C42 - Soul-ed MATE

It’s hard to focus on the lecture streaming on my tablet when I know I get to go out tonight.

This one is about Prodicus’s ‘The Choice of Heracles’. The judgement of Hercules  is an ancient Greek parable attributed to Prodicus and known as Xenophon. It concerns young Hercules or Heracles who was offered Vice and Virtue-a life of pleasure or hardship.

The popular view of Rome includes carrousels in the public baths, but women of stature covered most of their faces. The veils symbolized modesty but also appear in scenes of seduction. That dichotomy portrays women as both demure and lustful, both submissive and destructive.

There are two pages of scrawled notes by the time the professor gives us a reading assignment. In the past week I would have immediately opened my books, eager to begin.

Today I bolt upstairs for the shower, determined to make the most of my brief despoil outside. The bath bombs I use are imported from Bulgaria, made from roses grown by the family farms.

There is a story about Bulgarian roses. They are only to be pluck out by women and not anyone with masculine traits.

And there is a time for them too—when the first ray of the sun hit the land. It gives out a specific smell of femineity. A smell that can strike thousands of roses aside.

Yoongi sometimes tells me I smell like Bulgarian rose.

The scent makes me feel grown-up, alluring, so different from the strawberry shampoo I used initially or the discount body wash I had at the motel.

I love it, but I also hate it—the way it feels like a dream. All my clothes, all my things. All the nights in bed with Min Yoongi. I could wake up tomorrow, unable to return.

My throat feels scratchy, a physical reminder of the nightmares. Wrapping myself in one of the oversize white towels, I pad across the warm tile to the closet.

There are more clothes than I could ever wear.

Elaborate gowns and comfy pants.

A sound from the hallway draws my attention.

I gasp, pressing the towel to my damp skin.

It’s only Mrs. B, her eyes averted, looking flushed and embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, out of breath. “This came for you earlier, but you were in the shower.”

She holds a bag from a high-end department store, black with an emblem engraved on the side. She sets it down on the carpet and flees from the room as if it contains something dangerous.

Snakes.

Maybe a bomb.

Instead, I find a red outfit that will bring out the flecks in my hazel eyes. It fits my body like a second skin, perfectly smooth over my torso, the pants fitting my waist properly.

I feel like an old-world actor, Jang Donghyun if he had dirty blond hair. I use the hair dryer to fold in curls, making my hair wavy. I add a swipe of cherry-red chapstick to complete the look.

Little Park Jimin, all grown up.

“Gorgeous,” comes the low murmur. I whirl to see Yoongi standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

How long has he been there?

His expression is severe—the way it has been every time he returns, doing whatever dark things he has to while he searches for Kim Yongdae, the things he never quite explains.

But his eyes are bright with hunger. “I want to take it off you.”

He crosses the room, and I back up. It’s a natural reaction, done without thought—the movement of prey away from my predator. And for once I don’t want to be devoured.

The prospect of going out is too appealing.

“After dinner.”

He prowls closer, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Not many people tell me no.”

“I’m not many people and I’m not saying no. I’m saying...later.”

A low laugh. “Not many people tell me that either.”

I raise my chin. There’s only so long I can stay inside these walls. Even he knows that. I’m desperate enough to do anything. Even defy him.

“Well, I’m telling you. And that’s final.”

He grasps my hair and pulls. “I should make you go to dinner naked for speaking to me that way.”

My stomach clenches. The worst part is that he could probably make me like it. There’s no middle ground with him.

No compromise.

It’s all or nothing.

“No.”

His hold tightens, dragging my head back, exposing my neck. Like the predator that he is, he lowers his mouth to my throat. The edges of his teeth drag over the tender skin.

A whimper escapes me. His hands undone the first button with fluidity.

“We’ll wait,” he murmurs. “Though you might regret it, in the end. When you fight, it only makes me harder. Rougher. And you’ll have to take it, however much it hurts.”

Yoongi places a soft kiss at my collarbone before releasing me, his large hands smoothing my hair.

“You have five minutes,” he says. “I’m going to make a phone call. Then we’re leaving.”

He turns toward the door, giving me privacy.

Leaving.

The word echoes in my gut, half euphoria, half dread.

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

“We’ll be okay, right?”

He stops and faces me. “What?”

“You said we’ll be safe in the Inferna. But what about the restaurant where we’re having dinner?”

A strange expression flickers over his face.

Uncertainty?

It’s such a foreign look for him. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him less than confident, less than commanding.

“I’ll be with you.”

