Chapter 161. When He Wakes

Anton drifted awake not from sleep, but into awareness. The leaden exhaustion that had pinned him to the bed was gone, replaced by a deep, cellular calm. The howling wind and the restless sea were now a distant symphony, not a threat. For a few precious seconds, he existed in a perfect, weightless void. No company, no enemies, no voice in his head that wasn't his own.

Then, the sensation returned.

The first was the warmth. A solid, comforting heat along his right side. The second was the weight—a gentle pressure on his shoulder. The third was the touch. Fingers laced tightly with his, palm to palm, a connection so fundamental it felt less like holding hands and more like a completed circuit.

He turned his head on the thin pillow.

Sabatine was slumped in the wooden chair, pulled so close to the bed that his torso was half-propped against the mattress, his head resting on his own arm, which was stretched out beside Anton’s shoulder. He was asleep, his face turned towards Anton, illuminated by the steel-grey dawn light seeping around the blinds. The fierce, analytical intensity was gone, sanded away by utter fatigue. In its place was a vulnerability so raw it stole Anton’s breath.

Dark lashes fanned against pale skin, shadows pooling in the hollows beneath his eyes. His mouth, usually set in a firm line of concentration or defiance, was soft, slightly parted. The stubble on his jaw was a dark smudge against the pallor of stress and lack of sleep. He looked younger. He looked broken-open. He looked like a man who had spent every last reserve of his strength not on a mission, but on a vigil.

Anton’s gaze traced the lines of his face—the faint scar along his temple, the strong bridge of his nose, the stubborn set of his chin even in repose. This was the face of the man who had seen his empire tremble, who had heard the fabricated voice of his treason, who had faced drones and guns, and had chosen, again and again, to stand with him. Not for money, not for glory, but for him.

The tenderness that rose in Anton’s chest was a physical ache, a sweet, sharp pressure that felt more potent than any fear, any anger, any ambition he had ever known. It hit him with the force of a blow, but one that healed rather than wounded. This—this trust, this silent, steadfast devotion—was the real treasure. The one no one could steal, no deepfake could mimic, no avalanche of lies could bury.

He remembered the feel of Sabatine’s hand in his hair, the steady, rhythmic strokes that had been a lifeline pulling him back from the edge of a mental abyss. He remembered the anchor of his voice in the dark. I’m here. I’ve got you.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, Anton shifted. He freed his hand from Sabatine’s grip, feeling a pang of loss at the separation. But he needed to touch him, to give back some fraction of the care he’d received.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, the old bedframe groaning softly. Sabatine didn’t stir. Anton reached out, his fingers hovering for a moment over Sabatine’s sleep-slackened face. He wanted to trace the line of his brow, the curve of his cheekbone, but he feared even that light touch might shatter the peace.

Instead, he let his gaze drink him in. He saw the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, usually invisible. He saw the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, unruly and soft. He saw the faint, worried line between his brows, even in sleep. This man carried the world’s weight, and last night, he had chosen to carry Anton’s instead.

The emotion swelled, a tide of such overwhelming gratitude and love it felt like it might crack his ribs. He had built skyscrapers, commanded billions, bent markets to his will. None of it compared to the humble, terrifying privilege of being guarded, body and soul, by this weary, magnificent man.

Slowly, he leaned down. He pressed his lips not to Sabatine’s mouth, not in passion, but to his forehead. It was a kiss of benediction, of awe, of a vow. His lips brushed against the cool skin, feeling the faint pulse beneath. He lingered there, breathing in the scent of him—salt air, woodsmoke, and the indefinable essence that was simply Sabe.

A soft sigh escaped Sabatine. His eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. A faint, unconscious smile touched his lips, as if the kiss had filtered into his dreams and changed them.

Anton pulled back, settling onto the pillow again, his face mere inches from Sabatine’s. He didn’t close his eyes. He watched him sleep, committing this moment to memory—a treasure to be stored against the coming storms. This was his reason. This was the ‘why’ behind every fight, every ruthless decision, every fortified wall. Not to protect an empire, but to protect this peace. This man’s right to rest.

