C49 - Soul-ed MATE

When I emerge onto the balcony, I find Yoongi already there. Instead of looking out over the expansive lawns and hedge maze, he gazes down at a small marble piece—white and glinting.

His thumb brushes over it in a way that feels definitely sexual. Definitely invasive. The rest of the pieces remain on the board where we left them during our last game, where I had bested him.

Checkmate.

Of course, he always gets his revenge in the physical sense. My cheeks heat as I remember what he did to me after. Then he had been dominant. A little playful.

Now he seems pensive, his handsome expression drawn tight. His golden eyes gaze at the small marble statue as if it holds answers. As if he can unlock them with sight alone.

An air of melancholy squeezes my heart. Yoongi’s confidence, his borderline arrogance may be frustrating at times, but I greatly prefer it to the humbled man who sits before me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He cocks his head to the side. “How do you get in?”

I take a step closer, studying the smooth compact surface. “Into marble? I’m pretty sure the only way is with a saw.”

His thumb smooths over the stone—and again. “You’d have to break it, then.”

“Yes, but…there’s nothing inside.”

He finally looks at me, a shadow of a smile on his lips. “Nothing at all?”

“Solid stone. You can feel how heavy it is.”

“Almost not worth the trouble,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Never mind.” He sets the castle down on the board. “Tell me about your day, bluebell. Did you have strange feelings between your legs while I was gone? Did you touch yourself, only to find it made the ache worse?”

My cheeks heat. “No, I didn’t.”

“All my daydreams,” he says, mocking. “Destroyed.”

“Actually I worked on my course essay. I only have a few more weeks to finish.”

“Are your gods being vengeful again?”

“This one’s for the psych class.”

“What was it? Subjectivity, Individualism and…some kind of crisis. The crisis of masturbation? I knew you touched yourself. You have that guilty expression.”

“Crisis of morality,” I say, feeling embarrassment in my cheeks.

He manages to look grave. “Ah, that’s completely different.”

My gaze darts around the shadows, desperate for another topic. He doesn’t need to know that I masturbate every morning in the shower, thinking of him, sometimes moaning his name.

The chess set sits between us, pieces left unattended. “It’s about chess, actually. My essay.”

“Chess pieces as sex toys?”

How does he always manage to turn me around?

I’m about to self-combust from embarrassment, even though I have no real reason to be. He’s been my only sexual partner. My first. And he’s just as moved by our encounters as I am. But I know the answer: he pushes me because I am embarrassed. He likes me on the edge, teetering, off balance, and the scary truth is that I like it, too.

“Gender roles in chess,” I amend, trying to sound prim. “An analysis of gender and the real-world implications.”

“Oh, that does sound interesting. Anatomically speaking. Perhaps we could work up a few visuals together. Purely out of academic interest.”

He picks up a castle again, this time from the black side, and I can’t help but shiver. All he’s doing is sitting there holding a rook, but it feels like a threat. Unlike the pawn he once touched me with, this doesn’t have a round head.

The battlements at the top wouldn’t be sharp, but they wouldn’t be completely smooth either.

They would have a bite, like his teeth.

“Morality,” he says, his tone genial. “You were saying?”

My brain can only focus on the castle in his hand, on all the ways he might use it. All the places he might use it on. “Yes, well. The focus of my paper’s the creation of the queen.”

“Like when a pawn becomes a queen?”

There’s enough weight in his words to make me blush. “No, I mean like the queen piece itself. When there didn’t used to be any women on the board.”

He quirks a brow. “What was there instead?”

“You don’t know?” I don’t mean to goad him, but it’s just that we came at each game from an equal position. It’s strange to realize there’s something I know about it that he doesn’t.

“I’ve been more interested in strategies for winning than the game’s history,” he admits drily.

“The queen used to be a vizier, advisor to the king, a counsellor. Male, of course.”

“I’ve seen those sets. I assumed it was a variation.”

“Those were the original pieces. They still play that way in some parts of the world. As the game emerged and women held more power as monarchs in history, led to the creation of the queen.”

“The piece with the most power,” he says.

“That depends on how you define power,” I say. “It’s the king who decides the game.”

He studies the rook. “What about this one?”

“The rook originated from the chariot; the kind used in battle.”

“I didn’t know,” he says softly, his thumb moving over the black stone. “And really, it makes more sense that way. Castles don’t move.”

His golden eyes meet mine, suddenly intense, blazing. “What did you say?”

“That’s not really part of the essay, which is more about the roles in society and—”

“You said castles don’t move.”

“Well, yes. They don’t.”

“God,” he mutters, standing abruptly.

I stand, too, unnerved by the energy coursing through the night. “What is it?”

“We’ve been looking everywhere, Virgin lily. All over the godforsaken city. And all along, castles don’t move. They can close their gates. They can fortify. But they don’t fcuking move.”

“I…don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “We can’t play tonight. I need to go.”

“Go? Where?”

He gives a dark laugh. “Don’t worry about that. I might be gone a few days.”

I feel like some kind of parrot, but he’s moving too quickly. He never leaves at night like this, not so suddenly and without explanation. “Gone a few days?”