Words catch in my throat. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but I’ve had my protector ripped away from me before. My father had seemed invincible once upon a time.  And it’s the man standing in front of me who tore him down.

I know better than to believe in any one person. The world is too ruthless for that kind of faith. Doubt must show on my face, because Yoongi takes a step closer.

“Do you think I would let someone hurt you?” he asks softly.

“I think you’re not invincible.” Unlike the gods in my mythology books. Even Hercules was a demigod. People had to imagine beings stronger than them to combat the frailty of the human body.

Yoongi doesn’t seem weak. He radiates strength, muscles compact over his body, the white silk of his shirt stretched taut over broad shoulders. He doesn’t seem weak, but that’s the nature of being an alpha wolf.

Mortality. Only feral, flesh and blood. Even his powerful body wouldn’t stand a chance against a blade, against a bullet.

He reaches for me, and I’m startled at how small my hand looks between his two large ones.

I don’t consider myself a frail omega, but I always feel delicate when Yoongi is near me. It must be the way he tempers his force, the mighty paws of a lion with a fragile butterfly perched on top.

His eyes meet mine. “Ask me how many I’ve brought here.”

My mind shies away from the question. “It doesn’t matter.”

He pushes my hand flat to his chest. I can feel the steady beat beneath my palm, the even rise and fall of his breath.

“Ask how many.”

And I know he doesn’t only mean his mansion. He means his heart. I’m more afraid of this answer, because it has the power to break me. More than what happened with my father.

The world is too cold for this kind of hope. The words are barely a breath.

“How many?”

The look in his eyes singes me, burning hot.

“One, Virgin lily. Only one omega ever broke down my walls. Only one ever had that power over me.”

Emotion expands in my chest, filling every centimetre of space between my ribs, expanding outward.  He only pretended that telling him no was a rebellion.

I see that now. The true power I have is to tell him yes.

Yes, I’ll stay with you. You can wrap your chains around me. I may fight you, but you can make me like it.

My fingers close around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him close. That’s all he allows—one inch. He takes over the motion, sweeping down to my mouth, an urgent press, a possessive flick of his tongue.

Then he’s kissing me, opening my mouth to him, holding me still for an urgent exploration.

I feel claimed.

I feel trapped.

I feel safe.

Every stroke of his tongue against mine pushes me deeper. Winds me tighter. Until I’m breathing harder, leaning toward him, a flower to the sun.

He nips my bottom lip, and I make a small sound of surprise. His head lifts, revealing bronze eyes dark with hunger.

 I feel ravenous myself, ready to shed this dress.

“Yoongi,” I gasp. “I need you.”

He gives an unsteady laugh. “Later, bluebell. I promised to make you regret it, and I intend to deliver.”

!~~~~!

Yellow light spills onto the slick streets from the vaulted windows of the Oak Room.

My favorite restaurant.

Excitement strums my nerves.

Except that’s not possible…

The limo slows near the crush of Bentleys and Ferraris, the valet station bustling with alphas in tuxes and female omegas in glittering gowns. It’s a place to see and be seen.

We glide past the awning, golden light glancing across our window and then going dark. Curiosity spikes when we turn a corner into the alley.

I glance at Yoongi, who’s watching me with dark eyes. We pull behind the restaurant, where two men in suits stand on either side of an open door.

The limo slows to a stop, and the driver steps out, but he doesn’t open the back door. He’s a shadow at the side of the car, as if he’s waiting for a signal from inside.

The back entrance.

“They’re expecting us.”

“I called before we left.”

All this from a phone call. My father was lucky to get a reservation a week in advance. That was only due to his wealth and his reputation in the city—before the scandal.

Some of my friends from prep school couldn’t get in at all.

“This was my favorite restaurant. I used to come here with my dad.”

His gaze is steady. “The shrimp cocktail.”

Unease runs through me.

I loved the giant martini glass it came in.

It made me feel grown-up before I could order drinks. “I never saw you.”

“Of course not.”

My eyes narrow. “Then how did you know what I ate?”

A low laugh. “Are you asking if I saw you in secret? If I had an arrangement with the proprietor to let me know when you had reservations?”

I shiver. “Did you?”

He brushes a thumb across my cheek.

“Every time you felt a tickle on the back of your neck, I was there. Every time you felt eyes on you, they were mine. I stood in the shadows and watched you laugh, your smile like goddamn sunlight on my face after being buried alive.”

Anger rushes from me, swift and comforting. “That’s not right.”

“What makes you think I care what’s right?”

