C13 - Soul-ed MATE

It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s better this way. Because if I don’t have my lies, what will I have left?

Yoongi reminded me where I stand with him. Someone to serve him, something he purchased. I can keep him at a distance regardless of what he does to my body, as long as he doesn’t cradle me close like I’m something worthwhile again.

I should be focused on Dad, anyway. He’s the reason I’m doing this. I call Mr. Jinseok at the nursing home using his personal cell phone. He assures me that my father is in excellent health, which seems like it must be a lie until he conferences in the day nurse.

“Hello, little mochi.” My father’s voice sounds rusty, tired, but undeniably aware.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

“I’m working on getting better.” He gives a hoarse laugh. “They’ve got some good meds hooked up. And there’s this devil of a physical therapist coming every day now. I’ve called him every name in the book, but I managed to sit up on my own yesterday.”

My breath catches. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t you worry about me. You focus on your studies.”

With a sinking heart I realize he thinks I’m at school. “Oh. Right.” When Mr. Jinseok comes on, I can’t help the strange sadness that creeps into my voice. “He sounds great.”

“It’s very common,” he says, his voice sympathetic. “We see it all the time. Family wants to tend to their own, but it’s a huge burden, a constant stress, and all without the necessary training. Our nutritional counsellor has worked with a private chef to develop meals that are best for him. And the physical therapist is our very best.”

Somehow that makes me feel worse, even though I know that doesn’t make sense. I was killing myself making sure my father’s meds were right, that his IV was right, that he was comfortable and clean.

And it had all been making him worse because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. These trained people know what they’re doing. And the only way I can afford them is by fcuking Min Yoongi.

Only after I hang up do I see the string of increasingly urgent texts from Hoseok.

It’s me.

What’s going on??

Namjoon just called me.

He might have cried.

He’s very drunk.

CALL ME.

Were you in an auction?

Type OMFG for yes or n for no.

Pigeons. Flags. Letter in a bottle.

All acceptable forms of communication in this FCUKING EMERGENCY.

I have to laugh at the last text, because it’s so perfectly Hoseok. And it’s a laugh-or-cry situation, realizing that Namjoon found out exactly what I’ve done. And apparently he’s sharing the news.

I’m ruined in Daegu. Of course, I knew that from the moment I accepted Kim Taehyung’s proposition. Even if somehow the auction remains a dirty little secret, I can’t face the wealthy upper crust of the city ever again.

But I hoped it would be contained. Like a tiny explosion under a metal dome in a cartoon.

Boom! And all that’s left is scorch marks in the shape of a circle. Except if Namjoon knows, if Hoseok knows, then the circle is spreading. I don’t think Hoseok is going to gossip about me, but shit like this is wildfire. All it has to do is spark to the next tree to keep going.

He answers on the first ring. “Tell me everything, starting from the very beginning.”

Debt.

Bills.

An auction and a million dollars in escrow.

I tell him everything, because I’m desperate for some advice here.

“So that’s the story of how I became Daegu College’s first hooker.”

He snorts. “You’re definitely not the first, but that’s a story for another day. Now you need to tell me about this Min motherfcuking Yoongi. Is he old? Mean? Has a gold tooth?”

I smile. “Not exactly. He’s actually…”

I’m not sure how to describe his golden eyes, how they can pierce me from across the room. How can I explain the way his shoulders and veiny hands make me feel delicate?

“He looks okay. That’s not the problem.” I complete.

“Uh-oh,” he says. “Angry omega soulmate?”

“God, you are the most jaded. No, not known to me. Yet.”

At least I don’t think he is.

“He’s the man who turned my father in. Who gave all the evidence to the attorney general so they could prosecute.”

“Oh my God. A do-gooder?”

“It was a revenge thing. My father cheated him.”

“Thank God,” he says, sounding relieved.

“No, we’re not thanking any Gods. Because he hates me.”

“He hates your dad.”

“He hates my family. And he’s already ruined my dad. Money. Reputation. Even physically. In every way possible my father has lost everything.”

“Except his omega son.”

I wince. “umm...Something like that.”

“And you think he just bought you to get back at your dad.”

My fingers trace lavender flowers carved into the bedpost. “I don’t know what he’s thinking. Is buying me revenge enough or does he have something worse planned?”

“Worse, like…sex. The auction was two days ago, right?” Hoseok asks.

“Right, but he hasn’t done that yet.”

“He hasn’t touched you?” he sounds incredulous.

