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The armor gleamed faintly in the firelight—brushed bronze, still warm from the sun, heavy with its own weight and legacy. It sat open in the center of the tent like a second skin waiting to be worn, and Minho stood over it, jaw tense, hands shaking as he fastened the last strap on Felix’s forearm.
“This is a bad idea,” he said quietly. Again.
Felix, standing still in the half-fitted suit of Minho’s own armor, looked up at him with a calmness that bordered on defiant. “It’s the only idea that will keep the army from breaking.”
“They’ll follow you,” Felix continued. “If they think you’re back. If they see your armor, your colors, your walk—they’ll believe again. They’ll fight.”
Minho swallowed hard, running his hands down Felix’s arms as he stepped back to assess the fit. The armor was a little too big, the breastplate hung looser than it should’ve, the greaves didn’t sit flush, but it was close enough. Close enough to deceive. The red-plumed helmet rested on a crate beside them, waiting to crown the illusion.
Felix looked the part.
Minho hated it.
“You’re not to fight,” Minho said, voice hoarse. “Swear it. You ride through the line. That’s all. You don’t stop, you don’t draw your blade, you don’t engage.”
Felix nodded. “It’s just a show.”
“I mean it,” Minho reached out, gripping his shoulder. “Say it. Say the words.”
Felix looked up at him, his eyes impossibly steady. “I’m not going to fight. I promise.”
Minho searched his face for a tremble, a flicker of doubt, anything he could use to pull him back. But Felix was unshakable. So much smaller than the armor he wore, and yet somehow more solid than anyone Minho had ever known.
“You shouldn’t be the one doing this,” Minho muttered.
“You should be,” Felix whispered. “But you won’t.”
Minho flinched at the truth of it.
He reached up and adjusted the collar of the breastplate again, unnecessarily. His fingers lingered at the edge of Felix’s throat, brushing bare skin. Slowly, carefully, he let his hands fall to Felix’s waist and drew the boy into him. Their armor creaked faintly between them.
Minho rested his forehead against Felix’s. “Come back. Just come back to me.”
Felix’s hands curled into the sides of Minho’s tunic, gripping the fabric. “I will.”
A voice called from outside the tent. “Prince Minho! They’re asking for you!”
Minho’s grip tightened.
Felix slowly pulled away, but not all the way—he paused, looking up at him, his eyes wide and soft and shining like the stars just before dawn. He reached down, threading his fingers through Minho’s squeezing tightly once.
“Let them see you,” Minho whispered. “Let them believe.”
Felix nodded.
Then he let go, picked up the helmet and slipped it over his head.
And the boy Minho loved disappeared behind the bronze.
Minho didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
He just watched as Felix stepped out into the light.
-
The scent of pine and salt drifted lazily through the warm mountain air. Mount Pelion was quiet that morning, bathed in amber light, the forest canopy above alive with the fluttering of birds and the occasional rustle of movement deeper in the trees. The training grounds, carved into a natural plateau just beneath Chiron’s cave, were silent save for the clink of armor and the rhythmic swish of metal through air.
Minho stood barefoot in the tall grass at the plateau’s edge, the wind tugging gently at his hair, his arms crossed over his chest. He could hear her even before he appeared.
“The mortal follows you even here,” Thetis said, her voice low and sharp like seaforam curling into a blade.
Minho didn’t turn to her, but his jaw tightened. “His name is Felix.”
Thetis came to a stop beside him, her form glowing fainty with divine light, though subdued in the presence of Pelion’s earthbound grace. “You were meant to be trained alone,” she said, eyes narrowing. "You are not like him. You are not like any of them.”
Minho sighed. “I never said I was.”
She studied him, her expression unreadable. “You’ve always been stubborn, but this—” her lip curled, “attachment is foolish.”
“It’s not an attachment,” Minho said, voice calm but firm.
Thetis’s eyes flashed, sea-green and ancient. “He will be your ruin.”
“Then let him ruin me.”
Silence. The wind stirred.
Minho turned to her, eyes steady. “Where he goes, I go. Where I go, he follows. There is no world where I will be parted from him willingly. You may be a goddess, but you don’t get to choose who I love.”
Thetis stared at him for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, with a flick of her gloak and glint of warning in her eyes, she vanished back into the water—her absence like the retreat of a tide.
