C14 - Soul-ed MATE

There’s a long pause where he looks quizzical. He speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “There weren’t any pictures, Jimin. Yoongi said you bailed on him, that you couldn’t go through with the shoot. Is that true?”

My heart thuds, a worried beat.

Why did he lie?

No one saw those pictures. I try to keep the relief from my face. No one except for Min Yoongi.

“Yes.”

The corner of Taehyung’s mouth turns up. “No, I guess I’m not worried about you.”

Just then Yoongi returns to us, his mouth set in a hard line.

Taehyung takes the opportunity to slip away, giving us a jovial wave. “Now I have more people to talk to, more men who desperately want to part with their money.” Taehyung strides away, waving to another group of people. He’s clearly using this evening for business.

Is that what Yoongi is doing?

Except he doesn’t seem interested in talking to anyone but me.

‘And he lied about the pictures.’ My omega celebrates.

“Hey, If you want to mingle too, you don’t have to tag me along,” I say.

He cocks his brow. “Why would I want to mingle?”

“I don’t know. Business.” A shrug.

“For the same reason Taehyung’s here.”

“He’s here because he’s interested in a certain dancer in the show. And I

don’t do business at the theatre.”

“Where do you do business, then? A back alley?”

As soon as the words leave my lips, I wish I could take them back. That’s not an arrow I meant to fling. And no one gets away with insulting Min Yoongi like that.

He laughs softly. “What makes you think I’m a criminal?”

But then this is Min Yoongi, who values honesty above everything. And I remember what Hoseok told me, that he would be honest with me too. He might evade the question, he might refuse to answer, but whatever he said would be the truth.

“You’re friends with Kim Taehyung.”

“Ah, that.” Yoongi quirks his trimmed eyebrows.

“And you’re a member of the Inferna.” I add.

“A founding member, actually,” Yoongi says. “But your father did business with me. How bad can I be?”

His tone is blithe because we both know that my father was involved in a lot of underhanded dealings. I’d never have guessed it, but it all came out in court. The bribes, the dummy corporations.

God. Of course Min Yoongi managed to keep his name completely out of court documents, only supplying the evidence that the prosecutor needed to begin his investigation.

I take a step forward, moving out of range of his hand. Then I turn to the window, looking out over the city. A storm has crept across the skyscrapers, catching the spires and stair-step slopes in its grey net. It will be raining by the time we leave.

“I buy and sell things,” he finally says. “Like most businesses do.”

“What kind of things?”

“Other businesses, mostly.”

But not entirely.

“Drugs. Guns?”

“If the money is right, anything is for sale.” He shrugs his shoulders non-chalantly.

“People?”

“I bought you, didn’t I?”

His presence is warm and solid behind me, making sure I don’t escape.

Or keeping everyone else away?

I’m not sure, but I know that he’s not here to make my life easier. He’s here to use me, exactly as he said he would. To show everyone how low Mr. Park, my father has fallen, that even his own son is ruined.

“What did my father buy from you, anyway?” I say, bitterness tinging my voice.

“I bought something from him, actually.”

I turn in surprise, forgetting to hide my face. “You did?”

I never knew the details of the transaction that ruined everything. That wasn’t part of the court case. But it was common knowledge in the city. Min Yoongi made sure of that.

“His shipping company. It was failing, and he was looking for a buyer. I met with him a few times. My lawyers met with his. We made an offer. He accepted.”

My eyes widen. “No.”

Dad owned several businesses, but his international shipping business was the largest one. His bread and butter. The bulk of his wealth. It had been in trouble, even before the mess with Min Yoongi.

I don’t want to believe that, because he should have told me. I should have known. Yoongi watches the clouds, his golden eyes reflecting the rolling darkness.

“Only after the papers were signed, did I find out he had secretly sold off the company’s most valuable assets to other holding corporations, thus rendering my purchase almost worthless.”

My mouth drops open. Nothing Dad did should surprise me anymore, but somehow it still does. After all the lectures he gave me about integrity and family pride. I had come to see him as ten feet tall, some kind of paragon of morality.

“How?” I manage.

He shrugs. “A dollar sale here. Twenty-five cents for million-dollar property there. He’s not the first man to try and cheat me. He won’t be the last, though less will try now that they’ve seen what happens.”

I swallow hard because I don’t want to think of how many lives were ruined. “There wasn’t anything you could do?”

His smile looks feral, more like a snarl. “Oh, there were plenty of options. I could have contested the deal in court—and won.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It wouldn’t have been enough. I could have had him killed for what he did.”

My stomach tightens. Someone almost killed him one night, but they left him alive.

He continues, “Death would have made him a martyr, though. I wanted him alive. Alive and suffering, so that everyone in the city would see what happens to someone who fcuks with Mins.”

“Is that why you brought me here?”