With startling suddenness, he pulls me to him. “Stay here. Promise me that.”

A shudder runs through me, the words echoing too close to my dream.

Whatever you do, stay inside!

It had been my mother screaming that, her final words to me before she died. Without thinking my hands clutch Yoongi. “Don’t go. Please.”

His brows lower. I’ve never begged him, especially for something like this. “Why?”

“Please, I want to—” I cast around for something, anything. “I was having those thoughts you said. The ones about me and touching and the ache. And I thought—”

He leans close, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You’re adorable.”

“No, I’m not,” I tell him earnestly. “I really had them, and—”

“But I do need to go. Once this is over, we can spend an eternity sorting out exactly what thoughts you have and where you ache.” He looks regretfully at the rook in his hand before setting it on the board. “We can spend an eternity on that.”

!!~~~~!!

The first three days pass in a strange blur, where I’m more afraid of hearing the voice again than of Yoongi being gone. Maybe it’s best that he gives me some time to figure this out. On the fourth day I’m anxious for him to return, wondering if he’s run into trouble.

On the fifth day I have a terrible realization: I miss him. And I miss him a lot. Not his safety or even his sex. I miss the presence of him, the man himself. With all his secrets and flaws, every dark desire, every dangerous dream. He’s a wild animal, and I know I’ll never tame him.

More and more, I never want to.

I’m so distracted by his absence, so accustomed to Jungkook’s silent presence, that it’s shocking to hear his voice in the middle of breakfast.

“He’s not coming back,” he says over a bowl of steel-cut oats and brown sugar.

Surprise holds me breathless, and for a moment I can only focus on him— not his words. “Jungkook?”

He picks up his spoon like it was nothing. Then the meaning of his words registers. “Why did you say that? What do you know?”

So maybe it’s not the best idea to demand answers from a boy who’s only just brought himself to speak, after a terrible trauma, but my heart beats too rapidly to ignore it. This is when he decided to say something. I have to believe he did it for a reason, even if he seems unconcerned.

“He never said goodbye.”

My head cocks to the side. “If you mean Yoongi, he’s coming back. Any minute now.”

“Him too.”

It’s almost strange that his voice sounds so clear, as if he had been speaking every day. I would expect him to be rusty, his throat roughened from disuse, but his soft voice rings out clearly.

“Jungkook,” I say. “Who didn’t say goodbye?”

“Taehyung.”

I try not to show my relief. “Do you want him to come back?”

One slender shoulder lifts. Even though he eats food at the table with me, it’s barely enough to keep him alive. He’s still thinner than when he arrived, pale and unmoving.

“Maybe we can visit the Inferna one of these days. We’ll get Yoongi to take us.”

A pause. “He needs help.”

My chest constricts. I want to refute his claim as the mutterings of a crazy boy. He’s unhinged, isn’t he? Why am I listening to him? But I have a feeling he sees more than any of us—more than me and more than Yoongi. Even more than the cameras that watch us from hidden perches.

Unlike those cameras, he sees what’s missing. Unlike those microphones, she hears what isn’t spoken.

I bite my lip, struggling with the question. “Do you ever hear voices? Voices that aren’t there?”

His gaze meets mine. “You definitely can’t trust me.”

“What?”

“Run and tell your Dad that Kim Yongdae is here.”

That’s when I realize he isn’t speaking anymore, he’s recounting a memory. One that replays in his head. Electric current runs through my body, hot and sharp.

The man who terrorized him, Kim Yongdae. That’s what he said to him. And it’s what he hears over and over.

It seems normal to hear the voice of your attacker, the echo of that terror long after the act. Except I didn’t experience an assault.

Did I? I wasn’t attacked and nearly drowned by a maniac.

Was I?

Would I even remember if that happened?

Footsteps approach the kitchen door, and I straighten. Is Yoongi back?

Hope leaps to my throat.

The door swings open, revealing Dr. Joon carrying a bag. For Jungkook’s weekly checkup. I forgot about that. I try not to let the disappointment show on my expression.

He stops at the table, his cheeks ruddy from the wind outside. “How are you feeling?”

“I used to dream about trees,” Jungkook says, his voice almost melodic. “About sunshine. And dirt.” He nods as if that’s a perfectly normal medical answer.

“Better, then.”

“I know it doesn’t sound pretty—dirt. The smell of it, thick and strong. It means you’re free.”

This kitchen smells like warm biscuits and something sweet. The hint of wood polish, its oils caught in the deep grooves on the table. These are comforting smells, but they aren’t freedom.

“You can still dream about them,” I tell him softly.

“What’s the point?”

“Dreams don’t need to have a purpose. They’re part of living.”

“If they’re part of living, then they’re part of dying too.”

I give him a secret smile. “I don’t think you’re quite as dire as you pretend to be.”

He peers into his oatmeal, examining the almost gooey consistency as it cools. Well, he might not be as dire as he wants to be. I’m not as unconcerned as I pretend to be, either.

Dr. Joon'a blue eyes glint like ice. “And how are you?”

“I wasn’t hurt,” I say, indignant now.