The dawn brightened, turning the grey light to a pale, watery gold. A seagull cried outside, a lonely, hopeful sound.

Sabatine’s breathing hitched. His eyes opened—slow, unfocused, then sharpening instantly as they met Anton’s. The operative’s reflexes were still there, the constant assessment for threat. But the threat wasn’t in the room. The only thing he saw was Anton, watching him with an expression Sabatine had never seen before. It wasn’t desire, though that was a banked fire beneath. It wasn’t gratitude, though that was there too. It was a kind of reverent, humbled wonder.

“You’re awake,” Sabatine rasped, his voice gravelly with sleep. He started to pull away, to sit up, to resume his post.

Anton’s hand shot out, catching his wrist. “Stay.”

The word was quiet, but absolute. Sabatine stilled, his sleep-softened eyes searching Anton’s face. He saw the restored clarity, the peace where the despair had been. He saw the cut on his forehead, now just a dark line, already healing.

“How do you feel?” Sabatine asked the protector’s question automatically.

Anton didn’t answer with words. He brought Sabatine’s captured hand to his own chest, pressing it flat over his heart. The steady, strong beat thudded against Sabatine’s palm. Alive. Because of you.

Sabatine’s throat worked. He let himself be pulled forward, until he was perched on the very edge of the mattress, their faces close. The distance they had crossed in the elevator, on the terrace, in the boardroom, was now a mere breath.

“You stayed,” Anton whispered, his thumb stroking the inside of Sabatine’s wrist.

“Where else would I be?” The answer was simple, inevitable.

Anton’s eyes shimmered for a second, a sheen of moisture he would allow no one else to see. “I heard it again. My voice. The lies. In my dreams. But it was… quieter. Farther away. Because I could feel you here.” He lifted his free hand and touched Sabatine’s cheek, mirroring the vigil-keeping touch. “You pulled me back.”

Sabatine turned his face into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment. The tenderness was a different kind of battle, one he was still learning to fight. “You just need to remember who you are. The lies have no memory. You have a lifetime of truth.”

Anton shook his head slightly, a tear escaping to track through the stubble on his temple. “No. I needed to remember who you are. That’s the truth that matters.”

He leaned in then, and this time, he kissed Sabatine’s forehead in return. A mirror. A completion. His lips were warm, firm, lingering. It was a kiss that sealed a pact deeper than any corporate merger, any legal document. It was a transfer of trust, a merging of strength.

When he pulled back, the vulnerability was gone, folded back into the steel of his resolve, but it was a different steel now—tempered by love, not fear.

“The fifth anomaly,” Anton said, his voice regaining its familiar, crisp edge, though his hand still cupped Sabatine’s face. “Did you really find it?”

A faint, guilty smile touched Sabatine’s lips. “No. I was busy.”

Anton’s own smile was a sunrise, slow and breathtaking. “Good.” He finally released him, swinging his legs out of bed. The weariness was still in his movements, but it was the manageable fatigue of a man who had rested, not broken. “Then let’s go find it together. And then,” he said, standing and looking down at Sabatine with a glint of the old, ruthless fire in his eyes, “we broadcast the dissection of their lie on every network that aired it. We turn their avalanche into a landslide… right back on top of them.”

Sabatine stood, the stiffness in his muscles a pleasant ache. He looked at Anton, this man who had kissed his forehead with more tenderness than he’d ever known, and who was now ready to wage a war with him. The protector and the protected had dissolved into something new: partners. In love, in war, in truth.

“Lead the way,” Sabatine said.

And as they walked out of the little bedroom towards the waiting laptops and the waiting storm, Anton’s hand found his again, fingers threading together, not as a lifeline, but as a promise. They had faced the night. They had found their morning. And whatever came next, they would face it just like this—hand in hand, heart to heart.

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