The Flame of Ice

Sylus hadn’t slept a full night since the funeral. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that pale face with the aristocratic nose, the stunned expression during the resonance, and those pupils—just slightly dilated. The stranger might’ve kept his cool, but the ruler of Zone N109 was damn sure the shock had been mutual. “Luke. Kieran. Now.” His voice cracked like a whip across the silence of the boxing gym. “Find out everything about every man who attended the funeral. I want names, photos, where they work. Ignore those two bastards who—” He inhaled sharply through clenched teeth. “You know who I mean.” “On it, boss. How urgent are we talking?” “It was urgent yesterday. Why are you still standing here?” “Consider it done.” Zayne. 32. Lead cardiac surgeon at Linkon Main Hospital. Sylus’s pulse spiked. The universe was clearly trying to tell him something. No matter how hard he’d tried to ignore his heart problems—made worse, exponentially, by her death—every sign now screamed that he needed help. And the moment he remembered the orgasmic chill of that man’s touch during their accidental resonance—how it clashed with and tamed the wild fire inside him—he felt himself instantly, shamefully, harden.

***

After his first visit to the hospital, the red-eyed boss returned home in a mood his men couldn’t read. His face was neutral, but his eyes sparked with something volatile. “I’m taking a shower. You two—my bedroom. Fifteen minutes.” His voice left no room for questions. Luke and Kieran exchanged a what-the-fuck look. No one—no one—was ever allowed in Sylus’s bedroom. Until now. When the time came, Sylus stood on the bed in nothing but a towel, eyes blazing as he looked down at the two men. “Masks off. Clothes too.” They hesitated. Just for a second. Then obeyed. No backtalk. No questions. Just awkward, silent undressing. Sylus watched them like a predator evaluating prey, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the edge of the towel on his thigh. “Relax. I’m not going to fuck you.” His voice was bone-dry, but searing. “I need a simulation.” He was, after all, a dragon. In blood and in essence. But tonight—especially tonight—that fire begged for structure. “One of you is ‘Zayne.’ The other—me. We’re reenacting the resonance. With... additions.” Kieran flinched internally at the absurdity, but said nothing. Luke only tilted his head, lips curling slightly. The whole thing amused him far more than it should have. “Zayne was on the left...” Luke murmured, already slipping into character. “So I’m supposed to be you, boss?” Kieran asked, mostly rhetorically. Sylus didn’t answer. He just stared. Intense. Expectant. “Remember,” he said finally, “he’s not just a doctor. His touch is... frost that heals. But he’s untouchable. For fuck’s sake, he’s untouchable. Make him that way, Luke. Like you’re resisting—like you shouldn’t touch me—but you have to. Because you burn too.” The awkwardness melted away disturbingly fast. In minutes, the air had shifted. The room turned into a dark little theater. Luke-Zayne reached out slowly, hand brushing over Kieran’s chest. Kieran tried to mimic Sylus’s surprise, reacting with a subtle intake of breath and involuntary lean-in. It could’ve been acting. Or not. Sylus didn’t blink. He wasn’t watching their performance. He was listening. To his own body. His pulse. His breath. But it wasn’t the same. No chill. No fire. No resonance. Just empty theater. “Stop.” His voice cut through them just as their lips hovered inches apart. “It's not working.” Luke and Kieran quietly gathered their clothes and slunk away—along with Mephisto, the stray cat who watched it all like it was just another Tuesday. Maybe they’d finish the scene somewhere else. Sylus didn’t care. “I need him again. His Evol.” The message came too fast. No planning. No hesitation. His fingers moved before his brain caught up: "Dr. Zayne. I’m getting worse. Tonight. Urgent. I’ll do anything." Before he could delete it, edit it, think, he hit send. Across the city, Zayne stepped out of the operating room just in time to see the message light up his phone. He exhaled like someone punched the air out of him, shut his eyes, and couldn’t reopen them for far too long. Forehead pressed to the cold wall of his office, he stood still. The surgery had gone well. But there was no sense of accomplishment. Not anymore. Not since her. His pulse hadn’t calmed since reading that message. And his fingers were still trembling. Not from fatigue. From resonance. Phantom. But so real it ached at the center of his chest. "Dr. Zayne. I’m getting worse. Tonight. Urgent. I’ll do anything." No greeting. No details. Just an order disguised as desperation. He ran his finger over the screen, as if trying to erase not the message, but the need it woke up in him. Sylus had invaded his routine, his thoughts, his body—uninvited, relentless. And now he wanted more. “I’ll do anything.” What the hell did that mean? Another resonance? Hospitalization? A full evaluation? Zayne clenched his hand into a fist. He had no right to want this. Not after— He inhaled deeply. He shouldn’t respond. Not now. But his hand moved on its own, typing: "9 PM. My office. No one else. Come if you really need me." No emotion. (Lie) No assumptions. (Lie) Just cold, clinical professionalism. He couldn’t admit, even to himself, how much he wanted to feel that again. But his subconscious had already crossed the line. He was counting the minutes.