Chapter Forty-Five: The Knight and The Burn
I was rushing, five minutes behind schedule, my hair a damp tangle and my bag a gaping mouth of half-packed chaos. The kettle's shriek felt like a personal taunt.
"One quick cup," I muttered to the empty kitchen, pouring steaming tea while attempting to cram toast into my mouth.
A terrible decision.
My elbow clipped the mug. It tipped, a slow-motion disaster, and a wave of scalding liquid cascaded down my thigh.
"Ah!"
The cry tore from me as I stumbled back, the pain immediate and bright. It splashed over my bare legs and feet, a searing brand. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and instant.
I gripped the counter's edge, teeth gritted against the whimper in my throat. Stupid. So stupid.
"Angel?!"
His voice, a sharp whip-crack of alarm, came from the hall, followed by pounding footsteps. Taehyun skidded into the kitchen, his shirt hanging open, panic etching lines around his dark eyes.
"What happened—?"
His question died as his gaze landed on the dark, wet stain spreading down my thigh, on my toes curling in agony against the tile. His face hardened into a mask of frozen fury.
"You burned yourself."
It wasn't a question. It was an indictment—against the tea, against my carelessness, against the universe for allowing me to be hurt.
I nodded, biting my lip raw.
He cursed, a low, vicious sound, and was at my side in an instant. His arms slid under me, lifting me from the ground as if I were made of glass and sorrow. "Taehyun, I'm fine—"
"You are not fine." His voice was a blade, sharpened by fear. "You're trembling." He carried me to the counter and set me down with terrifying gentleness, snatching a towel to dab cold water on the inflamed skin. "Why were you rushing? I told you to wait for me."
"It was just tea—"
"It's boiling water!" he snapped, his control fraying. He knelt, examining my foot, his touch feather-light. "Did it get through the fabric? Tell me."
"Both," I admitted, a traitorous sniffle escaping. "I was trying to… multitask."
"You are forbidden from multitasking. Permanently." He looked up at me, his eyes blazing with a protective ferocity that stole my breath. "Tea? Who gave you permission to wage war against kitchenware?"
"I didn't mean to—stop looking at me like you're going to have me arrested, Professor Kim."
He exhaled, a harsh sound, and his thumb brushed the angry red skin on my ankle. "It's blistered. We're going to the clinic. This is not a negotiation."
I groaned, covering my face. "This is humiliating."
"I don't care about humiliation. I care that you're in pain."
"I have class—"
"You have a husband who is currently deciding whether to burn this kitchen to the ground for offending you. Class is canceled."
I peeked through my fingers. "That's not how spoiling works."
He stood and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to my forehead. A brand of a different kind. "It is in my kingdom. Now, be still. Let me take care of what's mine."
"Possessive much?"
"Only when my queen decides to duel with a kettle and lose."
---
"Ah! Taehyun… it's cold!"
I flinched violently as the wrapped ice touched my thigh, my hands flying to grip the counter's edge. The scalding heat was now replaced by a sharp, biting cold.
"I said don't move." His voice was a low command. He was crouched before me on the kitchen floor as if in supplication, his focus absolute. As if my position—perched on the counter, shorts rucked up, skin exposed—was of no consequence.
It made the intimacy a thousand times worse.
"The doctor is coming! You don't have to—"
"Yes. I do."
The finality in that tone brooked no argument. It was the voice he used to end discussions with foolish men. I was now the foolish subject.
I squirmed. "You're embarrassing me."
"You risked scarring your skin. Do you want that?"
"No, but—"
"Then be silent. And hold still. Or I will carry you to the foyer just like this and let the entire staff see how thoroughly I tend to my wife."
I gasped. "You wouldn't."
He finally looked up, his dark eyes holding a challenge that was both a threat and a promise. "Test me."
He reapplied the ice-pack with meticulous care, his gaze lowered to his work. The sight of his bowed head, the intense concentration, the sheer size of him folded at my feet… it sent a dangerous flutter through my core, unrelated to the burn.
"I can do it myself," I insisted weakly.
"Can you?" He didn't look up, but a hint of a smirk touched his lips. His head tilted, his breath ghosting over my sensitive skin. "And let you suffer in silence? No. I prefer my wife's skin flawless. Unmarked. Perfect. Not marred because her stubborn pride outweighs her sense."
My face flamed. "Don't say things like that with a straight face!"
"I'm not looking at your face."
"TAEHYUN!"
"Ah, there's the fire." He hummed, a darkly pleased sound. "Where was that fighting spirit when you were letting the tea assault you?"
"You are insufferable. A tyrant. A complete—"
"Keep going, Angel." He uncapped a tube of silvery burn cream, applying it with strokes so gentle they felt like a caress. "Your insults are the sweetest sound, especially when you're blushing for me."
I snatched a cushion from a nearby chair and hurled it at him.
He caught it without looking, his smirk deepening.
Still kneeling between my knees as if it were his rightful throne.
"I despise you," I breathed.
"You married me."
"A moment of insanity."
"You chose me."
"Under duress."
