Jungkook's bedroom smelled of burnt toast and fox. Aera had dragged half a sausage under the bed three days ago, he could still sniff the grease lingering in the rug fibers. She lay sprawled on his chest now, a warm, twitching weight, her paws kneading the silk of his sleepshirt. Downstairs, the grandfather clock wheezed through another hour. He'd been staring at the ceiling's water stain, shaped like his first smartphone, until his eyes blurred.

The first crack sounded like a branch snapping. Aera's head jerked up, ears flat. Jungkook froze mid-yawn. His family's estate had walls thicker than a dictator's ego, no wind should've made that noise.

The second crack splintered the window latch.

He rolled sideways just as glass exploded inward. Aera hit the floor running, a streak of rust-red fur. Two figures clambered through the frame, boots crunching shards into the rug. They reeked of pine resin and unwashed leather.

Jungkook's fingers found the ring. The metal seared his skin—active, already. He twisted clockwise. The stone glowed molten, scorching a blister into his palm.

"Cute," grunted the taller intruder. A knife handle slammed into Jungkook's temple. His vision pixelated. Hands yanked him upright, the ring stripped off so fast it took skin with it. He heard it skitter under the dresser.

Aera's snarls crescendoed. The smaller rogue swore, kicking at her. "Little shit drew blood!"

"Leave it. The fox's not worth the bounty."

Jungkook's knees buckled. The world tilted—ceiling, then floor, then nothing.

The man tasted like salt and hate. Aera'd bitten the soft webbing between his thumb and finger, her milk teeth sharp enough to make him scream. Now she trailed them through the forest, belly low to the ground. Her human smelled wrong—sour, limp, head lolling like dead prey.

She kept to the shadows, paws avoiding twigs. The men talked in growls:

"—cut through the ravine. The Prince'll track the roads first."

"Should've slit the fox's throat."

Her tail bristled. She memorized their boot patterns—the taller one dragged his left heel.

Back at the estate, under the dresser, the ring cooled in a puddle of perfume Jungkook had knocked over last week. The stone flickered once, then went dark.

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The ring sat in Taehyung's palm like a dead beetle. Cold now. Useless. The grand duchy's parlor reeked of blood and burnt coffee. Someone had tried to scrub the guard's gore from the marble floor, but the streaks lingered, pink and sticky.

Jimin's hiccuping sobs grated against Taehyung's skull. "He's gone, Yoongi, he's—"

"We'll fix this," Yoongi muttered for the ninth time. He'd said it to the fireplace, the liquor cabinet, the shattered vase—anywhere but Jimin's face.

Seokjin crouched by the unconscious guard, peeling back the man's eyelid. "Pupils uneven. Drugged, not drunk." His gloves came away smeared with something glittering. "Alchemy-grade. Expensive."

Namjoon burst in, coat dripping sleet. Taehyung lurched upright, the ring biting into his fist.

"No sightings at the checkpoint. No ransom notes." Namjoon's glasses fogged with his own breath. "They're ghosts."

Taehyung kicked the tea cart. Porcelain exploded. "I should've chained him to me. Should've—"

"You're not his jailer," the grand duke snapped, though his hands shook around his pipe. "He's my son, not your—"

Hoseok shouldered through the doors, Aera dangling from his grip. Her hind leg bent wrong, fur matted with mud and what looked like motor oil. She whimpered, lunging weakly toward Taehyung.

"Found her by the east gate," Hoseok said.

Jimin scrambled forward. Aera snapped at his hands, her good paw batting the air toward the windows. When Yoongi tried to splint her leg, she writhed, teeth sinking into his sleeve.

"Stop—fuck—she's trying to point," Seokjin said.

Aera dragged herself toward the door, leaving a smeared trail of blood and saliva. She collapsed, whining, her muzzle aimed at the forest beyond the estate.

Taehyung crouched. Her pupils blew wide when he gripped her scruff. "Show me."

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The cellar air tasted like mildew and the copper tang of old blood. Jungkook's wrists had gone numb hours ago, the ropes chafing raw where he'd twisted against them. His left eye was swelling shut from the hit he'd taken during the ambush. The Rogues hadn't bothered gagging him—no one to hear screams this deep underground, just the drip-drip of water seeping through cracked stone.

Their leader crouched in front of him, a woman with knuckles tattooed in smudged ink that might've once been falcons. She smelled like gun oil and pickled radish. "The emperor's pretty little pet," she said, tilting his chin with the tip of her boot. "Bet he's tearing up the palace looking for you."

Jungkook spat. The saliva landed on her boot. "We're fiancés. Political bullshit. He doesn't give a rat's ass if I rot here." His voice sounded steadier than he felt.

She laughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. "Right. That's why he glued that tracker ring to your finger. For politics."

Ice slid down his spine. In the original plot, the ring was a secret—Hwayoung hadn't even known its purpose until Taehyung explained it mid-rescue. How the hell do they know?