Of course, he doesn’t. “You’re keeping me safe. Why? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

His hand shifts to my neck, long fingers gentle against my skin. “So bright. So beautiful. I used to wonder if it would burn to touch you.”

A slight squeeze and I flinch. “Now you know. It doesn’t.”

“Oh, bluebell. You definitely make me burn. And I’m addicted to being into ashes.”

For one breathless moment his fist closes on my neck. Tears sting my eyes. My lungs ache. He leans close and nips my lips.

I don’t feel the sensation of his teeth until he releases me and sits back, the sting sharpened with the sudden inhalation.

I touch my lips.

My hand comes away red.

Blood.

He made me bleed.

And while part of me doesn’t fear him, the other part knows that I should.

“Do you want me to be afraid of you?”

He cocks his head. “Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how I’m keeping you safe.”

I raise my chin, determined not to show him I’m shaking inside. “I’m not afraid.”

“That’s a problem,” he growls. “It would be a mistake for you to trust me.”

“I don’t,” I say, my hand up as if to ward him off. He keeps coming. There’s no space in the limo, no air left. Maybe we do burn, because we’ve used up all the oxygen.

I’m gasping.

“The way you looked at me,” he says. “Like we’re on a date. Like I’m courting you. Like maybe I’ll ask Mr. Park for your hand in marriage, with a big wedding and a tall white cake.”

“That’s not what I think,” I say, but it’s a lie—a horrible lie.

“And you’re not completely wrong. I’m keeping you happy like feeding you treats through the bars of a cage, giving you a nice swing inside. Some colorful toys to play with.”

“Stop it. You want to push me away? Fine. Consider me pushed. You don’t have to hurt my feelings.”

“Yes, that would be contrary to my purposes. I prefer to keep you satisfied so that you’ll smile when I fcuk your tight little hole, so that you’ll hide your face when it hurts too much, bite your lip to keep from crying out. So, you’ll let me hurt you.”

“You’re sick,” I hiss.

“Yes,” he says, reaching for me. “Sick. Deranged. Fcuked in the head.” Animal instinct sends me scrambling out of his grasp. It’s fight-or-flight, and I already know how sharp his claws are.

I pull the door handle, but it’s locked.

How is it locked?

I don’t have time to ponder the question because his hand lands on my shoulder.  That’s the only warning I have before his body cages mine.

My hands scrabble uselessly at the soft leather interior, knees pressed into the plush cushions of the seat. Every wrench of my muscles only pushes me deeper into his grasp.

Yoongi is impossibly hard behind me, around me, breath harsh against my shoulder. “Tell me I’m crazy.”

The word vibrates in my throat, almost formed, not yet sound. It would be so easy to call him that, and God, I wouldn’t be wrong.

What kind of man holds someone down in the back of a limo?

What kind of person keeps one safe by locking them in a tower?

A wicked person.

“I’m crazy,” I gasp instead, because I trust him. “Like crazy.”

Against reason.

Against instinct.

He put his hand around my throat, but I didn’t believe he would hurt me. He groans, his hand moving through fabric of my dress.

A warm caress up my thigh.

A gentle nudge at growing erection, his hands cupping my clothed erection. “So hot.”

He pushes himself into me. That’s when I feel his erection, hard and irrepressible beneath the fabric of his suit.

It’s a brand against me, marking me as his.

I’m possessed by him.

Owned.

As much an object as any woman of ancient Greece—because nothing ever changes, not really. The societies we build, the secrets we hide. Men and women. The gods themselves.

He licks the side of my neck.

It could be soothing, but it inflames me instead. Then he bites down on my skin, and I know that’s what he intended. He wants me to burn as much as he does.

It’s a kind of retribution, a punishment for turning him to ash.

His hands starts rubbing at my hard cock as I gasp for air. I moan when he retreats his hand. As if he was waiting for that, he pulls away.

My dick twitches around nothing.

“Please. Please, Yoongi.”

“That’s right. Beg me. That’s all I want to hear from you. Begging. Crying. I want you broken at my feet.”

“You’re crazy,” I finally whisper, but what I really mean is: I’m crazy.

His hands move faster than my breath. He unzips my flyer and in one swift move my pants were around my ankle followed by the panties.

I didn’t know when he unzipped himself out of his black tuxedo, but I gasp when his naked flesh meets mine.

My reward is his cock—large and hot at my entrance as he pulls me into his lap.

“Again,” he says.

I push back, fighting for him to push in. His large hands hold my hips steady, as easily as if I’m a ragged doll. He moves me when and where he wants me. And right now he wants me to suffer.

“You’re crazy,” I say, and this time I mean it.

