"Stop pretending you're not shaking," Kane spat, his voice a jagged rasp. He didn't move from the chair, but his eyes—dark, predatory, and bloodshot—pinned Cillian to the spot. "You're the big-shot forbidden surgeon. The one who plays god with cursed meat. So why are your hands trembling?"
Cillian didn't look up. He was too busy staring at the black, vein-like rot crawling up Kane's forearm. It wasn't just skin deep. The Bone-Eater Curse was humming, a low-frequency vibration that Cillian could feel in his own teeth.
"I'm not shaking. I'm calibrating," Cillian snapped. He stepped closer, the sterile scent of the makeshift clinic clashing with the metallic tang of blood and old ozone. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from the blackened skin. "And if you don't shut up, I might accidentally slip and carve out a nerve you actually need."
Kane let out a sharp, mocking laugh that ended in a wet cough. He leaned forward, invading Cillian's space. The heat radiating off him was unnatural, like a furnace fueled by something rotten. "Do it. Give me a reason to make your life a living hell before the curse does it for me."
"You think you're the only one in hell?" Cillian countered. He finally looked up, his gaze cold. "I was blacklisted from every legitimate board in the hemisphere because I dared to fix things people like you only know how to break. You're not a patient, Kane. You're a puzzle with a timer. And right now, your timer is screaming."
Cillian grabbed a scalpel from the tray. The steel glinted under the harsh LED lights. He didn't wait for permission. He pressed the blade against the edge of the rot.
Kane flinched, a sudden, violent jerk of his shoulder. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Cutting out the lie," Cillian whispered.
As the blade pierced the skin, a jolt of white-hot agony ripped through both of them. Cillian gasped, his knees buckling for a split second. He felt it—not just the resistance of the flesh, but a phantom scream echoing in his own nervous system. The Blood Pact. They were tethered. Every slice he made on Kane's arm felt like a mirror image being carved into his own.
"Dammit," Cillian hissed, clutching the table with his free hand.
Kane's face went pale, his jaw locked. He stared at Cillian with a mixture of horror and fascination. "You felt that, didn't you?"
"Shut up," Cillian groaned, sweating through his scrubs. "Just... hold still. If I stop now, the necrosis will seal the wound and trap the curse inside your marrow. You'll be a living statue of rot within a week."
"Sounds like a fitting end for a billionaire," Kane muttered, though his breath was coming in short, ragged bursts. He watched Cillian's face, noting the way the surgeon's pupils dilated with every surge of shared pain. There was a twisted intimacy to it. They were bleeding together, not just physically, but through a metaphysical wire that refused to snap.
Cillian worked with a brutal, focused precision. He wasn't using standard medical technique; he was carving runes into the flesh, redirecting the flow of the curse. Every few seconds, a spike of agony would hit them both, forcing Cillian to pause, breathe, and push through.
"You're enjoying this," Kane whispered, his voice strained. "The power trip. Playing the savior while we both burn."
Cillian paused, the scalpel dripping a thick, iridescent black fluid that didn't look like blood. He leaned in, his face inches from Kane's. He could smell the expensive cologne mixed with the scent of decay. The tension between them was a physical thing, a wire stretched to the breaking point.
"I don't do saviors," Cillian breathed, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "I do results. And right now, the only result that matters is that you don't die on my table and leave me with a corpse I can't dispose of."
Kane's gaze dropped to Cillian's lips, then back to his eyes. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're a liar, Cillian. You love the edge. That's why you're here. Not for the money. For the rush of seeing how far you can push a man before he breaks."
Cillian didn't answer. He couldn't. Another surge of pain hit, and this time it felt like a hot needle driving straight into his spine. He let out a sharp cry, his hand slipping. A thin line of red appeared on Kane's healthy skin, just beside the curse.
"Careful," Kane hissed, though he didn't pull away. In fact, he leaned into the pain, his eyes darkening. "If you kill me, you've got nowhere to go. No one else can touch this rot. You're stuck with me."
"I'm aware," Cillian panted, stepping back to wipe the blade. He felt drained, his muscles shaking from the feedback loop of the Blood Pact. He looked at the wound—the black fluid was slowing, the curse receding just a fraction. It was a victory, but a small one.
Kane looked down at his arm, then up at Cillian. The mockery was gone, replaced by something heavier. Something like a claim.
"The 'perfect' doctors my father hired... they just gave me sedatives and told me to accept the inevitable," Kane said, his voice devoid of emotion. "They lied to keep the family image clean. You're the first person to actually cut the rot instead of painting over it."
"Don't get sentimental," Cillian snapped, though he felt the shift in the room. "I'm not your friend. I'm the guy who's keeping you from becoming a pile of ash."
"I don't want a friend," Kane said. He stood up slowly, the movement fluid despite the pain. He towered over Cillian, his presence filling the small room, suffocating and dominant. He stepped closer, forcing Cillian back against the cold metal of the instrument tray.
Cillian didn't move. He refused to flinch. He looked up at the billionaire, his chest heaving.
Kane reached out, his hand not touching, but hovering just beside Cillian's neck. He could feel the heat from Kane's skin, the dangerous energy of the curse still humming beneath the surface.
"You're an asset now," Kane murmured. "And I don't leave my assets in some hole-in-the-wall clinic where anyone with a grudge can find them. Especially not when we're sharing a nervous system."
Cillian frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means the deal just changed," Kane said, his voice returning to that commanding, cold edge. "You're not a consultant. You're my shadow. You'll live where I live. You'll eat when I eat. And you'll be available every second I feel a single spark of this rot moving."
"I don't live in hotels, and I certainly don't live with my patients," Cillian retorted, trying to push past him.
Kane's hand shot out, gripping Cillian's wrist. The contact was electric. Because of the pact, the touch sent a jolt of warmth through Cillian's entire body, a rush of sensation that made his breath hitch. It wasn't pain—it was something far more dangerous.
"You don't have a choice," Kane whispered, leaning down so his breath brushed Cillian's ear. "I own the building you're in. I own the debt you're hiding from. And thanks to this little blood trick, I practically own your heart rate."
Cillian yanked his arm back, his eyes blazing. "You're a delusional narcissist."
"And you're coming with me," Kane replied, a cold smile playing on his lips. He turned toward the door without looking back, knowing Cillian would follow. "Pack your things. Or don't. I'll buy you new ones."
"I'm not leaving my equipment," Cillian argued, stepping after him.
Kane stopped at the threshold and looked over his shoulder. The light from the hallway cast a long shadow across the floor.
"Everything you need will be waiting for you at the top," Kane said. "Move into the penthouse. Now."