"He's paranoid," Jungkook snapped. "Thinks I'll cheat on him with stable boys."

The slap came fast, her palm cracking against his cheekbone. His head snapped sideways, teeth slicing his tongue. Blood pooled under his tongue, metallic and warm.

"Cute," she said. "But we've got eyes in the palace. Saw the way he looked at you during the Ascension Ball. Like you'd hung the damn stars." She leaned in, her breath sour. "You're leverage. And when he comes charging in here, we'll peel that pretty skin off your bones while he watches."

Jungkook's stomach lurched. Somewhere above, a door slammed. Footsteps echoed—too many, heavy with armor. Guards? But no, the Rogues' boots had that same uneven cadence, the left heel dragging.

He closed his eyes. Aera. They'd kicked her like she was trash. He'd heard her yelp, the wet thud of her body hitting the wall. If she was dead—

"Your fox put up a fight," the leader said, as if reading his thoughts. She flicked a claw-like nail against his collarbone. "Tore up Jae's arm before we got the chloroform on you."

Jungkook's lungs locked. The ropes bit deeper as he lunged, a wordless snarl tearing from his throat. She just smirked, stepping back as two Rogues hauled him down.

"Sleep tight, little duke," she said. "Your boyfriend'll be here soon."

The door clanged shut. Darkness swallowed the cellar.

Jungkook sagged against the wall, his pulse thundering in his ears. Think. In the webtoon, Hwayoung had twisted the ring the second she woke up. Taehyung stormed the hideout within hours. But the ring was gone—stripped off in his bedroom, probably still rolling under some dusty furniture.

He tugged uselessly at the ropes. His head throbbed. The real world felt like a fever dream now—his dorm room, the cracked phone screen, the half-finished sociology essay. He couldn't remember Eunwoo's laugh anymore.

A rat skittered over his foot. Jungkook jerked, then froze.

Wait.

In the webtoon, the Rogues' hideout was a half-day's ride from the capital, nestled in a ravine. But Hwayoung had noted the smell—sulfur from nearby hot springs. This cellar reeked of stagnant water and... yeast? A brewery?

He strained his ears. Beyond the dripping, a faint clank-clank. Machinery. The capital's old distillery district?

Footsteps again. Louder. Closer.

Jungkook held his breath.

Aera's yip echoed down the hall—high-pitched, furious.

Alive.

He almost sobbed. The door flew open.

"Change of plans," the leader hissed, yanking him upright. Aera's yips grew frenzied somewhere outside. "Your mutt's leading a parade. Move."

The Rogues dragged him into the corridor. Jungkook's legs buckled, but he caught a glimpse through a grimy window—thick forest, the skyline jagged with factory smokestacks. The distillery.

Aera's yipping cut off abruptly. A shout. A bang.

Taehyung.

But the Rogues were shoving him toward a trapdoor, the leader's knife at his throat. "You scream, I carve out his heart before he hits the stairs," she barked at someone unseen.

Jungkook's vision blurred. The knife pressed deeper.

Somewhere above,Taehyung roared his name.

The knife at Jungkook's throat was an inconvenience. A sharp, terrifying inconvenience, but an inconvenience nonetheless. Because beyond the blade, past the stale beer stink of the cellar and the Rogues' rough hands, was something far more important.

Taehyung.

He was here. And he was mad.

The kind of mad that made seasoned generals reconsider their life choices. The kind of mad that turned polite dinner invitations into international incidents. The kind of mad that—

A door exploded somewhere above them. Not "was kicked open." Not "swung dramatically on its hinges." Exploded. Wood and metal rained down the stairwell. One particularly ambitious hinge made a bid for freedom, spinning past Jungkook's ear.

The Rogues flinched.

Jungkook, sensing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, did what any rational person in his position would do.

He bit the leader's hand.

"Son of a—!" She yelped, yanking back. The knife skittered away, bouncing down the stone floor. Jungkook's wrists screamed as he wrenched himself free, but he barely had time to register the pain before the trapdoor above burst open, a blur of black and gold dropping into the cellar like an avenging god.

Taehyung landed with the kind of grace that should've been illegal. His coat billowed, his sword gleamed, and his eyes—God, his eyes—burned molten under the flickering lantern light.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then the screaming started.

Not Jungkook's, for once.

The leader lunged for her knife, but Taehyung was faster. A well-placed boot sent it clattering into the dark. She snarled something unkind about his ancestors, pivoting on her heel to run—

—only to slam into Namjoon.

Who did not look pleased.

Jungkook barely had time to process the Grand Duke's thunderous scowl before someone tackled him sideways.

Aera.

She was a tattered mess of fur and righteous fury, her tail thumping hard enough to bruise as she wriggled onto his chest, her whole body vibrating with relieved, furious energy.

"You're alive," Jungkook wheezed, trying to breathe around a very enthusiastic fox.

