almost fond, a look I hadn’t worn in years. "You slept like a corpse, Noah. Genuinely. I checked if you were breathing. Twice."

His mouth popped open in a small o.

"You were completely gone," I continued, enjoying the way his blush deepened. "Face down. Not moving. The dead sleep with more dignity. And even if I had woken you, you couldn’t have lifted your arm, let alone gone anywhere."

I let my gaze drop meaningfully to the way he was sitting, clearly favoring his sore muscles. The implication hung heavy in the air: I broke you, and we both know it.

Noah’s eyebrow shot up. "Whose fault is that?"

"Mm," I hummed, tilting my head. "Interesting complaint from someone who was enjoying himself so much."

"I was not—" Noah sputtered, his voice jumping an octave. "That’s not, I didn’t—"

"The sounds you were making said otherwise," I countered, perfectly calm. "Very enthusiastically, might I add."

Noah let out a frustrated groan and pulled the blanket completely over his face, disappearing into the darkness of the duvet. "I hate you," came his muffled voice.

"You’re asking a lot of questions for someone who hates me," I said, turning back to the wardrobe. I stripped off my suit jacket, hanging it with the precision of a soldier, and followed it with my tie. "Almost like you were disappointed to wake up alone."

The blanket lowered just enough for his eyes to peek out. "I wasn’t."

"Not even a little?" I shucked off my dress shirt, tossing it toward the hamper. I could feel his eyes digging into the skin of my back, tracing the tattoos and the scars he’d gripped only hours ago. I turned around without warning, catching him mid-stare.

Noah snapped his head back toward the TV so fast I heard his neck crack. I smirked to myself, pulling on a simple dark t-shirt and loose shorts. The formal armor of the Wolfe heir was gone, replaced by the casual ease of a man at home.

I walked back toward the bed, my steps slow and deliberate. I let a wicked, promising smile touch my lips.

Noah’s eyes went wide. He immediately began wiggling backward toward the headboard, his hands outstretched as if to ward off a predator. "What do you think you’re doing? No. Stop. Stay there."

"What do you think I want to do?" I asked, continuing to advance.

"There is ABSOLUTELY no way!" Noah’s voice rose in genuine alarm. "I cannot! I—my body—Cassian!" He looked mortified to even be saying it. "My poor—tiny—traumatized ass cannot handle you right now. Possibly ever again."

I stopped at the edge of the bed and let out a laugh, a real, low, genuine sound of delight. I didn’t laugh often. My life didn’t usually provide much cause for it. But Noah Bennett was a goddamn marvel.

"What’s so funny?" he hissed, looking like a cornered kitten.

I didn’t answer. I just pulled back the covers on my side and slid underneath, adjusting the pillow until I was comfortable. Noah stared at me, frozen.

"...What are you doing?"

"Resting," I said simply. "It’s my bed, isn’t it? Is that a problem? Should I have asked permission?"

Noah’s face turned a shade of crimson I hadn’t seen before. He cleared his throat, nodding far too much. "Of course. Obviously. I knew that. I knew you were just... resting."

"Did you?" I asked, glancing at him. "Because you looked terrified."

"I wasn’t terrified," he lied poorly. "I was just... repositioning. Preemptively. I totally knew what you were going to do. I saw it coming from the beginning."

"Of course you did."

I lay there, staring at the ceiling as the dramatic music of the telenovela filled the silence.

Usually, any room of mine was a cold, clinical vault. It was where I slept, but never where I lived.

Now, with the warmth of Noah beside me and the ridiculous noise of the television, it felt different. It felt... occupied.

"Get back under the covers," I said, still looking at the ceiling. "You’re sitting there like an idiot."

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because you’re shivering. Get in."

"The last time I got close to you—yesterday," Noah pointed out. "I’m still recovering."

"I’m not going to do anything," I said, and then, after a pause, I added, "You have my word."

"Your word," Noah scoffed. "The word of a criminal."

"The very same."

He sighed heavily, a theatrical, suffering sound, and finally slid back under the covers. He made sure to maintain a strict one-foot DMZ of space between us, lying on the very edge of his side.

I waited exactly three seconds. Then, I reached out, hooked my arm around his waist, and hauled him across the gap until his back was flush against my chest.

"You said—! You promised—!"

"I’m not doing anything," I murmured, burying my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of my own soap on his skin. "You’re just warm. And soft. Stop moving."

Noah opened his mouth to protest, but then he seemed to deflate. He stayed still, his body slowly releasing the tension until he was fitted perfectly against me.

On the screen, a man was weeping dramatically into the rain, yelling something about a long-lost love.

"Why do you watch these?" I asked, my voice rumbling against Noah’s back. "The acting is terrible."

Noah twisted his head around to look at me, offended. "Excuse me?"

"Objectively," I said, gesturing at the screen. "That man has been crying for four minutes without blinking. That’s not acting. That’s a medical condition."

Noah sat up slightly, forgetting his vow of distance. "Okay, FIRST of all, you clearly don’t understand the art form. Drama, REAL drama, is not about technical perfection. It’s about FEELING. Passion. The human experience distilled into—"

"Terrible lighting and crying without tears?"

"INTO raw, unfiltered emotion!" Noah continued, his green eyes bright with conviction. "These shows understand something that cold, clinical, emotionally unavailable people simply cannot grasp."

"Which is?"

"That life is DRAMATIC!" he exclaimed, gesturing wildly. "And it deserves to be treated dramatically! Everything doesn’t have to be restrained and minimal and... and THAT." He pointed a finger at my chest.

"Do you know what dramas give people? Hope. The most ridiculous, over-the-top, completely unrealistic hope." He slowed. "That love exists... That it’s passionate and painful and worth it... That people fight for each other."

He pulled the blanket back up to his chin, looking solemn. "In a cold, terrible world, telenovelas are a gift. A blessing. And anyone who doesn’t understand that... has no soul."

I watched him throughout the entire speech. I watched the way his hands moved, the way his eyes sparked, the way he talked about feelings as if they were as simple and vital as breathing.

"No soul," I repeated quietly. "Is that your diagnosis?"

"I stand by it," Noah said, crossing his arms. "Are you going to argue?"

I looked back at the screen, where the man was now clutching a locket and screaming at the sky.

"No," I said. I pulled him back down against me, my arm tightening around his waist. "I’m going to watch your terrible drama."

I felt him relax again, his head resting on my shoulder. The warmth spread through me, quiet and insistent. I didn’t care about the board meeting. I didn’t care about the blood on my hands. For right now, there was just this.

And for a man with no soul, I felt remarkably alive.