"And you choose me every day," he murmured, his thumb sweeping over the worst of the redness. His eyes softened, the predator momentarily gentled. "Even in your hatred. That, my love, is the only truth that matters." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Also, these thighs are a lethal distraction. You should consider wearing armor."
"GET OUT."
"I live here. This is my fortress. You're the treasure I'm guarding."
---
Knock. Knock.
The doctor entered, bag in hand, professional demeanor intact. It shattered the moment he took in the scene.
Taehyun, still positioned between my legs, one hand resting possessively high on my thigh, the other holding the discarded ice-pack. Me, on the counter, looking thoroughly ravished by circumstance, hair wild, cheeks scarlet.
The doctor paused, cleared his throat. "…Am I interrupting?"
I jolted, trying to slide away. "No! It's—the tea—he was just helping—"
Taehyun didn't move. He offered the doctor a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Come in. The burn is on the upper thigh and ankle. I've applied initial cooling and a burn cream. The brand is on the counter."
The doctor blinked, approaching cautiously. "I… see. I should probably examine the site to assess for blistering or deeper—"
"She's fine."
The doctor stopped. "Pardon?"
"I said," Taehyun repeated, his voice layering into a calm, deadly frost, "she's fine. The assessment is done."
"With all respect, Mr. Kim, I am the medical professional—"
"And I am her husband." Taehyun's arm moved, not aggressively, but with a definitive finality, partially shielding my legs from view. "You've seen enough. Her skin is sensitive. She doesn't require further… handling."
The doctor stared, nonplussed. "I'm a doctor."
"And I am the man who decides who touches her." The possessiveness in the statement was a living thing in the room, thick and cloying. "She's shy. She doesn't like strangers touching her. Especially there."
My soul attempted to exit my body through sheer mortification. "Taehyun, for God's sake—"
The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. "The ankle, then. May I at least examine the ankle?"
Taehyun considered it for a long, silent moment, then gave a single, regal nod. "Only the ankle."
---
Later, the phone rang. Jihan, checking in. And the doctor, perhaps needing to vent to another sane person, had clearly already called him.
"You should have seen him, Jihan. I thought he was going to pull a weapon because I glanced at her thigh. Like I was a threat to national security."
On speakerphone, Jihan's laughter was a bright, crackling sound. "Let me guess—he played knight-errant, guarding the royal burn as if it were the crown jewels?"
"Precisely!"
"I'm not surprised," Jihan chuckled. "That man wouldn't let a breeze touch her if he could stop it. He's possessive on a molecular level."
Taehyun, stretched on the sofa beside me with my bandaged foot in his lap, didn't look up from the report he was pretending to read. "I don't like people looking at what's mine."
"You make me sound like a museum piece!" I grumbled.
He turned his head, his gaze a slow, smoldering drag over me. "You're far more valuable. And infinitely more tempting to thieves."
I choked on my water.
"Please, no flirting while I'm on the line!" Jihan protested through the speaker. "Some of us are trying to maintain a professional demeanor over here!"
---
That evening, Mrs. Han arrived with fresh bandages and salves. She smiled, motherly and knowing. "Let me help you change the dressing, dear."
She had barely knelt when his shadow fell over us.
"I'll do it."
I looked up. Taehyun stood in the doorway, having shed his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up again, his expression unreadable but intent. "Give them to me, halmeoni. Thank you."
Mrs. Han's smile turned into a knowing, wrinkled grin. "Such a devoted husband." She handed over the supplies without another word and slipped out, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.
The air in the room tightened.
He approached, not as my professor, not as the kingpin, but as something more intimate. He sat on the floor before me, his back against the bed, and gently guided my legs into his lap.
"Taehyun, I can—"
"You'll make a mess," he stated softly, his focus already on peeling back the old bandage with a surgeon's precision. "Be still."
I held my breath.
His fingers, cool from the ointment, traced the edges of the burn on my thigh. The touch was clinical, yet it carried a current that had nothing to do with medicine. It was reverence. It was claim. I shivered.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"No," I whispered. "It's just… your hands are cold."
He nodded, his eyes fixed on his work. The intensity of his concentration was its own kind of intimacy. I dared to look down—at the dark fan of his lashes, the sharp line of his nose, the slight part of his lips as he breathed. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird.
Why did this feel more exposing than anything before?
When he finished smoothing the new bandage, his hands lingered. Then his gaze lifted, locking with mine.
The world shrank to the space between our eyes. Heat, raw and unconcealed, flashed in his. A question. An answer. A promise that had my skin pebbling everywhere.
I quickly looked away, my pulse a wild drum in my ears.
"Thank you," I managed, the words ridiculously formal.
His lips curved, the barest hint of a dangerous, knowing smile. "You should get hurt more often."
I swatted at him with a pillow. "Yah!"
"Not seriously," he amended, catching my wrist effortlessly. His eyes glinted with wicked amusement. "Just enough to keep you this… pliant. And entirely in my care."
"You are the most shameless man alive."
"And you," he said, his voice dropping to a velvet murmur as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss just above my knee, a searing brand through the bandage, "are entirely mine." He stood in one fluid motion and walked away, leaving me sitting there, breathless and burning, as if he'd set a new fire that no salve could ever cool.