Minho released a slow breath.
He waited another moment, grounding himself in the stillness, before heading deeper into the glade. He knew exactly where Felix would be.
The smaller clearing sat just below the main plateau, nestled against a sheer rock wall that reflected the sun in slants of gold. Minho slowed as he approached, moving carefully, quietly.
There, at the center, was Felix.
Minho stopped.
Felix wore only his training tunic, the neckline loose and slipping off one shoulder, the linen clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, muscles tightening and releasing with each movement of the short sword in his hand. His hair, unbound, clung to the nape of his neck in damp curls, glinting honey-gold in the sunlight.
He was moving through a form—one of Chiron’s more advanced sequences, difficult and fast-paced, but Felix’s footwork was flawless. His movements sharp. Purposeful. Beautiful.
Minho swallowed.
He felt heat rise in his throat, settling in his chest and lower, watching the way Felix spun and twisted with ease. The soft grunt that escaped his lips with each parry, the sharp inhale when he misstepped, the furrow between his brows when he corrected. He was smaller, not as strong, but he moved like he belonged in the air. His grace was magnetic—fluid, wild, completely his own.
Minho leaned against a tree, letting himself look. Really look.
He had always known Felix was beautiful. But here, like this—bare, focused, full of fire-he was devastating.
“You’re getting better,” Minho finally called out, voice husky.
Felix startled, spinning to face him, cheeks flushed, chest still heaving.
“You’re spying,” Felix panted, brushing his hair back from his face.
“I’m admiring,” Minho corrected, stepping into the clearing.
Felix lowered his sword but didn’t drop it. “You always say that right before you pin me.”
Minho grinned. "Then stop being so easy to pin.”
Felix narrowed his eyes, but a smile curled at his lips. “Spar?”
Minho titled his head. “Always.”
They circled each other on the grass, eyes locked, weapons drawn. Felix struck first, fast, clever—but Minho was faster. He parried easily, dancing around each swing, his body attuned to Felix’s rhythms like they were music he’d memorized.
Sweat beaded on Felix’s brow as he ducked, kicked, and twisted—but Minho caught him by the wrist, spun him, and swept his leg in one fluid motion. Felix yelped as he hit the ground with a thud, Minho straddling his wasit a second later, blade resting harmlessly against the boy’s collarbone.
Minho looked down at him, breathless, the sunlight gliding Felix’s lashes where they fluttered against his flushed cheeks. His chest rose and fell beneath Minho’s, their heartbeats tangled.
“Say it,” Minho whispered.
Felix blinked up at him.
Minho leaned closer. “Say I’m the better fighter.”
Felix huffed. “You’re the better fighter.”
“And?” Minho asked, voice lower now, rougher.
Felix’s fingers curled around Minho’s tunic. “And you always will be.”
Minho dropped the sword.
He kissed him.
It was messy, desperate—Felix’s hands fisting in his tunic, Minho’s fingers sinking into sweat-damp hair. The grass crumpled beneath them as Minho pushed Felix further down, mouths colliding again and again, teeth and tongues and soft groans caught between kisses.
Felix gasped when Minho’s hands slipped beneath his tunic, dragging it up and over his head. He arched into him, nails scraping at Minho’s back, and Minho moaned into his mouth, the sound low and guttural.
“I love you,” Minho whispered against his throat. “I love you, I love you—”
Felix only nodded, breath stuttering, arms tight around him like he never wanted to let go.
Their bodies moved together like they had been made for this—for each other. The world around them vanished. There was only the heat of skin, the rush of beath, the slide of sweat and fingers and love made flesh.
When it was over, they lay tangled in the grass, the sun low and warm against their bare skin, the air still pulsing with the echoes of what they had become.
Minho stared up at the sky, one hand curled around Felix’s waist, the other stroking slowly down his spine. He pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.
Felix whispered, barely audible, “I’d follow you anywhere.”
Minho closed his eyes.
And whispered back, “I’d burn the world for you.”
-
Minho hadn’t slept.
Not a single moment of rest had found him since Felix had stepped out of the tent wearing his armor, the plumed helmet casting his delicate features in shadow, his voice so steady despite the tremor in his hand when he’d squeezed Minho’s fingers for the last time.
Minho could still feel the imprint of that grip in his palm, even now, hours—a full day later.
