Seo Tae-joon knew he could never be a saint. His mind was wired for cruelty, his thoughts honed to a sharp, vicious edge. Violence came to him as naturally as using a fork and knife. It was a source of private shame that his wife was so gentle, so easily frightened.
He couldn’t be with her on affection alone. For their relationship to flourish, their worlds had to converge, not just orbit one another. It required more than simple feeling.
But the chasm between them felt impossibly wide. Han Ji-woo wanted a husband who was restrained and docile; Seo Tae-joon was a man who would slay a boar without hesitation. The paths they walked were polar opposites. After today, I’ll try to rein in my instincts, he vowed, even as his eyes, blazing with vengeance, tracked the men through the forest. But you’ll have to meet me halfway. You’ll have to find some steel of your own.
He slipped past the ‘No Trespassing’ sign, fought his way through a snarl of dense undergrowth, and burst into a clearing. Several grimy storage containers were scattered about like discarded blocks. Between them stood two large glass greenhouses, leaking a strange, acrid smell into the twilight air. Seo Tae-joon dropped low behind an outcropping of boulders, his eyes sweeping the area.
“Who are you?” The press of a thick club against his spine stopped him cold. Seo Tae-joon raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. The man’s dialect told him everything he needed to know about where he was from.
Rising slowly, Seo Tae-joon suddenly spun, wrenching the club from his ambusher’s grasp and yanking him forward. Before the man could recover from the shock, an arm was locked around his throat, squeezing the air from his lungs. The man thrashed in his hold, his face darkening from a blotchy blue to a deep, strangled purple.
“Why are you thugs always so slow?” Seo Tae-joon murmured into the man’s ear. “Never mind. I need a favor.” The man’s eyes had begun to glaze over. Seo Tae-joon released his grip just as he was about to lose consciousness, letting him collapse to the ground, gasping and sputtering for air.
Seo Tae-joon looked down at the man struggling to breathe. He wet his lips. “Don’t be loud,” he said, a faint, chilling smile touching his lips. “And hit me. Just once.”
A harsh chemical smell flooded her senses, dragging her from the blackness of unconsciousness. As her vision cleared, Han Ji-woo realized she was bound to a chair. The spot on her head where she’d been struck throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. Rough rope bit into her tender skin, pinning her so tightly she couldn’t move.
“Oh, you’re awake.” A man approached, pulling down a white mask. Beyond him, other masked figures were bent over long tables, methodically processing flowers the color of fresh blood. Ji-woo knew instantly what they were: poppies.
How had her peaceful life on this island spiraled into this? She chided herself for her uncanny ability to stumble into danger.
Was Seo Tae-joon all right? The mountains were treacherous after dark. If he got lost, no one would find him until morning. In that moment, her fear for him completely eclipsed her own.
“Hey, I’m talking to you. What are you looking at?” A hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back painfully. “Are you not scared?”
Ji-woo squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of him. He might have the same aggression as Seo Tae-joon, but he lacked any of his substance.
“People like you die here,” the man snarled. “People who try to sneak in.”
She was terrified, but her mind kept drifting back to Seo Tae-joon, alone in the darkening woods without so much as a cell phone. Her silence seemed to convince the man she was hiding something. He twisted her head from side to side, peering into her ears.
“Are you wired?” he demanded. “No earpieces. Let’s check your clothes.”
Ji-woo glared, her body rigid as he began patting her down. He couldn’t get beneath the ropes, but his hands roamed every uncovered inch of her, lingering far too long in places that made a wave of revulsion rise in her throat. She held her breath, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. A loud thump at the door cut him short.
The entire room fell silent. Every worker froze, their eyes fixed on the entrance as the door swung open. A short, young man stood in the threshold, a dagger pressed to the throat of a hostage. Ji-woo’s carefully constructed composure shattered. The hostage, held fast at knifepoint, was Seo Tae-joon.
Blood trickled from his nose and the corner of his split lip, and his cheeks were swollen and bruised. When his captor shoved him forward, he stumbled, struggling to keep his balance.
A tidal wave of emotion crashed over her—fury, relief, and a paralyzing worry all at once. Her mind was a maelstrom.
“Ji-woo.” Seo Tae-joon croaked her name, his eyes finding hers. He had already scanned the entire room, absorbing every last detail.