Close to ten in the evening, Yan Yi looked out through the floor-to-ceiling window. Dense clouds were crowding in from the northwest, swallowing half the sky in an impenetrable gray, letting not a single sliver of light through.
On the dining table, takeout boxes were scattered carelessly. Perhaps the delivery address had seemed intimidating to the courier; even the “please leave a review” stickers were meticulously placed, trembling with caution.
Inside the villa, there were no cleaning staff, no chefs, no servants to manage Lu Shangjin’s daily needs—only Yan Yi. Ever since their breakup, he had reappeared in front of Lu Shangjin, holding a résumé, eyes sparkling, applying to be the butler of the villa.
Back then, the little rabbit had been spoiled, curling up on the sofa with a pout, disappointed if he wasn’t petted, watching Lu Shangjin with pleading eyes until a hand rested on his head, stroking his hair and gently pinching the obedient rabbit ears draped along his strands.
After the breakup, he had come close again, but with restraint and decorum.
If one looked closely, however, the faint glimmer in his eyes was still there, bright and earnest, like a star granted in answer to a devotee’s wish.
Lu Shangjin waited for a response at the other end, legs crossed, shoes occasionally tapping the floor impatiently.
The runaway little rabbit had grown up.
The phone call was silent for a long time. Lu Shangjin wasn’t busy now and could afford to give Yan Yi some patience.
Thirty boxes of Timothy hay stacked beside the sofa—he hadn’t known the name before, but the assistant told him it was rabbit food from a pet store.
He wanted Yan Yi to come back quickly, to see him clutch the gifts and thank him. That expression brought Lu Shangjin a rare comfort.
He couldn’t tell whether the lingering intimacy after their breakup should have been cut off completely. Every time he saw Yan Yi, thinking of the A3 gland fused with his flesh and blood, he felt a mixture of repulsion and a cruel desire to cast him out of his world.
Yet when he wasn’t around, he couldn’t stop thinking about him.
He admitted, hearing Yan Yi cry almost to the point of collapse, asking “Why don’t you like me anymore?” had genuinely hurt him. That little rabbit never begged anyone, only lowering his head to him repeatedly. Back then, he could never bear to hear him sound so fragile and humble.
If he were still that eighteen-year-old boy, he would have held him without hesitation, kissed him, and let his comforting pheromones lull Yan Yi to sleep in his arms all night—staying there even if his back ached, unwilling to move for fear of waking the peacefully sleeping little white rabbit.
What kind of love can withstand more than ten years of trials? He was tired, exhausted by one frustration after another.
Rabbits were many, and there were countless replacements. He didn’t need to love so painfully.
So he was drawn to sweeter omegas, indulged with friends, leaving the precious one from before confined outside his world. Even if Yan Yi tried to integrate into Lu Shangjin’s circle, it was in vain.
Lu Shangjin knew that reaching this irreparable state was all Lu Lin’s fault—not Yan Yi’s. Lu Lin was a complete sadistic killer with the entire Peregrine family ready to drain blood at his command. His horrifying methods had destroyed the fragile, thin layer of love that could have continued between Lu Shangjin and Yan Yi. Yan Yi going to a club to get close to another alpha had angered him and felt like betrayal, but only he knew it was just an excuse for a breakup.
Their feelings had faded, but faded only. Yan Yi was still untouchably precious in his heart—a shot fired by Lu Lin at the fragile bridge of their love had severed the bond that could barely continue.
Since then, Lu Shangjin had unconsciously turned his rejection of Yan Yi into leverage against Lu Lin. The innocent lop-eared rabbit became the collateral of this twisted father-son dynamic, while he, oblivious, exhausted Yan Yi’s seemingly unquenchable passion.
Truly unquenchable—look at that hopping little rabbit. Even when picked up by the ears and shaken, it would obediently settle back, quietly curling in a corner to watch.
Lu Shangjin exhaled and crushed the last cigarette butt underfoot.
“Come back. Do the surgery. Behave.”
A weak voice came from the phone: “Jin-ge… you like hamsters so much. If I pinch my ears, I look like one too.”
