Chapter 51: One Hundred And Four

Angel’s cheeks flush a deep, flustered red. He pulls back quickly, looking away—shy, maybe nervous after the intimacy of reaching out to touch my face. “I… I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low.

I look at him, a soft smile tugging at my lips despite the strange heat simmering under my skin. “Why are you apologizing?”

He stays silent, just looks down, a beautiful portrait of sweet awkwardness.

My own face is burning, but not from shyness. It’s something else. A warmth is rising inside me, slow and steady, like a tide creeping up the shore. I rub the back of my neck again. The feeling is peculiar, unsettling—a subtle prickling, a hum of energy just beneath my skin, as if something is gently waking up.

Trying to shake it off, I stand up slowly, stretching my body with an exaggerated laziness I don’t feel. “I should get to sleep,” I announce, more for my own benefit than his.

Angel looks up at me, his golden eyes watchful.

I meet his gaze, forcing normalcy. “You should go in too. The air’s getting colder, and it’s late.”

He nods and stands, a silent shadow beside me.

I take a step forward, then pause. An impulse strikes me. I turn back.

Angel looks at me, confused.

I step close again, take his hand, and guide it to the top of my head. I duck my head slightly, letting his palm rest on my soft, silver hair. “Goodnight, Angel,” I say, my voice softer now.

His hand is still, cold against my scalp. He slowly, hesitantly, begins to move his fingers in a gentle, almost subconscious pat. “Good ni—” he starts, his voice a whisper.

Then he stops.

His gentle patting ceases. His fingers shift, brushing against my temple. Then they move to cup my cheek.

His eyes widen, all traces of shyness vaporized, replaced by pure, undiluted worry. “You….,” he breathes. “You’re burning up.”

I smile up at him, the expression feeling wobbly on my fever-hot face. “It’s nothing… I’m fi—”

He doesn’t let me finish. In one decisive motion, he takes my hand—not with the careful deference of a servant, but with the firm, urgent grip of someone taking charge. He turns and begins leading me, not toward the garden path, but straight for the mansion’s side door, his steps purposeful.

“You’re not okay,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.

My eyes widen in surprise.

He doesn’t let go.

And for a moment—despite the strange heat, despite the dizziness—I can only think one thing:

He’s so caring.

I sit on the edge of my bed, posture slumped, holding the thermometer in my mouth like a scolded child. Angel plucks it from my lips. His eyes widen, the gold in them deepening with alarm.

“One hundred and four,” he breathes, the number sounding like a verdict.

I just stare up at him, a dizzy, fever-dumb kid watching the only adult in the world look truly worried. It’s a strange, vulnerable feeling.

Angel moves with a quiet, efficient urgency that strips away his usual hesitant grace. He’s out of the room and back within minutes, carrying a basin of cold water and a soft, folded towel. He sets them on the bedside table with a soft clink. His hands are steady as he opens a box, peels a cooling patch from its backing, and presses it gently to my burning temple. The shock of cold makes me flinch.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” he murmurs, but it’s not a reprimand. It’s a plea.

I just stare, letting him take charge.

“Take off your shirt,” he instructs softly, his focus already on wringing out the towel in the cold water. “Your skin needs to cool down.”

My brain, fogged with fever, stutters. Take it off? I look at him, but his attention is on the task, his profile solemn in the low light. Swallowing hard, my fingers—clumsy and too warm—fumble with the buttons of my silk pajama top. My face flames, but this time it’s not just the fever. It’s a hot, crawling shyness. I finally shrug the shirt off, letting it pool beside me on the bed.

Angel turns, the damp towel in his hands. His gaze flicks to my bare chest, and I see it—a faint, answering blush dusting his own cheeks. But his concern overrides everything else. He steps closer.

The first touch of the cold, damp cloth to the side of my neck is a shock. A full-body shiver rips through me, my spine arching slightly.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice close to my ear.

“It’s… cold,” I manage, my teeth wanting to chatter.

“Please, bear it for a little while,” he whispers, an apology and an order woven together.

I close my eyes and nod, surrendering. He begins to wipe my chest, slow, gentle strokes. The room, already filled with the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the garden, is now layered with something closer, sweeter—the clean, unmistakable strawberry scent of his Omega pheromones. He’s so close. His warmth radiates toward my feverish skin. My hands clench in the bedsheets, knuckles white. I stay perfectly still, a statue, holding my breath.

The towel moves to my back, the soft fabric tracing the line of my spine. I tremble again, but this time it’s not just from the cold. It’s from the contrast—the chill of the water, the warmth of his nearness, the gentle, caring pressure of his touch. His scent is everywhere, good and sweet and so potent. I breathe in deeply, helplessly, and the fragrance goes straight to my head, a dizzying, intoxicating drug.

Neon, what the hell are you doing? A sharp, internal voice slices through the haze. Control yourself. This is because you’re an Alpha. He’s a rare, high-grade Omega in a vulnerable state of care. His pheromones are affecting you. That’s all this is.

The logic is sound, but my body isn’t listening. The heat pooling low in my stomach has nothing to do with fever. Panic lances through the desire—a cold, sobering spike.

Before I can lose the last shred of my grip, my eyes snap open. I stand up abruptly, the movement too sudden. Angel stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise.

“I—I should take a cold shower,” I blurt out, my voice rough. I don’t wait for his protest, his question, his touch. I create a frantic three feet of distance and practically lunge for the bathroom door.

I step inside, slam the door shut, and lock it with a click that sounds unnaturally loud. My back presses against the cool wood. My breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps.

I fumble for the shower controls, twist them all the way to cold. Icy water erupts from the showerhead, a punishing, blissfully numbing spray. I step under it fully clothed for a second before tearing the rest of my sleep pants off, letting the freezing cascade hit my burning skin directly.

I look down at myself, at the undeniable, urgent evidence of my loss of control. A groan of sheer mortification tears from my throat. I drag a wet hand down my face, the water mixing with the heat of my shame.

God, Neon. You absolute— shameless.

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