C40 - Soul-ed MATE

PARK JIMIN

A month later...

According to Hesiod, when Prometheus stole fire from heaven, Zeus, the king of the gods, took vengeance by presenting Pandora to Prometheus' brother Epimetheus. Pandora opened a jar left in her care containing sickness, death and many other unspecified evils which were then released into the world.

I pause with my hands on the keyboard, studying my words. Like taking a breath after too long underwater, I’m back at school.

I have two correspondence classes, this one Gender in Classical Greek Literature.

An analysis of the first reading assignment is due tomorrow :

The woman signifies more than the punished; she’s the punishment itself, retribution for events that occurred before her conception. Blame without agency is a central theme for women in Greek literature.

The other class I’m taking is Subjectivity and the Crisis of Morality. At first, it seemed like a stark contrast to study the breakdown of traditional customs while studying an ancient civilization.

Then again, who better embodies negativistic arbitrariness than the Greek gods?

They acted on impulse, creating lives and destroying them, rewarding and punishing on a whim. Vengeful and cruel, without the inherent gifts of morality imbued on other modern deities. Gifting humanity with a beautiful woman only to condemn them for her eventual curiosity.

At ten o’clock Yoongi still hasn’t returned.

I wander to the window. A full moon lights up the maze of hedges, the line of trees beyond.

Kim Yongdae might be in those trees. He might be anywhere.

My eyelids are heavy, but I’m afraid to sleep.

A stream of cheery notes startles me.

My phone.

HS : Please tell me you’re having wild sex right now.

Thank God for Hoseok.

A reprieve from the nightmares. And he’s one of my only links to the outside world now that I’m trapped here.

I flop onto the large bed, plush and utterly cold without Yoongi. The estate is large and so very lonely. Coursework is a good distraction from the fact that I can’t actually leave.

After the fire and the creepy switched painting of my mother, I know there are real dangers outside these walls. But I also can’t help but long for a simple trip to a coffee shop, a walk in the park.

How persistent is the danger?

How serious is the threat to me, specifically?

I can’t shake the feeling that Yoongi isn’t telling me everything.

I type back.

JM : Why would I be on my phone if I’m having wild sex?

HS : Lie to me.

JM: I need to live vicariously through you.

HS: A snort. Good luck with that.

JM: I’m stuck in Yoongi’s fancy house.

HS: At least you have a hot ass coming to service you every night.

My cheeks heat. Yoongi certainly makes the most of the time we spend in this bed together. It’s almost enough. And then every day he leaves before it grows light.

It’s like he’s a dream, something I made up to ease the loneliness of this prison.

JM: What about your harem of frat boys?

HS: Dry spell.

I’m not sure how he can run out of boys with two different colleges within driving distance.

There are parties every night, some huge and boisterous, some private and exclusive. And Hoseok always goes.

JM: ???????????

I send him a long line of question marks, nothing else. There’s a pause when I think he might not respond. Our conversations sometimes end this way, fading and then starting where we left off the next day.

I try to imagine him in his dorm room with its small desk and the WWII poster of Jaemin he hung above his bed. If he’s not heading to a party, he would be dressed in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, like most of the others on the floor. Not like my lace nightgown, one of many that magically appear in my drawer each day.

Yoongi loves to rip them off me, to literally rip the fabric with his bare hands. He ruins them with a ferocity I feel in me, as if my flesh is made of satin, as if he’s tearing me apart.

I’ve grown addicted to ruin.

Another little bleep from my phone.

HS: They seem so young.

JM: Even when they’re grad students.

HS: What’s happening to me?

I want to tell him either he’s in love with his stepbrother, or in hate with him. I understand how thin that line can be now that I’ve lived it myself. It consumes you, leaving no room for other men.

Definitely no room for boys.

Instead, I type,

JM: Maybe you’re growing up.

HS: You’re right. It’s time I find a sugar Daddy.

That makes me laugh. He’s richer than God, thanks to a Dad who ran stock market and a mom who married three other men like him.

And his stepbrother, Minho, makes sure their large room of gold keeps growing. I send him an emoji of an eggplant and a pot of gold.