“He’s touched me.” I feel my cheeks flame with the memory of his touch, the memory of his tongue. “But he hasn’t taken me. And the way he talks about me being virgin lily…it scares me. Like he’s planning to make it awful. Is that crazy?”

I want Hoseok to tell me that’s crazy, that an alpha like Min Yoongi wouldn’t resort to that. That it would be too cruel, too kinky, too something to be real.

“It makes sense,” he says, musing. “How much did your dad steal from him?”

“I don’t know.” A lot. More than I can ever repay, even with the money from the auction—which came from him, anyway. “And it’s more the principle of it. He has a thing about people who lie.”

“Really? Well, do you think you can get him to talk? If he has a thing about lying, he might be honest with you.”

I’m not sure if it would be better or worse to know he has something awful planned for me. “I can try. But look, I need you to be honest with me. People say it hurts, the first time. Does it?”

“I think everyone is probably different,” he says, but he’s hedging.

“Hoseok.”

“My first time was with the gardener. I was fourteen. He was nineteen.”

I wince because I didn’t know that about him. It’s a pretty big age difference.

“Wow.”

“I bled so much my mom gave me this awkward talk about what periods are while she was stoned out of her mind. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I am her beta son and not daughter.”

My heart clenches. “Oh, Hoseokie hyung.”

“Here’s what I think you should do. When you think he’s going to do it, take a pain killer. Or have a drink. Something to dull the edge, you know?”

Despite my growing fear of actual penetration, I crack a smile. “I already tried that. The first night. He ended up tucking me into bed.”

“That’s pretty sweet for a motherfcuker.”

“Yeah.” My smile fades. “He can be sweet one minute. Then the next he’s dismissing me from the room, telling me he’ll call me when he wants to use me. His actual words : use me.”

Hoseok makes an outraged sound. “Who does he think he is?”

“My owner.”

At least for the next twenty-eight days.

!!~~~~!!

I don’t have to wait long to find out when he plans to use me. After my phone call with Hoseok, I leave my room and wander the large hallways, peeking into empty rooms as if one of them will hold the key to unlock Min Yoongi.

As if he’s storing all his secrets in some kind of trophy room, ideally with neon arrows and handy signage to point me in the right direction. All I find are endless corridors of comfortable, expensive rooms—sitting rooms, bedrooms.

How many people can this place actually hold?

There’s also a movie room with three small rows of leather chairs and a screen that takes up an entire wall.

A large gym with a sauna attached.

There’s even a small art gallery on the top floor featuring some estate pieces, some local artists, and a particularly gorgeous mural of the Greek myth Ariadne and Dionysus on the island of Naxos.

I manage to avoid his office, the open door allowing his voice to carry as he speaks on the phone. Only one room is a mystery.

Locked.

The brass knob doesn’t turn. The rooms were filled with antique furniture and sculptures. Even the priceless paintings in the art gallery hadn’t been locked. At the end of my exploration I don’t know that much more about Yoongi than when I started.

And my feet are aching.

It takes me another fifteen minutes before I can even find my room. When I get there, I see a tray with lunch and another note scrawled in his square, careless script.

We’re going out at seven. Your clothes are in the closet.

I feel like I’m on a scavenger hunt as I peek into the closet. Hanging in front of my clothes is a black vinyl bag, floor-length.

I zip it open and gasp.

A stunning Marilyn Monroe dress made of some kind of beige sheer fabric, but instead of rhine stones it was adorned with red sapphires layered to produce a sparkling effect.

Flecks of gold scattered throughout the dress, making the whole thing look like a sculpture.

And that’s when it’s still flat in the bag. I can only imagine how it will look when it’s on. On a little island in the closet there’s a black box that contains champagne-gold Thame bead embellished Jimmy Choo’s.

A small velvet box contains a delicate Harry Winston bracelet.

Dad was always generous with my allowance. And I realized from a young age that my appearance reflected on him. If I showed up at a society event in a clearance-rack dress, everyone would whisper that he must be struggling.

Until six months ago I was able to walk into any store and pull out my black card.

This dress, though. It isn’t the kind of dress that you can buy off the rack. This is a dress that you need a connection to get. A connection and very large sums of money.

This is a red-carpet dress.

Where the hell is he taking me?

At seven o’clock sharp he knocks on my bedroom door. I spent the past hour putting makeup on and taking it off, thinking it’s too much or too little. I need Jihyo to prepare me for this, but she was only my fairy godmother for the ball. I have to figure this out for myself. If he wants to adorn me like a doll, I am up. I fcuking don’t care if it’s a dress basically for female omegas.

