C10 - Soul-ed MATE

The next morning I wake up with a headache from hell. On shaking legs, I stumble across the plush carpet, wearing only a white lace thong to prove anything happened last night.

I don’t have any energy for modesty, though, and the room is empty anyway. Oh! and thank God, there’s a brand-new toothbrush on the counter. After I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, I feel maybe ten percent more human. Enough that I can peek back into the room.

Still empty.

A patch of white on the dresser catches my eye. I find a note scrawled with the phone number for the place handling my father’s nurses. I recognize the name of one of the high-end private agencies from when I called around.

I wasn’t able to afford them. On the chair beside the dresser sits my purse. I dig inside and find my phone. First things first, I dial the number. As soon as I tell them my name, they transfer me immediately to a Mr. Jinseok, the director of the facility. I never got past the front-desk girl before.

“We have our absolute best nurses working with him,” he assures me. “Over thirty years of experience between them, excellent references. The utmost discretion, of course.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice faint.

“They’re in direct communication with his doctor—we got your consent form, of course. To make sure he remains comfortable during your brief sojourn.”

Sojourn? That’s a new way of describing prostitution.

Mr. Jinseok gives me his personal phone number and implores me to call him anytime, day or night, if I want to check on my father. It’s an outrageous level of service, even for the price that I was quoted.

I’m sure Yoongi is paying more than that for this kind of attention. Or maybe it’s his name on the check that demands such respect. An uneasy feeling twists my stomach. I should feel good that my father is taken care of. Certainly, these nurses will be able to provide better care than I could.

But I can’t help feeling that I’m somehow in Min Yoongi’s debt. And as my father learned, that’s a terrifying place to be. I find most of my clothes in the closet, hanging neatly. God, how hard had I been sleeping? That limnio is some crazy shit.

And his dad brewed it himself?

I have this mental image of a bathtub full of liquor, but I can’t imagine that when I’m standing in Yoongi’s spacious marble bathroom. Scalding hot water turns my skin red. I don’t remember much from last night. There was a phone call to Namjoon. Some memory of lying on the rug downstairs, though I don’t know why.

I rub my hole, but there’s nothing. No pain. I would feel some sort of pain if he’d taken my virgin ass, wouldn’t I? Some foreign sticky texture, some soreness? The only ache I feel is in my head. He is fcuking with my head—that’s for sure.

I stand under the wide showerhead forever, letting it beat away the last of my hangover. Then I get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, because if he wants sexy, he’ll have to supply the clothes himself.

I don’t find Yoongi downstairs, though. Instead there’s a heavyset woman whistling to herself as she kneads dough. She smiles when she sees me, her cheeks literally rosy.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen two perfectly round spots of colour, but she has them.

Flour coats her arms.

“Hello, Mr. Park. Are you hungry?”

As soon as she asks the question, my stomach rumbles. I’m not entirely sure it should be trusted with food. That limnio still lingers at the outer edges, threatening to make me dizzy.

“Maybe a little.”

“I can make you something. Eggs. Waffles.”

I put my hands over my stomach.

“I’m not sure.”

She smiles sympathetically. “There’s some Frosted Flakes in the pantry.”

My eyes widen because I’ve always loved Frosted Flakes. They’re simple and common, but they remind me of Sunday mornings with my dad. Our housekeeper had Sundays off, so we would dig through the pantry and watch cartoons.

He would be on his phone half the time, but I didn’t care.

How did Min Yoongi know to stock Frosted Flakes for me?

How did he get a key to the house for the nurse?

How did he sign a consent form on my behalf for the agency?

He’s breaking the law in a hundred different ways, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours. But he’s doing it to help me. Everything, designed to help me. That’s more perplexing.

Before the auction he said that the buyer would pay for a nurse so that he could have complete access to me. That the man would be rich enough that it wouldn’t matter.

The Frosted Flakes aren’t expensive. They don’t give him more access to me, but they are thoughtful. Even sweet. And that matters more than I want to admit. Without a word I head into the pantry and find a brand-new box of Frosted Flakes. I pour milk over it. With my bowl in hand I grab a seat at a rustic thick wood table.

The first bite makes my eyes close in pleasure.

“Mrs. Yun Micha,” the woman says cheerfully. “And I’m to assist you in any way possible, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to holler.”

She has a slight drawl that I can’t quite place. “How long have you worked for Mr. Min?”

“Oh, long enough to know that he wouldn’t like me answering many questions.”

I take another bite. She’s undoubtedly right about that.

“Where is he?”

She busies herself pressing the dough into a ceramic pie dish. “He had to go out. Business.”

There’s this hollow feeling in my stomach. I’m so used to fear, to the gnawing ache that’s accompanied me ever since Dad was convicted, that I almost don’t recognize it at first.

Disappointment.

