Chapter 371: The Worst Sleepover Host
The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant was the first thing Micah became aware of. It burned faintly in his nose, making his stomach lurch.
The second thing was the pain, so deep, throbbing, and relentless as if his whole body had been flattened by an eighteen-wheeler truck.
He stirred, trying to open his glued shut eyes with significant effort. His vision blurred, then steadied on a glaringly white ceiling.
Was this...a hospital?
He turned his head to the side, grimacing at the spike of pain that followed the motion. No. This wasn’t a hospital. The room was too decorative for a hospital room, even a VIP section. It was more like a guest room, too elegant, with clean lines, rich fabrics, and soft lighting. Only one thing betrayed the room: an infusion stand beside him, a thin line taped neatly to his arm. A lamp rested on the nightstand, its glow warm.
His heart beat faster. Where the hell was he?!
Micah tried to push himself up, but the pain shot through his brain, forcing a strangled sound from his throat. He collapsed back into the pillows, trembling. His lips parted to call out, to ask if anyone was there, but a faint murmur reached his ears first. He stilled, concentrating to listen.
The voices outside the door sharpened slowly, becoming distinct.
"Where is he?" a voice demanded. Familiar. Too familiar.
Darcy? Micah’s breath caught. Why was Darcy here?
"He is in the guest room," came a reply. It was low, cold, and each word precise. The tone was filled with a cold detachment, unfamiliar.
"You! I’ll kill you if I catch a strand of his hair missing!" Darcy growled, his voice rough with fury.
Micah was taken aback. Darcy, always the composed one, was snarling like a cornered beast. Who was he talking to? Why was he angry?
Micah didn’t have his phone. No personal belongings. So the person had not had any clue who he was from just searching him... A wave of dread filled his mind.
A bad premonition.
"I see," the cold voice replied, clipped and deliberate. "The wrong company has tainted you."
"Don’t play mind games with me!" Darcy shot back, his voice cracking. "I asked what you have done to him? I knew you were garbage, but I thought even you knew better than to touch someone off-limits!" he exploded. "Move away! I need to see him."
"He is the patient. He needs his rest," the man said.
"I’m calling cops!" Darcy threatened. "Ruin me if you want...I don’t care. But he is innocent. He had only meddled because he pitied me!"
Micah’s face drained of colour. For the love of god! Why was his luck so damn terrible?!
His pulse raced while his throat tightened. The name wasn’t spoken, but he didn’t need it. He could guess who it was outside with Darcy. His breath hitched.
That manipulative psycho... How could he possibly have helped him? Or worse...what had he done to him while he was unconscious? Did he touch him?
Bile rose in his throat, and Micah gagged loudly. The sound of retching echoed in the room.
The argument outside was cut short. Silence. Then, the door creaked open.
The first to step inside was Silas.
Micah narrowed his eyes, trying to focus, making do without his glasses, then his hazel pupils dilated in horror. It was really him.
Silas entered with immaculate composure, polished leather shoes walked over the threshold without a sound. Not a speck of dust clung to the black shine. His shirt was pressed crisp, collar edges sharp enough to cut. He didn’t so much as glance at Micah at first. His attention was fixed ahead, his movements smooth and controlled. Even the way he held his hands slightly apart from his body screamed of aversion to contact, his long fingers held apart as if the very air might contaminate him.
Darcy stormed in behind him, face twisted with uncharacteristic rage. His dark eyes landed on the figure in bed. For a heartbeat, he froze, the sight hollowing the air from his lungs. Micah’s face was ashen, a bruise blooming across his cheek, his lips cracked, his body trembling under the blanket. Darcy’s throat worked, a strangled sound caught between grief and rage. The hesitation vanished in the next second, fury roaring back tenfold. His jaw clenched.
"Son of a bitch!" he hissed, his body surging forward, hand lifting as though ready to strike Silas.
Micah’s eyes widened. He had never seen Darcy lose it. His lips parted. "Stop..." he managed to say, voice rasping and broken. "It wasn’t him."
The word froze Darcy mid-motion. His clenched fist hung in the air. His jaw flexed as he swallowed the fury, forcing himself to breathe.
Meanwhile, Silas hadn’t flinched. He stood still, rooted, his expression carved from stone. His gaze, unreadable, remained fixed on Darcy. His entire body radiated disdainful calm, as if daring the young man to follow through and hit him.
The silence stretched. Darcy’s shoulders trembled with the effort of restraint. Finally, he tore his glare from Silas and rushed to Micah’s side.
He sat down beside the bed, eyes wide with fear. "Are you alright? What happened to you?"
Micah’s throat worked. His hand trembled as he reached out, fingers latching onto Darcy’s with desperate force. He needed something, anything, to make him not lose his sanity.
Silas’s gaze shifted then, the first flicker of attention he had spared Micah since entering. His dark, detached eyes landed on where their hands joined, then up to Micah’s face. The look wasn’t anger. It wasn’t jealousy either. It was worse. A cold appraisal, the way an emperor might glance at a peasant who had forgotten his place.
Goosebumps prickled across his skin, every hair on his body standing on end. Shit! Why was he glaring at him? Because he grabbed Darcy’s hand?
He gulped loudly, tearing his gaze away from that suffocating scrutiny, turning it instead to the worried darkness of Darcy’s eyes.
"I got into a fight with strangers..." he whispered, voice raspy.
Darcy nodded, holding back a series of questions. His free hand stretched upward, brushing Micah’s silver-white hair aside. "Okay. Take rest. Do you need anything? Water? Pain killer?" his tone was frantic, his voice trembling despite his efforts.
"Water..." Micah murmured.
Darcy looked at Silas pointedly. His meaning was clear: it’s your home, go bring water.
Silas didn’t move. His expression didn’t shift an inch.
Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at Silas for a moment longer, then let a sharp sigh of frustration. "Fine," he muttered, pushing himself up. With one last squeeze of Micah’s hand, he turned and strode out of the room, fetching some water.
The door clicked shut behind him. And then it was just Micah and Silas.