CHAPTER 219: CHAPTER 219 - SEARCHING FOR THE LOST ONES

Bian tilted Dican’s face from side to side, his eyes narrowing with surgical precision. He scrutinized the Farian prince’s pupils, the twitch of his cheeks, the softness of his expression—every little detail. He was searching for something specific. For a moment, Dican’s dreamy, docile gaze flickered and his lips parted as if to say something. But it wasn’t the clear, calculating stare of the second prince of Farian royalty.

Still just that devoted, gooey-eyed look.

Bian exhaled, shoulders slackening.

"Phew," he muttered, almost under his breath. "Thought it stopped working."

The relief was short-lived. He straightened up, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. The medicine was still holding... barely. But the thought of how close he’d come to losing control of Dican gnawed at the edge of his mind. He didn’t have much of the Grayling bonding compound left—just that one tiny pot, no bigger than a thumb joint. It had been enough so far. Barely. But if it wore off faster now—if Dican started to resist or remember—Bian had no way of making more. The recipe, the ingredients, the equipment... all lost.

His eyes drifted toward the wide glass panel on the wall of the cabin. It showed nothing but black. The depths of deep space sprawled endlessly in front of them, broken only by distant specks of drifting stars. The path to Gia was still ahead, but how long it would take was unknown. The wormhole had scattered their location somewhere far, too far, and now they were drifting on a path recalibrated by emergency nav systems. No one could give him a clear answer.

They could be flying for days. Weeks. Longer.

He couldn’t afford to waste a single drop.

Bian’s eyes slowly returned to Dican, who now stood up, hands folded in front of him like a polite schoolboy waiting for instruction. That same warm smile still rested across his lips—genuine and blinding.

"I must observe his reactions more carefully," Bian thought, brows knitting in quiet resolve. "Apply the medicine the moment I see it slipping. Can’t let him slip again. Not until I get to Gia. Not until I understand everything."

He let go of Dican’s face, flicking his fingers clean of the contact like he’d touched something sticky. Then he wiped them on his pants with clear distaste.

"Get dressed," he said flatly, stepping away. "We’re going to the control room."

"Yes, my dear!" Dican chirped brightly, his entire face lighting up like a sunbeam in winter. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation or resentment. Only affection.

It made Bian flinch a little inside.

But he didn’t let it show.

He just turned and walked toward the cabin door, muttering under his breath, "Idiot."

Bian unzipped the sleek locker built into the wall, revealing the familiar black Farian combat suit hanging inside. He reached out and ran his fingers down the smooth, matte surface. It was tight, flexible, and laced with microscopic filaments for resistance and temperature regulation—standard for Farian officers, but his was custom-cut. He liked how it fit. He liked how it clung.

With practiced ease, he slid the suit on. The fabric hissed softly as it sealed around his frame, hugging him from neck to ankle like a second skin. He paused briefly in front of the mirror panel, adjusting the collar and brushing a strand of pale hair back from his forehead.

He turned slightly to the side, admiring the way the armor outlined his shoulders, his hips, the firm taper of his waist. A smirk curled on his lips. Damn, I look good. He tilted his head, giving himself a wink in the mirror before running a gloved hand down his flank.

"Perfection," he murmured to no one.

Behind him, Dican was quietly changing too. The prince had already peeled off his loose sleep shirt and was now shimmying out of his pants, revealing the lean, sculpted build beneath. Bian caught the movement in the mirror—and turned fully.

His breath hitched.

Dican was halfway into his own suit when Bian’s gaze swept over him. Every ridge of muscle, every flawless curve of his torso, was now exposed in full view. The light hit just right, accentuating the deep lines of his abs like a carved sculpture. That stomach—tight and precise. Washboard flat. Bian felt something tighten low in his belly.

He took a step closer, then, almost without thinking, reached out and ran his fingertips lightly across Dican’s bare stomach. The touch was slow, deliberate. His grin widened, just a little.

"This body... is mine," Bian whispered, the words coiling like heat in his throat. "All mine."

His eyes gleamed darkly for a second, his mind conjuring images—wild, indulgent images of what he could do with Dican’s perfect form. He could already imagine the sounds, the reactions, the weight of those arms pinning him down—

Bian sucked in a breath, blinking hard, and pulled his hand away.

