chapter 101

He turned his head slightly, expecting some sarcastic quip from Yaroslav, only to find the man already looking at him. Their gazes met, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away. The flickering lights reflected in Yaroslav's sharp, piercing eyes, giving them an almost otherworldly glow. Beom felt his heart skip a beat, the intensity of Yaroslav's gaze sending an unexpected warmth through him.

Yaroslav took a step closer, his expression unreadable but his intent clear. The air between them grew heavy, charged with an unspoken tension that neither seemed willing to break. Beom swallowed hard, his pulse quickening as Yaroslav leaned in, the distance between them shrinking with each passing second.

But just as their lips were about to touch, Beom shifted his weight, the edge of the rug catching under his heel. He stumbled backward with a startled yelp, nearly toppling over the stool in the process. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, his arms flailing slightly before he regained his balance. "Careful there, big guy! Trying to seduce me into breaking my neck?"

Yaroslav straightened, his usual stoic expression returning in an instant. "You're the one who's clumsy," he replied, though the faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

Beom huffed, brushing off his pants as he turned back toward the tree. "Whatever," he muttered, his voice laced with mock annoyance. He needed a moment to compose himself, to shake off the lingering heat that had crept into his cheeks. "Anyway," he said, his tone intentionally casual as he tried to redirect the conversation. "Since you're apparently a culinary genius or whatever, I'm guessing you know how to bake cookies too, right?"

Yaroslav arched a brow at the abrupt change in topic but didn't comment on it. "Yes," he said simply, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.

Beom glanced over his shoulder, his lips curving into a sly grin. "Really now? You, the big bad mafia boss, standing in a kitchen with an apron on, baking cookies? That's a sight I'd pay good money to see."

Yaroslav's expression didn't falter, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he wasn't entirely immune to the teasing. "I don't wear aprons," he said dryly. "But yes, I can bake. Why? Are you craving cookies now?"

"Maybe," Beom said with a shrug, leaning against the back of the couch. "I mean, it's Christmas, right? Isn't that what people do? Decorate trees, bake cookies, pretend everything's normal for a day?"

Yaroslav didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on the tree, the lights casting a soft glow over his sharp features. For a brief moment, the usual coldness in his eyes seemed to thaw, replaced by something almost… nostalgic. "If you want cookies, I can make them," he said finally, his voice quieter now, as if the festive atmosphere had stirred something deep within him.

Beom tilted his head, studying Yaroslav's profile with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. For all his gruffness and arrogance, there were moments like this—moments where the mask slipped, just enough to reveal a glimpse of the man beneath. "Alright, then," Beom said, pushing off the couch with a small grin. "Let's see what you've got, master chef."

Yaroslav gave him a sidelong glance, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn't say anything as he turned and started walking toward the kitchen, his footsteps echoing softly against the hardwood floors. Beom followed, his earlier irritation forgotten, replaced by a strange mix of amusement and anticipation.

Beom stood silently for a moment, his fingers gripping the edge of the countertop as he watched Yaroslav tie the apron around his waist with meticulous precision. The contrast between Yaroslav's intimidating aura and the domestic act of baking cookies felt almost absurd. If Beom hadn't been plotting his escape, he might have laughed at the sight.

Yaroslav glanced over his shoulder, catching Beom staring. "If you're done standing there like a statue, maybe you could get me the flour," Yaroslav said, his voice low and smooth, tinged with amusement.

Beom rolled his eyes but obeyed, grabbing the flour and placing it on the counter. "You seem oddly at home in the kitchen," Beom muttered, crossing his arms. "Don't tell me the great Yaroslav Vyshnevsky has a secret passion for baking."

Yaroslav smirked but didn't reply, focusing instead on measuring ingredients with precision. Beom took the opportunity to study him, trying to gauge how long he might have before Yaroslav became suspicious. His mind raced with plans. He's distracted. This is my chance. I just need to find his phone, call for help, and get out of here.

Feigning casual interest, Beom leaned against the doorframe. "What's the point of all this?" he asked, gesturing toward the cookie dough. "Trying to impress me with your domestic skills?"

"Perhaps," Yaroslav replied, his tone deceptively light, though his eyes held a glint of something darker. "Or maybe I just enjoy proving I'm good at everything I do."

Beom scoffed, pushing off the doorframe. "Yeah, well, don't expect me to applaud. I'm not that easily impressed."

Yaroslav's smirk widened. "We'll see about that."

Taking this as his cue, Beom slipped out of the kitchen, his movements quick and deliberate. His heart pounded as he entered the hall, scanning the area for any sign of Yaroslav's phone. He started with the obvious spots: the table near the entryway, the couch, the coffee table. Nothing. Frustration mounted as he rifled through a jacket hanging on a chair, only to come up empty again.

Come on, come on. Where is it? He had it earlier. He must've set it down somewhere, Beom thought, his breaths coming quicker. He crouched to look under the furniture, his mind racing with both hope and desperation.

Just as he moved to check another jacket, a voice cut through the silence, low and tinged with amusement. "Looking for this?"

Beom froze, his blood turning to ice as he slowly turned to face Yaroslav. The man stood in the doorway, one hand holding his phone, the other resting casually at his side. His smirk was infuriatingly smug, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"I knew something was off," Yaroslav said, stepping closer. "You've been acting strange all day. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

Beom's mouth opened, but no words came out. His mind scrambled for an excuse, but before he could even begin to form a coherent thought, Yaroslav was moving toward him, his steps deliberate and predatory.