Except that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want to spend time with Min Yoongi. I don’t want him to take my virginity. My memory from last night is hazy, but I think I’d feel some trace on my body if he’d had sex with me.

When I finish the cereal, I rinse out my dish.

“There’s a television around the corner,” she says. “Every show and movie you could want.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat mystified by the idea of watching TV when I was purchased for sex.

“Or you could visit the library,” she says, pulling out a covered bowl of what looks like chicken pot pie filling. I hope I’ll be able to have some of that later.

She gives me directions, and I walk down the oversize hallways into an even larger room. My eyes widen as I realize this has a second floor, reachable by a spiral staircase.

Little angels with trumpets are carved into the mahogany near the top. At the bottom, hands reach out of the flames.

Okay, that’s disturbing. What’s even more disturbing is that this room seems made for me. The fire’s already burning with a faint, pleasant crackle. There’s a gleaming rustic wood chess set lined up in the centre of the table.

On the table beside the fireplace are a stack of books—Fairy Tales from around the Mediterranean, The Myth of Homer Revealed.

It’s too much to think Yoongi spends his evenings reading Greek mythology. These are for me.

“Ready to play?” comes a low voice.

I whirl, dropping the book I’m holding.

Fairy Tales from around the Mediterranean lands spread open, its spine stretched.

I pick it up before it bends, hugging the large volume to my chest.

“Play?”

He steps out from behind the spiral staircase. Was he waiting for me there?

“Chess.”

What would you do with him? Taehyung asked.

Play chess, Yoongi answered, turning me into a joke.

“No, thank you.”

“Do you think you can say no?”

Defiance burns in my veins. My mind, my soul. That’s my leverage, Jihyo said, and I don’t plan to give him any.

“You bought my body, that’s all.”

“I bought all of you.”

“You can make me move around the pieces. Is that what you want?”

An empty brainless automaton. That’s all I’d give him, as plain as the actual pawn piece on the board. Chess is the game my Dad taught me, the game he played with me every week. And this is the man who ruined him. It would be a betrayal to play it with him. He eyes the chess set with something like regret.

“I’ll leave you to your reading, then. I have some work to finish.”

“Great,” I manage, my voice tight.

I’m a little freaked out by Yoongi’s uncanny knowledge of me. Namjoon got me a tennis bracelet for our last anniversary, shiny and...bland.

This is officially the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. From the man I hate the most. Freaked out, but not enough to leave the room.

I sit down and start to read.

!~~~~!

For the rest of the morning, I manage to distract myself in the brutal poetry of the Iliad. There’s war and famine, but it feels so far removed. I can get lost in the alien lands.

When I stand up again, my back is stiff. I find a clear space on a rug in the corner, near the spiral staircase, and practice my yoga poses from memory. I’m wearing my favourite comfy jeans, soft but still restrictive in my movements. I manage the simple poses, though, to centre my mind.

I’m feeling almost calm, considering the circumstances. Micha brings me lunch on a silvery tray. A wide slice of the chicken pot pie, pleasantly flaky on the outside, still bubbling on the inside.

It’s only during the restless afternoon hours that I look up the Minotaur. Every myth has some basis in fact, which is why the study of ancient history is so important.

Archaeology can uncover some of the secrets. Myths whisper the rest of what we know. In that way myths provide more room for error and more room for discovery.

Ancient debts.

War.

Even human sacrifice.

All of these have their roots in fact.

The Labyrinth was most likely the palace at Cnossus, an elaborate architectural triumph that spanned six acres and climbed five stories. One thousand rooms probably accounted for the sense of a maze.

There are numerous pieces of evidence of human sacrifice on Crete, a morbid side of ancient mythology where I prefer not to dwell. Especially in light of my current situation.

It’s the Minotaur himself who holds my fascination. The child of Pasiphae, Minos’s wife, who fell in love with a beautiful white bull. From their union came a child.

A monster in every sense of the word, the Minotaur was banished to the Labyrinth and fed on sacrifice alone. Was the Minotaur some wild historical figure, distorted by the lens of superstition and poetry?

Or was he the dark side of King Minos himself, the bastard child born of jealousy and greed?

These are the questions that plague me while I curl up in the giant armchair, the fire growing dim. There’s a slam from behind me—a door?

A whoosh of wind sucks the air from the room. The faint flames from the log vanish, leaving me in darkness. The book slides from my lap, hitting the rug with a thump.

I stand and whirl, facing the door. “Who’s there?”

“Good evening,” Yoongi says, strolling close.

I’m not sure when he became so familiar to me, but I can recognize his low voice without seeing him. I can make out his broad shoulders in the shadows.

He tosses his jacket on the chair where I sat, and I catch a whiff of his masculine spicey scent.

“What are you doing?”

“What I should have done last night. Tasting that…what was it he called you? The ripe peach?”

I take another step back, but there’s a fireplace.

The last dying embers.

“Now?”

!~~~~!!!!~~~~!