The tent felt suffocating, even with the brazier burning low in the corner, casting a flickering orange light that did nothing to warm him. He sat hunched forward on his cot, arms resting on his knees, cloak wrapped around his shoulders, but nothing stopped the chill that had taken root beneath his skin.
He hadn’t taken off his clothes from the day before. He couldn’t. Not when it felt like if he moved—if he changed something—then the fragile thread tethering Felix to this world might snap.
So he sat.
Eyes fixed on the flaps of the tent. Waiting.
Listening for footsteps that never came.
He’d sent out messengers hours ago, soldiers he trusted, asking, no, demanding news. But the battlefield had been chaos. Shifting. Swelling. Drawing in smoke and blood and fire. Even the runners hadn’t returned.
Minho’s thoughts moved like water through cracked stone, unsteady and sharp. He tried to convince himself: It was just a show. He promised. He promised he wouldn’t fight. He wouldn’t be so stupid.
But Felix was stupid sometimes. Brave to the point of recklessness. Selfless to the edge of destruction.
Minho’s head fell forward into his hands. His temples throbbed with a dull ache, his shoulders tight and sore. At some point in the deep, frozen hours before dawn, he must’ve dozed—only for a moment. Just enough to slide into a nightmare that jolted him awake, heart racing, mouth dry.
He sat bolt upright, chest heaving, the tent still dark save for the dim embers glowing faintly at his feet. Cold sweat clung to his skin, and the back of his tunic was damp, plastered to his spine.
He didn’t know what had woken him.
There had been no sound. No scream. Just… something. A shift. Like the gods had inhaled and held their breath.
He stared at the entrance to the tent for a long time, frozen, waiting.
Nothing came.
Eventually, as the sun began to rise, slanting pale gold through the eges of the canvas, Minho dragged himself to his feet.
He wandered the camp like a ghost, numb to the wind that pulled at his cloak, blind to the stares that followed him. No one approached. No one dared.
The soldiers parted around him instinctively, their voices quiet, their faces pinched with exhaustion. Some nodded to him in respect. Others didn’t meet his eyes at all.
He passed the mess line without looking. Passed the supply tents. Passed the rows of wounded lying beneath rough blankets, moaning into the dawn.
Then—he stopped.
He hadn’t meant to go to the healer’s quarter. But his feet had carried him there anyway. Perhaps he’d known. On some level, deep and cruel and ancient, perhaps he had always known.
Jeongin and Jisung were coming toward him, slow and careful.
Carrying a stretcher.
Minho’s stomach turned to ice.
The body laid out on the rough canvas stretcher was small.
Slender.
Naked.
Blood soaked the cloth draped haphazardly over its hips, drying in thick streaks across a pale chest. Bruises marbled delicate skin. Hair matted and clumped with sweat and gore hung limp, dragged across the figure’s cheek. The limbs were limp, twisted awkwardly. The left hand dangled just over the edge of the stretcher, fingers slack, still smudged with dirt and ash.
Minho knew that hand.
He had held it the night before.
His body refused to move. His breath stopped. Time bent and cracked around him like the world was trying to rip itself apart.
Seungmin’s eyes met his for the briefest second. His mouth opened, maybe to speak, maybe to offer some explanation, some comfort, some lie.
But it was too late.
Minho’s gaze dropped again.
To the shape on the stretcher.
To the curve of a shoulder he had traced with his fingers a hundred time. To the collarbone that had flushed pink beneath his mouth. To the sharp edge of a jawline that had tilted towards his hands everytime Minho cupped Felix’s face.
And he knew.
He knew.
He couldn’t see the face yet. But he didn’t need to.
Because it was him.
Even without the armor. Even without the voice. Even without the warmth.
It was Felix.
Minho took a step back, breath catching in his throat like it had barbs. His hands were shaking. His knees gave a little, and he reached for the wooden post beside the healer’s tent to steady himself, fingers scraping against rough bark.
The sound of the stretcher being carried past him was too loud. It filled his skull, thunderous and cruel.
He turned his head just as the wind lifted the strands of hair from the boy’s face. Just enough.
Just enough to see him.
Felix.
His face.
Still.
Pale.
Unmoving.
Minho didn’t feel his knees hit the ground.
Didn’t hear the ragged sound that tore from his throat.