Aera yipped, sniffing aggressively at his face before turning and promptly sinking her teeth into Taehyung's boot.

Taehyung, to his credit, barely reacted. "She's mad at you."

"I gathered."

"Good."

And then, because this night hadn't been humiliating enough—

Taehyung knelt, pressing his forehead to Jungkook's.

"You scared the hell out of me," he muttered, his voice a quiet storm.

Jungkook swallowed hard, his pulse doing something inconvenient in his throat. "You found me."

"Of course I found you," Taehyung huffed, pulling back just enough to glare at him properly. "What, you think I'd just let my fiancé get kidnapped and not turn half the kingdom upside down?"

"...Political fiancé," Jungkook corrected weakly.

Taehyung made an undignified noise. "Sure. Political."

Aera bit his boot again.

The Rogues were swiftly subdued, Yoongi confiscated someone's knives with the air of a man who planned to keep them out of spite, and Jimin was busy wiping something (probably blood) off his face with a handkerchief that cost more than the entire distillery.

Namjoon, meanwhile, surveyed the wreckage and sighed.

"Let's go home," he said.

And Jungkook, exhausted, aching, and slightly delirious from relief, let himself be dragged into the warmth of Taehyung's arms.

Maybe being kidnapped hadn't been the worst part of his night.

Maybe, just maybe, it was the realization that he didn't mind being rescued, didn't mind being the damsel in distress.

Especially if it meant Taehyung would always come for him.

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The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and something faintly floral—lavender, maybe. The sheets were too stiff, starched within an inch of their lives, and the whole place had the eerie hush of somewhere bad things had happened before.

Jungkook lay on the cot, wrists wrapped in fresh gauze, bruises dark against his skin. Someone had cleaned the blood from his temple, but the swelling lingered, an angry flush of purple along his cheekbone. His shirt had been swapped for a loose linen one, collar askew where Aera had curled into the crook of his neck, her tail flicking intermittently in sleep.

Taehyung sat on the edge of the mattress, hands braced on either side of his knees. His sword belt was long gone, tossed onto the nearest chair in a heap of exhaustion. His coat had been abandoned hours ago. He should have been asleep—probably would be if the sight of Jungkook, pale under the lantern glow, wasn't making something in his ribs feel unsteady.

"You're an idiot," he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Jungkook didn't stir.

Taehyung exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His knuckles still ached from earlier—he didn't know how many people he'd hit, only that it hadn't been enough. There had been a moment, just before the cellar door swung open, when he'd heard the knife leave its sheath, heard the way Jungkook sucked in a breath like he was bracing for it, and—

"I'm mad at you," he continued, because if he stopped talking, his brain might start doing something dangerous, like feel things. "You know that, right? I should lock you in a tower. Make you wear bells so I always know where you are."

Aera's tail flicked. Jungkook remained frustratingly unconscious.

Taehyung exhaled again, letting his head tip back against the headboard. The infirmary lantern cast flickering shadows over the ceiling, bending and stretching like ghosts.

"I thought I was too late," he admitted.

The words felt strange coming out. He wasn't used to saying things like this out loud—wasn't used to feeling them this loudly at all.

His fingers curled against the mattress.

It had split him open. That fear.

Jungkook, tied up, at someone else's mercy. Jungkook, bleeding, but still cracking jokes with that sharp, reckless mouth. Jungkook, being dragged through that trapdoor, eyes wide and dark and resigned.

"Don't do that again," Taehyung said, staring at the ceiling because looking at Jungkook made it worse.

Silence.

He sighed. Scrubbed a hand down his face. Let himself look again.

Jungkook's lashes fluttered. Not awake, not really, just the kind of movement that meant he was deep enough in sleep that he probably wasn't dreaming. His lips were slightly parted, breath steady, and something about that—the proof that he was here, breathing, safe—made Taehyung's throat close.

He swallowed hard.

His hand hovered over Jungkook's, just for a second. He could touch—just the back of his knuckles, something small, something grounding—but then what? Then he'd have to acknowledge the way his pulse stuttered whenever Jungkook got too close. The way the ring had burned in his fist the whole way here.

The way it had felt, all these months, pretending this was just political.

He let his hand drop back to the mattress.

"Idiot," he muttered again, softer this time.

Jungkook didn't respond.

Because, as Taehyung finally noticed, he was out cold.

Dead asleep. Probably had been for the last ten minutes.

Taehyung stared at him. Stared at Aera, who let out a little snore. Stared at the ceiling again, because otherwise he might start laughing, and then someone would come check if he'd finally lost it.

Of course. Of course, Jungkook had slept through it.

Taehyung pressed his palms into his eyes. "Unbelievable," he muttered.

Jungkook exhaled, peaceful and oblivious.

Taehyung leaned back against the headboard. He'd yell at him later. When he was awake. When he could hear it.

For now, though, he let himself watch.