We both know the answer is yes. He smiles faintly. I see the reflection in the window, overlaid on the stormy clouds.

“You play chess. Surely you know the many uses of a pawn.”

I flinch because I know exactly what I am to him. It’s my role in this game: to fall when the time is right, to protect the king until I’ve run out of time. To sacrifice myself at the perfect turn.

“The city is beautiful like this, held down by the sky,” he murmurs.

But when I glance at his reflection, it’s not the city he’s looking at.

It’s me.

!!~~~~!!

Any hope of escaping the spotlight fades when he leads me up the stairs, away from the mezzanine seating and toward the boxes. Our seats give us a perfectly clear view of the stage, a drama lover’s dream.

Unfortunately, they also give everyone in the theatre a perfect view of us. I pretend not to see people craning their necks to look at us. Yoongi is every inch the gentleman as he waits for me to sit in the plush velvet chair before taking his seat beside me.

The lights dim, but that doesn’t mean the whispering stops. I can feel their curious gazes crawling over my skin. That’s kind of the point. I may as well have my wrists in metal chains rather than a golden bracelet. He might as well grab my hair and drag me around rather than lead gently with a hand at the small of my back. That’s how clearly he’s subjugating me in front of everyone. That’s how strong the message is.

He owns me. He made it clear that he’s my enemy, if I still had any doubt. I’m the pawn, and he’s my triumphant captor. And yet there are those moments of tenderness that I can’t quite turn away from. Drops of water that I’m thirsty enough to drink.

Like the pictures he hadn’t given to Kim Taehyung to share.

The play captures my attention from the first song, and I’m soon lost in the aching distance between Eliza and Henry. She’s brash and beautiful, her accent both foreign and endearing. Of course, he strips her of it, attempting to turn her into a more desirable woman. And so comes to desire her. Except what remains of the woman that she had been?

If you have to change to be loved, then how much is that love worth?

I don’t know who would be my Professor Higgins—Namjoon, who wanted the perfect society mate? Or Min Yoongi, who wants a sexual slave?

In the end neither one of them fit the bill, because neither of them love me. They can want me, they can fcuk me. But they don’t love me. The curtain falls for intermission.

Yoongi stands and holds out his hand. “Come. I did have something to show you earlier.”

I bite back a hundred sarcastic comments—that I would just as soon not be strutted around like a trophy he’s won, that I have no interest in seeing what he’s packing.

Instead, I place my hand in his. This time when he leads me into the atrium, he ignores the hands that rise in his direction as people try to speak to him. This time he doesn’t let me turn away to the window.

I gasp when I see it, only the top right corner of oil on canvas. As we get closer I read the placard standing at the velvet rope. A painting by Park Seojoon of Eros and Psyche, on loan from the Metropolitan museum of Art for opening night only.

I forget for a moment that I despise Min Yoongi and his public ownership of me.

“Can we go in?”

Amusement dances in his eyes. “I thought you might refuse to come with me for intermission.”

Because I thought he wanted to do something dirty.

Not this.

“Please.”

He nods at the attendant, who unhooks the chain on the velvet rope. As we enter, the crowd clears out almost immediately.

I’m not sure why we’re allowed to look at the painting almost exclusively, even for a moment, but I’m not going to question it. There’s security on either side of the painting, no doubt required by the museum. But they’re standing at a distance, outside the ropes.

Right beside the painting is a woman in chino slacks and a white button-down shirt. It’s a somewhat casual dress for the opening night, but it’s clear from her stance, her hands in her pockets, that she isn’t a guest.

She’s here to speak about the painting, but she isn’t a docent.

“Hello,” she says kindly. “Please let me know if you have any questions.”

I want her to tell me everything.

“Can you tell me about the scene?” Her eyes light up as she describes the creation of the painting by Seojoon—a series of paintings, actually, each viewing Eros and the statue of Psyche and the blindfold on her eyes covered in stars embracing from a different angles.

I was always a huge fan of Park Seojoon’s art and knowing that his paintings, murals and sculptures are being exhibited here under the name ‘Rare Bones’ had my interest pique.

“Why did he make so many paintings?” I hadn’t known about the paintings, actually. I only knew about his sculptures.

“He believed it was a hackneyed subject, Eros and Psyche. He wanted to revive them, to find something new about them. All of the paintings focus on the moment when she came to the palace of Eros.”

“Why the psyche is wearing a blindfold?”

“It’s like this only to not turn the painting all black because whatever happened between them was everything in dark.” She explained.

“So, he was painting his sculpture?”

She smiles. “You know he sculpted her too?”

I flush, because a year ago I would have mentioned that I’m majoring in ancient mythology. Now I’m just someone who used to read a lot of books.

“Mythology’s an interest of mine.”

From her pants pocket she produces a business card.

“Mine as well. If you’d like to chat about it, you can always shoot me an e-mail.”

My eyes widen as I read the card.