Didn’t know hwo to breathe anymore.
The world had stopped.
And all that remained was Felix.
-
The beach stretched wide beneath the gray sky, rows of tents like jagged teeth from the sand, banners fluttering in the salt-heavy wind. The ships had barely finished anchoring when Minho felt the change in the air. A thousand eyes had turned to watch him descend onto the shore—the golden son of Phthia, half-divine, beautiful and deadly. Whispers of the prophecy followed him like a second shadow.
Be he noticed none of it.
Because they were watching Felix too.
It started with looks. Curious, lingering glances as they passed through the camp—Felix walking just behind him, dressed simply but striking, his honey-blond hair catching the light, his figure slight and graceful, head high despite the stares. Minho was used to attention. But not this.
And not from him.
King Hyunjin of Thessaly—a seasoned general with silver in his hair and the arrogance of ten lifetimes—had noticed Felix on the first day.
Minho saw it: the way Hyunjin’s gaze flicked to Felix during introductions, the way his eyes drifted lower, slow and assessing, when he thought no one was watching. It had taken every ounce of Minho’s restraint not to strike him then and there.
But tonight, at the welcome banquet, the man pushed his luck.
The firelight danced across bronze goblets and platters piled high with roasted lamb. Soldiers and kings alike gathered in a ring of celebration around the fest, sharing stories and wine. Minho sat beside Changbin and Jeongin, quiet, letting the others talk while he kept Felix in the corner of his eyes, seated a few places down.
Felix was polite—always was. Smiling faintly at whatever story Hyunjin was telling him, his laughter soft, deferntial. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t touch. But Hyunjin’s hand brushed his wrist when he passed him a cup of wine.
And that was enough.
Minho was on his feet before he registered it, the scrape of his chair against the wooden platform drawing attention. The conversation died down, eyes turning to him with quiet curiosity.
He crossed the distance in a few strides, stopping behind Felix and placing a hand on his shoulder. Not rough, not possessive. Just firm.
Felix glanced up, surprised. “Minho?”
Hyunjin smiled, slow and amused. “Ah, Prince of Phthia. I was just telling your companion about—”
“Therapon,” Minho said, his voice clear and loud enough to carry.
Hyunjin blinked.
Minho’s eyes stayed locked on him. “Yongbok isn’t my companion. He’s my therapon.”
A hush fell over the nearby tables.
The word hit the air like a strike of thunder. Every soldier knew what it mean. Every king understood its weight.
Not a servant. Not a lover. Something far deeper. A second self. The one who stood with you in battle, in death, in life. The one you would mourn more than your own flesh.
Felix stiffened beneath his hand. Slowly, he turned to look at Minho, eyes wide and shining. He said nothing—but he didn’t need to. His expression was everything.
Minho looked back at Hyunjin, gaze like drawn steel.
“So if you ever touch him again,” he said quietly, “understand you touch me.”
Hyunjin raised his cup in mock surrender. “Of course,” he said smoothly, though there was tension in his jaw. “No offense meant.”
Minho didn’t answer.
He guided Felix up and away, out of the circle of firelight and curious eyes. They walked in silence past the tents, the wind tangling through Felix’s hair, until they reached the bluff overlooking the sea.
Felix stopped, pulling Minho back by the wrist. “That was…”
“Too much?” Minho asked.
Felix’s lips twitched. “No.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Then, Felix’s voice dropped, soft and teasing. “Jealous, were you?”
Minho looked away, jaw tightening. “Of course I was.”
Felix stepped closer. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes,” Minho murmured, turning back to him, “I did.”
Felix tilted his head. “You think the title makes it true?”
“No,” Mino said. “But the truth earned the title.”
Felix’s smile faded slowly, replaced with something deeper, something more vulnerable.
“You’ve always been mine,” Minho whispered. “Let them all know it.”
Felix closed the distance between them and kissed him—slow, sure, and steady. The salt of the sea clung to their lips, and when they pulled apart, neither of them had to say anything more.
Minho had claimed him.
But long before that, Felix had already given himself willingly.
-
He hadn’t moved from Felix’s side since the stretcher had been brought in.
Hours had passed. Or minutes. He couldn’t tell anymore.