The ashtray toppled as Lu Shangjin slammed it down; bits of ash clung to his trousers. The explosive sound shattered his remaining patience. He roared into the receiver, “You think I care about some rodent?! Fine, Yan Yi, don’t come back. Let’s see how long you last out there.”
He hung up and threw the phone violently, scattering the neatly stacked rabbit food boxes. Straw littered the floor. Used to being chased and fawned over, his tolerance for defiance was minimal.
He didn’t realize the rabbit was timid. Behind the calm exterior, it was likely trembling in terror, quietly huddled in a corner with nowhere to escape.
——
Yan Yi leaned against his nest of blankets, staring at the dark screen, dazed.
He wasn’t waiting for Lu Shangjin to tell him to do surgery—he wanted him to say “come home.”
He had been eager to provide Lu Shangjin with a perfectly compatible gland, but why did the other act so self-righteous about his sacrifices? A third-stage differentiated gland wasn’t innate—he had endured pain and bloodshed beyond measure, and even he pitied himself.
A top-tier omega already humbled like this—why didn’t Lu Shangjin ask if he was okay?
His vacant eyes fell on his pale, slender left hand.
When Lu Lin had placed it in the high-speed juicer, he had been fully aware.
The blades spun so sharp that he only felt pain seconds later.
What kind of pain was that?
Pain so unbearable he dared not remember. In Lu Lin’s gold-rimmed glasses, he saw his reflection, twisted beyond recognition.
Lu Lin had hoped his third-stage differentiation would be “limb regeneration,” but after injecting massive amounts of lizard-alpha pheromones, the brutal induction only triggered “teleportation.”
He had been raised as one of Lu family’s elite weapons, one among many soldiers, yet unique as the singular elite.
While he endured the cruelest trials, Lu Shangjin was probably at school. He remembered Lu Shangjin playing piano—the Croatian Rhapsody—passionate and romantic, like a lifeline pulling him from a quagmire, making his pulse and heart beat for that boy from then on.
He simply couldn’t admit that neither Lu Shangjin nor Lu Lin were truly good people.
He once wished to quietly sit on a small bench, listening to Lu Shangjin play a piece, making the same wish every birthday.
But wishes didn’t work when spoken aloud. Before, he hadn’t spoken, wanting Lu Shangjin to guess his heart. Now, he didn’t dare; speaking might make it truly ineffective.
He was tired. He took out a notebook, lowering Lu Shangjin’s score by one. By the time it reached zero, he would truly stop loving him.
He always gave himself chances, like when impatiently waiting for a video to load—counting five, then another five if still not ready.
He was exhausted, no longer as young and passionate as before.
“I’m an old rabbit now,” he thought blandly.
Some childish, grandiose fantasies of longing had to be let go.
The screen lit up. That number was calling again. Yan Yi lowered his eyes and answered.
“Are you still uncomfortable?” The alpha knew he was pregnant, yet still cared. “Where are you? Give me the address. I’ll come find you.”
The abandoned old rabbit felt no delight at such devoted pursuit—only fatigue too great to respond.
“Your voice is hoarse. Did you catch a cold, or have you been crying?” The young alpha’s tone was gently proud, worry laced with endearing awkwardness—a spoiled young master’s voice.
Yan Yi had no pajamas, only a beige thin wool sweater covering his thighs, hands hiding the rest except for fingertips. Sitting cross-legged at the bedhead, clutching a soft pillow to protect the baby inside, he sighed, gathering his energy to face this phone encounter.
He asked bluntly: “How old are you?”
The alpha hesitated, caught off guard, then answered: “T-twenty-four.”
Yan Yi asked again: “Your name?”
The omega interrogating him felt a small sweetness, a tiny reassurance, and the alpha responded excitedly: “Xia Jingtian,” completely shedding the previously forced deep mature tone, yet still gentle.
Yan Yi chuckled faintly: “Child.”
But he was too weary to lift the corners of his mouth. In his heart, a fresh wound had just been exposed, still raw and bleeding.