He pushes inside me with a violence that pushes me against the inside door of the car. Cool curved glass presses against my cheek.

The smooth wood and leather padding the door cradle my chest. My hole clenches around his cock, shocked anew at the size of him, the width.

He never gives me time to adjust—or maybe it’s not possible. Maybe he wants me small and tight, meant to stretch on every entry, to squeeze him with every twitch.

Isn’t that why anyone would want a virgin omega? So, they can hurt them?

I want you broken at my feet.

“Harder,” I whisper, and I’m not sure who I’m saying it for—him or me.

I’m not sure it matters. We’re the same being when he’s inside me. Moving toward one goal. He pulls back.

There’s a brief moment of respite, a cold reminder of the space he’s claimed.

Then he’s deep inside me, his invasion thorough, his cock pulsing in cruel pleasure.

I release a pent-up sound of grief, but I don’t know whether I want him to stop or start again—whether I could go back to a time when he didn’t use me this way.

My breath leaves a cloud on the window, transient proof of what we’re doing, the only mark we’re leaving on the world outside.

Through the tinted glass I can still see the men in suits, standing at attention.

Waiting.

Guarding.

They must know what’s happening inside.

All of them answer to me.

Yoongi speeds up, fcuking me with rough intent, every thrust pushing me against the window, marring my makeup, tousling my hair, pinching my exposed nipples from the confines of the twisted, bunched fabric.

As if every sparkle, every neat line stood as a taunt to Yoongi—a threat that he needs to subdue. He fcuks me like I’m the enemy, like he can vanquish me.

 And maybe he can.

He can invade my slick channel, forcing me to take him, giving friction and heat, pleasure and pain. It swirls ever higher, tighter—until I’m mindless on the end of his cock.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Promise me.”

“Anything,” I moan, and that’s the sad truth.

That’s crazy.

That’s me.

His voice is harsh, roughened by sex, but determined. “Promise you won’t try to leave. I’m letting you out of my house. Letting you out of this car. You have to stay with me. Behind me. At all times.”

My mind is drenched with need. It’s hard to think. Hard to speak. It feels like I haven’t spoken in a thousand years.

My mouth struggles to form words. “I—I promise.”

His hand moves to the ledge of the car door in front of me.

Leverage.

I realize it when he manages to move deeper inside me, the force pushing a whimper of pain from me. His other hand wraps around my neck like he had before.

From behind this time.

His mouth lowers to my ear, his whisper like a dark dream. “He won’t stop, understand? The man who’s hunting you. If he gets his hands on you, he’ll squeeze and squeeze until you long for death. Understand?” To make sure that I do, he squeezes. Black spots dance in front of my eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I can’t speak.

Can’t even nod my head.

Can’t even beg, and I think this is what he wanted all along.

My body convulses, on the verge of an 0rgasm, on the edge of passing out, torn between pleasure and pain.

On the next thrust he releases my neck, and the rush of air burns all the way down my throat, all the way through my lungs, bursting in a fire of oxygen and arousal, my climax hitting me with the encompassing flare of a forest fire.

I press uselessly against the cool glass, desperate for relief, tears slick against my cheeks. The sound that emerges from me is rough and uneven, more object than animal, something being torn apart.

He plunges deep and holds there, grip piercing on my hips as he holds me steady, his halted breath the only sound of his 0rgasm.

I collapse against the door, my muscles made soft and replete.

Satisfied, like he said I would be.

Satisfied so that I would let him hurt me.

He doesn’t hurt me, not anymore.

He pulls me against his body, gathering me like I’m in a hundred pieces. I curl into his lap, resting my head against the smooth fabric of his shirt.

How is it that he isn’t even wrinkled? And I’m a disaster.

“You can’t go looking for him,” he says, his voice low. And strained, as if this is almost too important to put into words. “No matter what happens. No matter what you think or fear or wonder.”

I blink slowly, made curious by his intensity.

Why does he think that will happen?

“I know what he did to my mother. I saw what happened at my house. I know how dangerous he is.”

His arms tighten around me. “Danger doesn’t keep you away.”

Because he’s dangerous. That’s what he tried to prove by holding my neck, by threatening me. It’s what he did every time he threatened omegas at his father’s bagnio.

Threatening them in a desperate attempt to keep them safe.

I nuzzle my face deeper against his chest. “I’m here, Yoongi. I’m not leaving.”

And only then does he allow his head to rest on top of mine. He could have climaxed ten times, but he wouldn’t have had the bone-deep satisfaction that radiates from him now.

He doesn’t want me broken.

He wants me whole.

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