Felix lay still beneath a linen shroud, his delicate form wrapped and cleaned, his golden hair combed and tucked gently away from his bloodless face. He looked asleep. Peaceful. Almost untouched, if you ignores the bruises blooming across his collarbone, the angry purple mark around his throat where the edge of Minho’s breastplate had pressed too hard during the fight.
Minho hadn’t cried. Not yet.
Tears were too soft, too gentle. Whatever had split open inside him wasn’t something that could be soothed with weeping. No—this grief was jagged. Vicious. Cold and fire all at once, chewing through his insides until he was hollowed out and still somehow burning.
He had his forehead pressed to Felix’s, one trembling hand cupping the curve of his jaw.
“You shouldn’t have gone,” he whispered, voice cracking. “It was just supposed to be a show.”
His thumb brushed over Felix’s temple. His skin was cold, already turning waxen, and still Minho couldn’t let go.
“You promised me,” he said, softer now, aching. “You promised you wouldn’t fight.”
Behind him, footsteps approached. Two men stopped at the entrance—Hyunjin and Seungmin, eyes heavy, expressions grim.
“It was Chan,” Hyunjin said after a moment. His voice was raw. “He thought it was you.”
Minho didn’t lift his head.
“He struck him down with a spear through the ribs. Laughed. Said fate had no hold over him now. That he’d killed the son of the gods before destiny could.”
Minho exhaled, sharp and broken.
“He stripped the armor off him,” Seungmin added. His voice wavered, just barely. “Left him bare. On the battlefield. Like he was nothing.”
Minho’s world tilted.
He rose with slow, unnatural calm, the grief pressing into his bones like weight he was born to carry. He stepped away from Felix only to retrieve the sword leaning by the cot. Not the divine blade forged by his father’s smiths—no. The one remained wrapped in velvet, untouched. This one was smaller. Lighter.
Felix’s.
He fastened the scabbard at his hip without a word.
“Where are you going?” Seungmin asked.
Minho turned to him, and for a moment, his face was unreadable. Hollow. But then the fire returned to his eyes—dark and ancient, the fury of a storm rising over the sea.
“I’m going to end this,” he said.
“Minho—”
“No.”
His voice was quiet, but it rang like a bell through the tent.
“He took everything from me,” Minho said. “He thought he killed a demigod. He thought he could rewrite fate. He thought he could strip my name from his body and leave him in the dirt like refuse.”
His voice trembled—not with fear, but rage.
“I’ll make sure his name is never remembered.”
He brushed a final kiss to Felix’s forehead and walked out of the tent.
The battlefield had not yet begun to stir in full, but the air was restless. Soldiers lingered near the edges of camp, sharpening blades, murmuring low as Minho passed. They felt the shift in the air. Something was coming.
Minho’s cloak whipped behind him as he moved through the haze, the sword bouncing at his side, his hands curled into fists. The ground was still damp from blood and dew. The sun crept higher, bathing the beach in eerie, golden light.
But Minho’s eyes were fixed ahead.
Onle only name beat in his skull.
Only one thought lived in his bones.
Chan.
And then he saw him.
Across teh field, near a rise of scattered stone, stood Chan, still armored, still whole, still walking like the gods had gifted him the earth. The bronze glinted across his chest and shoulders. Minho’s bronze.
Minho’s vision tunneled.
He didn’t call out.
He ran.
Chan turned just as Minho descended on him with a roar that cracked the air open. Their blades met in a shower of sparks, but Minho didn’t feel it. Didn’t hear anything but the blood surging through his body. He struck again. And again. And again. Fury laced with grief gave him strength beyond mortal limits.
“You killed him!” Minho screamed.
Chan staggerded back, parrying clumsily. “He was wearing your—”
”Because of me!” Minho howled, slashing low, then high, then driving forward. “He died for me! And you laughed!”
Chan stumbled. Minho didn’t desitate. He kicked him down, tearing off the helmet, and for a moment—just a moment—he looked into his enemy’s eyes. The man who had taken everything.
And then he drove the blade straight into Chan’s chest.
Chan gasped—once.
Then went still.
The battlefield went silent.
Minho stood, panting, covered in blood not his own, standing over the crumpled, lifeless body of Troy’s greatest prince. He dropped the sword and seized Chan by the shoulder, dragging the corpse into the open, heedless of the eyes now watching from every side.
He raised the body up, cloak twisted in his fist, and turned toward the watching soldiers.