I will give him a red carpet look. I settled on thick loose strands scattered on my forehead and a classic red lipfloss. When I open the door, he does this little shake of his head as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

It’s the dress of course: subtle yet stunning, intricate yet simple.

Even knowing that, I can’t help the blush that colors my cheeks. He pauses, taking me in from head to toe.

“The dress suits you.”

“Thank you.”

Of course, he looks ridiculously handsome in his grey tux that was no doubt tailored to him, but I’m not going to admit that.

“You’re looking sharp.”

He gives me the barest of smiles. “I try.”

“Where are we going?”

It’s wrong to be excited about this.

It isn’t a date! I have to keep reminding myself and my wolf of that, because it feels like one.

Especially when he says, “We could go downstairs and play a match.”

Chess.

Leverage.

There’s a strange longing to play with him, to wear the prettiest dress I’ve ever worn while I play my favourite game in a beautiful library.

That would be the perfect date.

With the wrong man.

I’d give anything to play another game with my Dad. Yoongi made sure that would never happen again. No, he’s not getting my mind. He paid for my body. I shake my head.

“Ah,” he says as if that was expected. “In that case, we’ll go to the theatre.”

Oh, I love the theatre. I manage not to bounce on my heels.

“What are we seeing?”

“My Fair Lady.”

The story is based on Pygmalion, the myth of a sculptor who fell in love with his art. The gods granted him his wish, turning marble into flesh.

“I didn’t realize it was touring.”

His expression seems brooding.

Does he see the symmetry between us?

The alpha with all the power. The omega made real by his love? Of course, he doesn’t love me. And more importantly, he isn’t changing me in any way.

Except sexually.

“Opening night,” he says.

My stomach drops.

Opening night.

A regular theatre night, it would be easy to get lost in the crowd of people. We would find our seats, the lights would lower. We’d watch the show side by side in the dark.

But opening night is another beast entirely.

Usually, the seats are claimed by season pass holders, if there are any left after the high level donors have claimed theirs. Or they make them available for a higher price, invite only, with the proceeds going to charity.

However it’s done, a few things hold true: only the most rich and powerful people will be attending. And there will most definitely be drinks and mingling before the show starts.

He isn’t taking me to the theatre so that we can enjoy ourselves. This isn’t a pretend date where we both act like he isn’t paying for the pleasure of my company. This is a show, an example, as surely as my father’s demise.

I’m going to be put on display, a lion in a gilded cage.

“I see,” I say, my voice flat.

He looks almost regretful. “You’ll do fine.”

His pity burns like acid. If I have to be trapped in this cage, if I’m going to be forced to sing, I’m going to sound beautiful doing it.

Somehow I smile. “Of course.”

I hold his arm as he escorts me downstairs, as if I’m not heading to the guillotine. I find a bland expression for the limo ride to the theatre, as if my heart isn’t beating a million times a minute.

There are going to be so many people there. The alphas, Dad was friends with. They all know what Min Yoongi did to my father.

What will they think about seeing me with him?

Some of them will know about the auction. Then a worse thought strikes me. Some of them could have attended the auction.

!!~~~~!!

The whispers start as soon as we walk into the room.

They follow us as we pause for pictures at the step and repeat backdrop at the end of the carpet—not actually red but purple instead. They follow us up the grand staircase. They follow us to the drink station where Yoongi asks for a glass of champagne for me and a whiskey neat for himself.

“I could have wanted a whiskey,” I mutter, more because I need to fight back.

And I can’t yell at the old women to stop pointing at me, can’t scream at the men to stop staring at my ass.

“I’ve seen you drunk,” Yoongi says mildly. “No whiskey.”

Yes, and that’s probably not something we need to repeat in public. I can’t deny that I’d love some oblivion right now, though, because I see several of my father’s friends approaching.

One owns a large housing development corporation, the other a manufacturing plant for water bottles, of all things. I only ever see them together. Dad played poker with them all the time.

They smile genially as the bartender finishes our drinks. “Mr. Min! Great to see you here.”

Yoongi hands me a flute, and I take a fortifying sip—then scrunch my nose as the bubbles tickle me from the inside.

I hear the amusement in Yoongi’s voice as he says, “You too, Jongin. How’s work been treating you?”

“Very stiff,” the other man says solemnly. “But we have plans to expand.”