Professor of Classics at the UNAM, Universidad Nacional Autónoma De México.

“Wow.”

Her shrug is somehow not modest at all, which is endearing. “My focus is more on the ancient history represented in the painting, rather than nineteenth century Victorian art.”

I feel unbearably hungry for any knowledge she can give me. I went from a waterfall of intellectual stimulation in college to a veritable desert in a large empty house.

“What are you working on now?”

“I just got back from Cyprus actually. Studying the moss in Nicosia for clues about diet and disease in ancient times. We’re still working through the samples in the lab.”

“You’re my new favourite person,” I say, clutching the card like it’s a lifeline. “I’m going to write you. And look you up and read every paper you’ve ever written.”

She laughs. “I have a few stacks of journals in my office I could give you if you’re interested.”

“I’d sell my soul for them,” I say, fairly seriously.

I try not to think about the fact that I’ve already sold my soul—or at least, my body—for a million dollars. Or the fact that the buyer is standing two feet behind me, watching the entire exchange.

Is he silently laughing at me, like the men at the auction?

As if all my curiosity, my accomplishments are a big joke for the men around me?

And I can’t even argue the point, because I’m the one on the platform. I’m the one for sale.

The professor launches into a story about her coworker’s unfortunate encounter with a flock of rogue wolves during their last trip, and I’m distracted from my own disgrace.

!!~~~~!!

As we’re heading up the stairs, I realize he’s taking a different path to the box. Except we’re not heading toward the box anymore.

“Yoongi?”

He pushes open a door to a dark room and turns to face me.

“After you?” My eyes are wide as I take in the strange shapes of shadows inside.

Props.

This is some kind of storage room for theatre equipment. We aren’t supposed to be in here. And there’s only one reason Min Yoongi would want to take me somewhere private.

There’s a tremble reserved only for him, only for sex. I know it’s going to happen between us. A thousand different positions, a million different ways.

And all of that before he even takes me, strictly speaking. Knowing it’s inevitable doesn’t take away the fear.

How much will it hurt?

How much will he make it hurt, on purpose, to humiliate me?

“Inside, Virgin lily.”

He has infinite patience even though intermission only lasts for fifteen minutes.

How many did we spend at the painting? Five minutes? Ten?

He doesn’t look rushed, though. He looks like a man assured of his power, a king standing at the back of the board of chess while his subjugates fight the war.

I step inside, breathing in the scent of cedar and linen. And something else, something metallic. Maybe rust. There’s a collection of strange things in this room. I can make out the shape of an oak tree in the corner, its limbs spreading wide.

On the other side there’s a row of bleachers, like a high school football game would have. A tepee and a lemonade stand. Yoongi closes the door, draining even that faint bit of light. He stands behind me, a solid presence.

Unyielding.

“No stairs this time,” I whisper.

He moves me as if he can see in the dark. I’m blind, blinking into the blackness, dust stinging my eyes.

God, what if we run into something?

What if we trip and fall?

But his hands guiding my arms are firm and sure, his movements focused on a single goal. When I finally feel something plush and unmoving hit the front of my thighs, he stops.

A large hand covers my back. Then he pushes me forward. I’m bent over something rounded. My hands feel smooth leather and tufted buttons.

A sofa.

The sloping kind that a psychiatrist would use. My ass is in the air, completely vulnerable to him, something that becomes painfully clear when he flips up my dress. Large hands smooth over my panties before tugging them down.

So, that’s why he made me wear a gown. For a quickie. Will I lose my virginity for a quickie in some rustic room.

This is happening so quickly, too quickly. My breathing comes faster and faster. The dust fills my lungs. I’m going to suffocate like this.

Oh God.

“Breathe,” he says, his hands stroking my sides.

I’m a horse and this is my flank. It’s embarrassing how well it works, how easily I calm under his touch. Some people have that effect, I’ve heard. Some instinct that tells us we can trust them. My very own virgin whisperer.

Except that instinct is a lie. This man bought me at auction for one purpose only: to break me.

My breathing has calmed, and I lay my cheek against the cool leather.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, his voice a hushed whisper. “This isn’t going to hurt. So afraid of pain, aren’t you? Why do you always expect the worst, bluebell?”

‘Because you’re a monster!’ I think.

Is he, though?

The time on the spiral staircase didn’t hurt. Maybe every time will be like that—intimate and filthy. And pleasurable, yes. He made me climax so hard I felt it for hours.

All night long.

He’s saving my wolf for last, though. And like he said, I play chess. I know how to move the pieces around the board, plotting and planning for the final strike.

How to lull your opponent into a false sense of security.

Or like he so eloquently put it: how to use a pawn.

It will hurt in the end. That’s the only way he wins. And a man like Min Yoongi never loses. He runs his hand over my bare ass, gentle and sure.