”This,” he shouted, voice hoarse, ”is what becomes of those who take from me!”
“My therapon is dead,” he bellowed to the sky, to the gods, to anyone who dared to breathe in his presence. ”And this is what remains of the man who took him from me.”
His voice cracked like thunder. His rage, raw and unending, rang out across the bloodied field.
There was no glory in his victory.
No triumph.
Only ruin.
Only rage.
Only grief, a grief that would never ever end.
-
The sun bled over the mountaintop, staining the cliffs of Pelion in its dying light. Wind whispered through the trees above, stirring the scent of pine, salt, and fading summer into the air. Minho’s boots thundered over the stone path, his breath ragged, sweat dripping down the back of his neck as he sprinted along the narrow ridge. Panic clawed at his throat.
He should’ve never left Felix alone. Not after the way Thetis had looked at him that morning—like something that needed to be scrubbed from her son’s life. Liek a disease.
He hadn’t thought she’d do anything. She never touched mortals. Her crueltyy was usually colder, quieter, slipped between syllables and half-truths. But when Felix hadn’t returned after training, when Chrion had said he’d last seen the boy headed up the trail where the mountain narrowed—
Minho’s chest tightened, his gut churning.
He rounded the final bend.
And froze.
There, just below the ledge, Felix lay sprawled on the slope, halfway down the embankment. A trail of disturbed dirt and broken twigs marked where he’d fallen, his body crumpled at an angle that sent dread pulsing through Minho’s veins.
“Yongbok!”
The boy stirred, barely, one arm moving to brace himself against the slope. His golden hair was tangled with leaves and dirt, a scrape bleeding sluggishly along his cheekbone.
“Minho…” he called faintly, and the sound of his voice—weak, breathless—cut Minho deeper than any blade.
He was moving before he knew it, scrambling down the slope, sliding on loose gravel until he reached him.
“Hey—hey, I’ve got you,” Minho murmured, dropping to his knees. His hands hovered, unsure where to touch, where it wouldn’t hurt. “Gods, Yongbok, what happened?”
Felix groaned softly, trying to sit up. “She pushed me.”
Minho’s blood turned to ice.
“Who?”
Felix winced, eyes fluttering. “Your mother.”
Minho stared at him.
“She was waiting for me on the ridge,” Felix whispered. “Said I was a mistake. Said I didn’t belong with you. That I was… a weight.”
Minho’s face darkened, rage beginning to smolder beneath his skin. “And she did this?”
Felix nodded, barely. “She wasn’t trying to kill me. I think. Just… frighten me. I stepped back. Lost my footing.”
Minho’s hands trembled as he cupped Felix’s face, brushing hair from his brow, wiping at the blood on his cheek with his thumb. “You could’ve broken your neck.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
Felix closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “She said I was stealing your destiny. That if I stayed, I’d ruin everything.”
Minho shook his head, voice low. “She doesn’t know anything about us.”
“She knows the prophecy.”
Minho stilled.
Felix opened his eyes again, locking onto his. “I believe it.”
Silence. The wind stirred the trees, cool against sweat-soaked skin.
“I believe you’ll die after Chan falls,” Felix whispered. “That you have to. And if you kill him… it’ll happen. The gods will come for you.”
Minho’s throat worked, but no words came.
“I can’t lose you,” Felix said, voice cracking. “Minho, I can’t. Not for this war. Not for a prophecy. I’d rather you be remembered as a coward than buried as a hero.”
Minho’s gaze searched his face—every freckle, every bruise, every inch of skin he’d once kissed in secret under starlight. Felix was shaking now, from adrenaline or pain or fear, Minho didn’t know.
“You think I can’t kill him?” Minho asked quietly.
Felix let out a sharp, wet breath. “No. I think you can. That’s what terrifies me.”
Minho blinked, eyes burning.
He shifted forward, gently pulling Felix upright into his arms, one hand stroking the back of his neck as he pressed their foreheads together. Felix clung to his tunic, knuckles white.
Minho exhaled slowly, like he was breathing out all the weight the gods had placed on his shoulders.
“Well,” he murmured, voice warm and low, “why should I kill him?”
Felix blinked.
Minho’s lips curled into a faint, almost wicked smile, brushing his lips against Felix’s temple. “He’s done nothing to me.”