He replies with a stream of water droplets, a little pink bow, and what appears to be a judge’s gavel.

I’m a little afraid to ask for clarification. We go back and forth for a while, which is a nice consolation for the fact that I’m basically alone.

Somewhere Mrs. B will be cooking or cleaning. Guards will be guarding, but I don’t want them.

I’m alone all day and late into the night, when Yoongi always returns.

HS: Good night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite, unless his name is Min Yoongi.

My lips quirk as I set the phone aside, closing my eyes for only a moment. As prisons go, there isn’t a more beautiful one, a more luxurious one than this. It’s built like an old French chateau, but recently enough that it has every modern convenience.

Unlike my mother’s house with its secret passageways and its hidden horrors, Yoongi’s mansion has state-of-the-art security. Already he had the points of entry monitored—the windows, the doors.

That was how he knew when Namjoon came to my window that one time.

Now he’s added the nightcrawler element, as he calls it. Armed guards that patrol the perimeter. It seems like overkill. Or it would if I hadn’t seen firsthand what Kim Yongdae is capable of.

I trust Yoongi. I believe that no one can get inside. That knowledge doesn’t stop the nightmares.

Flames lick my skin. Smoke curls around me, stinging my eyes. From far away I can hear my mother calling.

“Jimin! Stay there! Whatever you do, stay inside!”

I can’t stay inside. I can’t breathe here. The doorknob burns my skin. I yank my hand away.

“Little Park Jimin, all grown up.”

The voice comes from behind me. It’s Yoongi. I whirl, but there’s nothing there. Only fire. Only smoke. I stumble back, hitting the door. There’s no way out.

A scream erupts from my throat.

!!~~~~!!

I come awake with blinding suddenness, the lamp on the nightstand abnormally bright, my heart pounding as if I have been running instead of lying down.

I must have fallen asleep.

My phone screen comes alight.

Midnight.

The last part sounded so real, it feels like someone else is in the room with me. It’s not the first time I’ve heard a voice in the walls, but it’s the first time it sounded like Yoongi.

Little Park Jimin, all grown up.

Then again, he said that to me. Maybe it was just a memory. Maybe it was just a dream.

That’s what I decide.

A dream.

I can’t be going crazy, can’t deal with the doubt that my mother faced. Can’t surrender to the dark waters that lap at my mind, ones that threaten to drown me. The room looks like it did before, bathed in soft light, my laptop screen dark.

The bedcovers are barely rumpled from where I slept on them.

Empty.

Yoongi isn’t here.

I’m tempted to text him, but something draws me back to the window. And there he is, standing on the marble veranda. He’s taken off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves. Wind moves softly through his hair, hiding the angles of his face.

I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize I’m not dressed for the outdoors. The pale blue shirt barely reaches my thigh. The magnetic pull of him compels me to the balcony.

I’m desperate enough for any company right now, after all day alone, but there’s something about Yoongi. Something about the set of his shoulders, the solitary silhouette of him, that tells me he needs me. He doesn’t turn when I step outside, but I know he hears me.

It’s strange, the way his senses are finely honed. Something you would expect from an alpha on hunt or the sharp sense a predator has.

It was a kind of war, the way he grew up in a bagnio, forced to fight far too young. The streets of

Daegu have seen blood spilled.

Is that what happened tonight?

Is that why he vibrates with dark tension?

I slide my hands across his back, smoothing away the invisible ripples. He’s pure muscle beneath my touch, strung as tight as I was after my nightmare. Except that had been a dream.

“What happened?” I ask softly, resting my cheek against his back.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

A sigh catches in my throat. He tries to protect me, but at what cost?

“I won’t break, you know. If you let me in. If you tell me what’s happening. I might even be able to sleep better.” He turns suddenly, capturing my arms with his large hands. “You had another one?”

A nightmare.

Sometimes I wake him up with my thrashing, with my cries. He looks haunted when he finally shakes me awake, his voice hoarse as if he had been afraid, too.

They make me feel weak, those dreams, as if I’m really a fragile pawn. That’s how Yoongi treats me.