“The cuts. That one really did a number on you, associating sex with pain.” He gives a rough laugh. “And I thought I was kinky.”

I flinch in the dark, because what Dad did wasn’t kinky. It couldn’t have been kinky, because it involved his son. He did it to me.

“He was trying to protect me.”

Two fingers slip between my legs, seeking the sleek in my hole. And my hole is wet like a sea filled with my pleasure.

“And how did that work out?”

Horribly, since he’s now. I press my lips together, fighting back a moan. But his fingers are relentless and skillful, playing me until I’m panting, whimpering. “Oh my God!”

“That’s right,” he whispers. “It doesn’t have to hurt. All you have to do is give in.”

I can’t give in. Giving in means living in the Labyrinth, losing, dying here. It means letting go of the string that’s my only way out. Maybe my Dad did mess me up.

The masturbation.

Waiting for my soulmate’s touch.

Waiting to get married.

But since the auction it’s been Min Yoongi messing with my mind, making me want things I shouldn’t.

“Please.”

“I ought to spank you for this, for fighting me.”

“I’m not fighting,” I say, my jaw tight. Of course, he’s right. I’m fighting him, but not with punches or kicks. I’m fighting to maintain hold of my sanity.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A spanking? I could bruise you for days. Then you could paint me as the big bad Alpha.”

I hear a zipper from behind, but his hand on my hole doesn’t pause. “I’ll just have to make you cum instead.”

A chime sounds from far away, signalling that intermission is almost over.

“We have to go,” I gasp out, pushing to get up. He doesn’t even have to hold me down. It’s only his fingers that keep me pinned to that sofa. It’s merciless, the way he moves them.

Not too hard, not painful.

He knows that wouldn’t work. Instead, he’s patient, endlessly patient, while my body winds tighter and tighter. All my muscles clench, bearing down on the arm of the sofa, rocking against his hand. I couldn’t touch myself as my whole body is embraced on my arms. He is relentless against me.

I want this despite myself, and his low baritone laugh tells me that’s the point. I feel something else, a rocking motion in time with my own.

His hand, I realize.

He’s jerking himself off. At the same time that he circles inside my cavern, the same tempo.

It will be like this when he’s inside me.

Even then I can’t cum, my body tearing itself apart. It hurts like this, and I’d rather come just to finish it. My muscles are spasming, mouth open on a helpless, silent scream. My cock straining shaking with my body.

“Cum, Virgin lily,” he says, his voice choked. After a few more strokes, I cum untouched and he groans so loud, I feel myself getting hard again. There’s a splash of something hot on the backs of my thighs.

His cum.

The orgasm overtakes me like a tidal wave, turning me upside down, filling my nose with saltwater, making everything dark blue and blurred.

I tumble with no idea which way the surface is, my lungs burning with the need to breathe. When I break the surface, Yoongi has collapsed on top of me.

He pants into my hair, muttering, “Jesus. Fcuk.”

My hands are fists against the leather, which is slick with our sweat. The smell of sex scents the air, like ocean water and dark spice. We remain moulded together like clay, breathing together, coming back to life together. He pushes up and uses something—a handkerchief?—to wipe his cum from my legs.

Even when I stand, I can feel the hardening residue of him there.

I’m marked. There’s only a few frantic seconds to pull up my panties and push down my gown. A few stones scattered on the ground from his roughness.

Then he’s opening the door.

I emerge like some newborn deer, unsteady on my legs, blinking at the blinding sun after being in the womb. I would have collapsed on that thin magenta carpet except for his hand around my waist, his other under my elbow.

My cock is so hard that it hurts.

We pass a man, and I duck my head, trying not to meet his eyes. Until I hear his voice sounding strangely familiar. “Well, Yoongi. Look at you making good use of your purchase.”

I look up to see the grey-haired man who’d had a beautiful blonde on his arm at the auction. Today it’s a different woman, this one with glossy auburn hair.

How many different women does he buy? He smiles at me, knowing and cruel. Shame curdles my stomach.

“Evening,” Yoongi says, guiding me past him up the stairs.

The show has already started. They shouldn’t even let us into the theatre now. It’s against the rules. But of course this is Min Yoongi.

He owns a box.

An usher opens the door and gives a polite smile, as if we aren’t dishevelled and panting, smelling of sex as we stumble into the space. I take my seat as quickly as possible, but there’s no avoiding the stares and whispers.

They interrupt the lovely ballroom dance that’s happening onstage. I stare at the whirling people, the oversize decorum as if I have no idea that everyone’s talking about us.

Finally, I chance a glance at Yoongi. He’s leaning back in his seat, slouched like a king surveying his subjects. He looks satisfied but still dangerous.

A lion in the jungle.

Anyone who looks at him like this would know that he just had sex. Maybe not literal sex, but close enough. But then they’d know that from just looking at me.

A little bird in a gilded cage.

Why keep one except to hear it sing?

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