Not now. Focus.

His lips parted slightly as he licked the edge of his lower one, then forced himself to look away, tugging on his gloves with more force than necessary. The heat in his blood cooled quickly as another thought took its place: his grandfather. That snot-nosed brat.

They were still missing.

His jaw tightened.

They slipped past us once. They won’t do it again.

"Move faster," he snapped, more to himself than Dican.

"Yes, my dear!" Dican chirped again, already pulling the last seal into place on his uniform.

Together, the two strode quickly out of the quarters and down the sterile corridors of the ship, boots clicking briskly against the metallic floor. The lights flickered slightly as systems rerouted power from nonessential areas—still recovering from their brush with the black hole.

As they neared the control room, Bian’s face hardened, all trace of lust now buried under layers of fury and purpose.

"Once we reach the deck," he muttered, teeth grinding, "we order a full internal sweep. Every hallway, every duct, every damn vent. I want those two found."

Dican nodded at his side, glowing like a lovesick sun.

Bian didn’t glance at him this time. His mind was burning with one thought only.

No one escapes me twice.

The doors to the control room hissed open as Bian and Dican stepped through, the pair immediately drawing the attention of every officer on deck. Bian’s sharp, predatory stride carried him to the center of the room, eyes already scanning the command panels. The black skintight combat suit clung to him like it was part of his skin, glinting slightly under the cool lights.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries.

"All units, listen up," Bian barked, his voice cutting like a whip through the tension-thick air. "Full interior sweep. I want every sector of this ship searched—now."

He slammed his hand against the nearby console, pulling up the internal schematics. "Deck by deck. Corridor by corridor. I don’t care if it’s the ventilation shafts or the waste recycling ducts. Tear this place apart if you have to."

The soldiers glanced among themselves, already scrambling to input the commands and dispatch the search teams. Dican stood silently beside Bian, arms folded, watching the room fill with a frenzy of movement.

Time passed.

Minutes dragged like hours.

And then, one by one, the search teams began reporting back.

"Sir," one officer said tightly through the comms, "no signs of the humans on Deck 3 or 4. We’ve cleared the auxiliary rooms."

Another voice followed almost immediately. "Storage sectors A through E: nothing. We’ve checked every supply locker. All empty."

"No heat signatures in the waste management tunnels. Even sent in drones. Still nothing."

"Maintenance routes came back clear. No traces."

By the fourth report, Bian’s fingers twitched.

By the fifth, he was standing motionless, breathing shallow.

And by the time the final officer spoke—"Sir, we’ve scanned the entire ship. They’re not on board"—he exploded.

"What?!" Bian roared.

He slammed both palms into the control panel, sending a sharp crack through the plastic and sparking a few small warning lights. His breath heaved in and out, chest rising violently as fury twisted his face.

"Are you joking?! Are you fucking joking?!!"

The entire room froze.

Bian turned, his eyes wild as he faced the officers. "How the fuck can two humans—two fleshbag humans—escape a military-grade Farian warship in the middle of deep fucking space?!"

No one answered.

No one could.

He pointed furiously toward the nearest crew member. "You. You were on Deck Five. Did you check the engine alcoves?! Did you scan for body heat signatures?!"

"Y-Yes, sir, we—"

"Then where the fuck are they?!"

His voice cracked, loud and vicious.

Silence.

Bian’s hand curled into a fist, knuckles turning white.

"They didn’t escape. Not unless someone helped them," he growled, his voice now low and seething. "Someone on this ship is hiding them. Someone thinks they’re clever."

He looked around at the room—at the crew who wouldn’t meet his eyes, at Dican, who stood quietly, gaze unreadable.

Bian’s voice dropped even lower.

"When I find them..."

A sick grin spread across his lips.

"When I catch them—"

He laughed once, breathless and sharp.

"—I’ll fucking kill them both."

The room was silent as death.

With one last furious sweep of his arm, Bian shoved aside the nearest console chair and stormed out of the control room. The doors hissed shut behind him with a slam.

And for a long time afterward, no one moved.