I’m terrified he might be right. I shrug, taking his place at the balcony, the curved stone cool against my palms. I would rather pretend it was a nightmare than a hallucination. That’s what drove my mother to her death.

His chest shields my back, warming me despite the chill in the air.

He presses his face into my hair, breathing deep before he speaks. “It’s always been a fight.”

I don’t think he’s talking about his friend. “You seem different, though. More tense.”

“Because you’re here now,” he says, voice low.

“I don’t understand why Kim Yongdae even cares about me.”

“He doesn’t need a reason. Every once in a while a man like him climbs out of his hole to snatch someone pure, someone rich, just to prove he can. And then with your history…”

A shiver runs through me. “My mother.”

I read the end of the diary, the part where my mother recognized that Yongdae was playing mind games. She went to confront him that night, not to run away with him like my father assumed.

“Maybe he really did care about her,” Yoongi says, his voice distant. “Someone like him, he’ll always destroy what he cares about most. A man just like me.”

My breath hitches. “Not like you. You’re protecting me.”

His hands tighten on my arms. “Is it protection to keep a flower in the dark, away from water and light? To watch it wilt in front of your eyes? No one else can see it.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“No one can ever take it away.”

I try to turn, to face him, but he holds me in place. I can see only the perfectly manicured hedges holding up an inky night sky. “I’m not wilting.”

“You’re not happy, bluebell. Locked up in your tower.”

“Then let me out,” I beg softly. “Let me come with you, at least. I’ll be safe with you.”

His hesitation gives me hope. “Kim Yongdae isn’t the only danger. He has dark connections. Foreign ones. His power diminished over the years, and for a while he seemed content to operate in the shadows.”

A shiver runs through me. “And now?”

“He wants to rule the city again.”

My throat tightens, and I face him. “Namjoon turned away from his father. He told me he’s working with someone who wants to beat him, someone with deep pockets.”

Yoongi’s expression darkens. “Selling secrets?”

“He did it for me,” I say softly. “So that he could buy us a new life. I should warn him.”

Danger sharpens the air around us. “No, bluebell. Whatever he got into, that’s on his head. He either understood what they were doing or he’s too stupid to help.”

I turn away, looking out over the darkness. There’s no point in arguing. Anything I say will only convince him that I still love Namjoon…and I do, in an innocent way.

He was my soulmate and Yoongi and I are...stalemates.

I’m his purchased love. His Soldmate.

I may not want to marry him anymore, but I still care what happens to him.

Yoongi captures my chin, lifting my face. “You miss Namjoon?”

“I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Yongdae already took my mother. My mother’s house. And it feels like the fire still rages, burning everything in its path. Only a matter of time until it reaches me.

“A lot of people will get hurt,” Yoongi says gently. “That’s the nature of war.” Fear must show on my face, because he brushes his thumb over my cheek. “The important thing is that we win. Then you’ll be able to leave here.”

Will that ever happen?

Wars like this never really end.

A fist clenches my heart. I know there’s something a little dark about the way Yoongi locks me away, a little foreboding, but I’m too glad to have someone who cares enough to do it.

Too afraid that I need the protection my mother didn’t get. She left that night to confront Kim Yongdae, even though she must have known what he was capable of.

Wasn’t she scared?

Did she think he wouldn’t hurt her?

It’s a blind trust that can only come from love. It makes me wonder if I have the same fatal flaw. Except it isn’t Kim Yongdae who could hurt me. It’s the one keeping me locked here.

“Tell me, Yoongi. What would happen if I walked out the front door?”

“Try it,” he says softly, but it doesn’t sound like an invitation. It sounds like a warning.

“Am I your prisoner?”

“If you want something, only ask. If you dream of something, I’ll find it for you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t bring you.”

That means yes, which is disturbing. And strangely comforting. To have every wish granted as long as I don’t leave.

What man would leave that paradise?

What man would stay?

Maybe that’s the curse my mother and I share—to bat our wings against the cage, relentless in the pursuit of freedom.

Only, the true danger lies when we find a way out.

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