"Yaroslav, I—" Beom started, but the words died in his throat as Yaroslav grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back and exposing the vulnerable curve of his neck.

"You what?" Yaroslav asked, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, laced with dark amusement. "Thought you could outsmart me? Thought I'd just let you waltz out of here without consequence?"

"Ugh—let go of me!" Beom snapped, his hands flying up to claw at Yaroslav's wrist. But Yaroslav only tightened his grip, leaning in so that his lips brushed against Beom's ear.

"You're not going anywhere, солнышко," Yaroslav murmured, his tone low and intimate, sending an involuntary shiver down Beom's spine. "You belong here. With me."

"Like hell I do," Beom spat, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear. "Let go of me, you psycho!"

Yaroslav chuckled, the sound deep and almost sensual, as he trailed kisses along Beom's neck. His other hand slid down Beom's side, settling firmly on his hip before moving lower. Beom's body tensed, his breath hitching in a mix of panic and fury.

"Stop it!" Beom shouted, his struggles growing more frantic. "I said, let go!"

But Yaroslav didn't budge. "You're so defiant," he murmured against Beom's skin. "It's almost admirable. Almost."

The final word, spoken with a chilling softness, sent a wave of rage through Beom. Summoning all his strength, he twisted in Yaroslav's grip and swung his fist, landing a solid punch to Yaroslav's jaw. The impact forced Yaroslav to release him, and Beom stumbled backward, his chest heaving with adrenaline.

"Pervert!" Beom shouted, his voice echoing in the hall. Without waiting for a response, he turned and bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He slammed the door to his room shut and locked it, his back pressed against the wood as he tried to calm his erratic breathing.

This is insane. This whole situation is insane, Beom thought, running a hand through his hair. I have to get out of here. I can't stay. I won't stay.

He slid down to the floor, his knees pulled to his chest as he stared at the door, his thoughts a chaotic tangle of anger, fear, and determination. "No matter what it takes," he whispered to himself, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his heart. "I'll find a way to escape." 

Yaroslav let out a deep chuckle, his fingers brushing over his lip where Beom's punch had landed moments before. A smear of blood streaked his thumb as he wiped it away, his expression unreadable, though the amusement in his dark eyes was unmistakable. It was as though the sting of Beom's defiance only fueled the fire in him, sparking something far more dangerous and determined.

Straightening his posture, Yaroslav smoothed his shirt, his composure as sharp as ever. His long strides carried him back to the kitchen, the echo of his footsteps fading as the heavy silence settled back over the house. In the kitchen, the atmosphere was warm, the sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies hanging in the air like an inviting spell. Yaroslav leaned against the counter for a moment, his smirk growing as his plan began to solidify.

From a high cabinet, he retrieved a small vial containing a clear, viscous liquid. He rolled the bottle between his fingers, inspecting its contents with a calculating gaze. This wasn't just any aphrodisiac—it was something he'd acquired with the precision of a man who always had contingencies in place. His lips curled into a dangerous smile. "If he insists on playing hard to get," he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, "then I'll have to change the rules."

He carefully measured out the liquid, mixing it into the dough with deliberate strokes. His movements were methodical, his focus sharp. Each cookie he shaped felt like a step closer to his desired outcome. The oven hummed softly, the heat working its magic, as Yaroslav leaned back and watched, his arms crossed and a look of quiet satisfaction settling on his face.

Once the cookies were perfectly golden and aromatic, he let them cool before arranging them meticulously on a pristine white plate. The act of placing each cookie seemed ceremonial, like a predator setting the perfect bait. He paused for a moment, brushing invisible crumbs from his fingers, before picking up the plate and making his way upstairs.

Yaroslav's footsteps were silent as he ascended, the only sound the faint creak of the wooden staircase. He paused outside Beom's door, listening carefully. Inside, the quiet rustle of movement assured him that Beom was still awake. Taking a deep breath, Yaroslav composed himself, smoothing his expression into one of feigned humility and remorse. He pushed the door open without knocking, stepping into the dimly lit room.

Beom was sprawled on the bed, his posture radiating frustration and exhaustion. At the sound of the door, he stiffened slightly but didn't turn to look at Yaroslav. "What do you want now?" he asked, his tone clipped and laced with irritation.

Yaroslav held up the plate of cookies like a peace offering, his face softened with a contrite expression. "I came to apologize," he said simply, his deep voice uncharacteristically subdued. "I shouldn't have acted the way I did earlier. It was… wrong."

Beom's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. He sat up slowly, his gaze fixed on Yaroslav like he was trying to decipher an elaborate puzzle. "You're apologizing?" he asked, his tone heavy with skepticism. "Since when do you apologize for anything?"

Yaroslav took a step closer, extending the plate toward Beom. "Since now," he replied. His voice carried a quiet sincerity that made Beom's chest tighten with uncertainty. "Please, take this as a token of my apology. I'll leave you alone after this. Promise."

Beom eyed the cookies suspiciously, then glanced back at Yaroslav. The idea of Yaroslav apologizing was so absurd that it left him momentarily speechless. He studied Yaroslav's face, searching for any sign of deception. But Yaroslav's expression remained steady—earnest, even.