Do not laugh, Jimin.

I manage to keep a straight face as he turns to me.

“And how has school been treating you? Are you still on leave to help your father?”

Technically my absence is being recorded as leave by the school, but everyone knows I have no means to go back. And I’m standing here beside Min Yoongi, which shows exactly how academic my life has become.

Even the auction won’t be enough to send me back to Daegu College, once the house and my father’s caregivers are covered.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice polite and distant. “He’s doing very well.”

“Good, good,” the other man says. “I hope we can resume our poker games soon.”

I want to punch him in the face, because it’s clearly a lie. He was one of the first men to stop answering Dad’s phone calls once the scandal broke. And even if Dad were able to sit upright at a poker table, he wouldn’t have anything to gamble.

This is the kind of bullshit that I always hated, but it strikes a little harder when it’s directed at my family.

“Of course,” I say, teeth clenched. Apparently, that’s become my go-to answer when what I really want to say is go to hell, asshole.

Yoongi smiles as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. There’s something I want to show Mr. Park.”

A firm hand on my lower back guides me deeper toward the atrium. We’re not even two feet away when I hear those bastards snickering about the things Min Yoongi is going to show me.

“I hate them,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

Yoongi pulls me along, his voice almost droll as he adds, “Fcuking sycophants.”

I glance at him in surprise. “I thought they were your friends.”

“No wolves are anybody’s friends. This is a world where the strong feeds on the weak If your father thought otherwise, that was his mistake.”

My jaw clenches hard because he’s right. I hate that he’s right. Kim Taehyung breaks from a group of men and lopes over to us, all casual confidence.

He’s wearing a different three-piece suit, this one with tiny gold fleurs-de-lis stitched into the blue fabric.

“Good evening. And here I thought to worry about you, Jimin. But you look radiant.”

Radiant? I manage a thin smile.

“Thank you.”

Taehyung leans close. “How is Yoongi treating you? Tell me honestly.”

The sparkle in his eye says it’s more filthy curiosity than concern for me. Yoongi makes a low growling noise that has Taehyung chuckling. They’re more like sharks, I realize. Sharp teeth. A taste for blood. And I’m wounded.

“Is Jihyo here?” I ask, hoping Kang Daniel likes the theatre.

I could use more of her advice. These men might be sharks, but she’s learned how to tame them.

“No,” Taehyung says with a smirk. “I think this is past her bedtime.”

A woman waved to Yoongi—a tall and leggy blonde I didn’t recognize. I wanted to think her makeup was trashy or her dress too revealing, but she looked perfect.

I hated that Yoongi gave us a curt, “Excuse me a moment,” before going to speak with her. I tried not to shoot daggers with my eyes. I had no right to be jealous. But my wolf feels restless.

I’m agitated.

No desire to be jealous.

This was a business arrangement, however cold that felt. And after a month I can go to my soulmate Namjoon and live my happily ever afters with him.

“So how is he really treating you?” Taehyung asks, his voice mild.

“Fine,” I say tightly, pretending not to watch the way the woman touches Yoongi’s arm. I look up at the balcony instead, catching a few people staring at me.

“Don’t tell me I need to ride to your rescue. I’d hate to have to return my percentage of the money. And my armour is all rusty.”

My laugh feels raw, my eyes strangely stinging. “No, I’m fine. I guess I should thank you. If you hadn’t done all that I’d have lost my family’s house.”

He ducks his head, looking almost boyish. “I’d say anytime, but I guess we already popped the cork on that champagne bottle.”

A startled laugh bursts out of me.

What a comparison.

If I had to be champagne at least I’m a bottle of Moët et Chandon, the kind Dad got for my graduation party. Of course, technically the cork hasn’t popped. My cheeks heat with the realization. “Right.”

“I have to admit I was a bit nervous when Yoongi suggested the auction. And definitely when he bid on you. But it seems like it’s working out.”

Why was he nervous about me with Yoongi?

Another head turns in my direction, only to quickly look away when we make eye contact.

“Everyone’s staring at me.”

He scans the room. “To be fair, they’d do that for anyone on Yoongi’s arm.”

“But they know. At least some of them have to know about the auction. So many people were there. And that’s not even counting the pictures.”

Taehyung quirks a brow. “Pictures? What pictures?”

“You know, the pictures you took to generate interest for the auction. The photographer at the Inferna.”

There’s a long pause where he looks quizzical. He speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “There weren’t any pictures, Jimin.”

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