Yoongi has been shot. Jungkook was brutally attacked. And Dr. Joon acts like I’m the one who’s going to break into a million pieces. I’m not that fragile. He makes a noncommittal sound.

“I’m just worried. About Yoongi.” I close my eyes. “He was supposed to be back by now.”

“He can take care of himself.”

I give him a pointed look. “So can I.”

His laugh rumbles through the heavy table. “Come on, broken bird. We’re going to check you out. This one’s still in denial.”

I look down at my dark coffee and swirl the spoon. Denial? Maybe so. Yoongi might be in trouble, but I don’t know how I can help him.

I’m trapped in this castle, held in by a well-trained security team. They won’t hurt me, but they won’t let me leave. So maybe they are the metal grate locked on top. And this is the pool filled with water.

Then there’s nothing left for me to do but drown.

!!~~~~!!

When Yoongi has been gone for three weeks, I know something is very wrong.

Jungkook still takes a nap once a day, doctor’s orders. With his body still weakened from the ordeal, he falls asleep soon after I pull the covers over him.

Then I return to the kitchen, where our dishes from lunch have been cleared from the sink. Mrs. B works efficiently and, for the most part, invisibly. I rarely see her unless I’m looking for something, when she magically appears.

Kind of like a fairy godmother but with more silent pity.

I follow the hallway where Yoongi took me once to find the room with the surveillance equipment. The door is closed, but it opens as I approach. Of course, they could see me coming.

The man named West gives me a polite nod. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m wondering if…” My hands twist together. “Well, I’m wondering if you’ve heard from Yoongi. He was supposed to be back by now.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he says, sounding genuinely regretful. “I can’t share that information.”

I blink. “You mean you don’t know, or you can’t tell me?”

“The second one. I’ll tell Baek that you spoke with me. He’s my boss, the one who owns Baek Security. He’ll be in touch with you later today.”

But I can already tell by West’s stern expression and opaque eyes what I’ll find out. Nothing. “He won’t tell me either. He’ll just handle me, like you’re doing. Won’t he?”

“Baek is trustworthy,” he says. “I’m sure that if Yoongi is in trouble, Baek will help however he can. Our contract isn’t limited to this estate.”

Which confirms that Yoongi is in trouble. And that Baek is trying to help him. I guess that’s reassuring. Except not really. “So, tell me this. If I were to walk out the front door right now, what would happen?”

Discomfort flashes across his hard features. “If you plan to leave, I would have to inform my supervisor.”

“No, no,” I assure him, though we both know I’m lying. “I’m not planning to leave. Why would I want to leave? I mean, hypothetically. What would happen if I did?”

He studies my expression. Then sighs. “Our job is to keep you safe.”

“Would I be safe outside?”

“Not according to our information.”

“So then you would force me to stay; that’s what you’re saying. You would kidnap me.”

“We would keep you safe,” he says gently.

And of course, they aren’t the ones to keep me. If anyone did that it was Yoongi. Or maybe myself. Maybe I tied the rope around my own wrists, closed the door to my own cage.

The men are just another kind of lock.

Without a word I turn and walk away. At the end of the hallway pale light from the kitchen draws a triangle. Before I reach the entrance, I hear voices—a low, masculine voice I don’t recognize. It must be the man from the security room earlier, the one with cropped silver hair.

“You should tell him sooner rather than later.”

“And then what?” This voice I recognize as Mrs. B, more worried and whispered than I’ve ever heard her. “He’ll despise me. He deserves my loyalty.”

“He doesn’t deserve anything from you.”

“I’ve worked here for over twenty years.”

“And you’ll be long gone, so what do you care what he thinks?”

My heart thuds. The man she’s worked for the past twenty years is Yoongi, and this man is telling her she doesn’t owe him anything.

What did she do to break her loyalty?

Pass information to a stranger?

Take a bribe? It could be anything.

It could be the reason why Yoongi is in trouble now.

“I do care,” she says, sounding near tears. “About him. But the boys, it’s too much. First one. Then another. I hate them. I hate them so much I almost can’t breathe.”

I suck in a breath. Me and Jungkook. Why does she hate us? And what has she done about it?

Sold information?

If that’s the case, then the man with cropped silver hair knows about it. He works for Baek Security, which means Kim Yongdae has an inside man. Even if I believe what West told me, I can’t trust that Yoongi will be okay. Not with people inside working against him.

There’s murmuring from the kitchen, words I can’t make out.

What are they plotting together?

Before I realize what’s happening, the man with silver hair strides into the hallway. He stops short, eyes narrowing.

I gesture uselessly toward the room. “I was just talking to West. Asking about Yoongi.”

“And what did he tell you?” There’s suspicion. Accusation. “Not to worry.”

“Then you should listen to him,” he says, his voice flat. A shiver runs through me.

For a moment I think he might handle the threat here and now. Drag me into a closet. Finish me. Except that would be too big of a mess, even for someone with connections. There would be evidence on tape. And whatever Mrs. B and this man have done, I believe that West is being honest with me. As honest as he can be. He wouldn’t be in on a plot to hurt Yoongi.

“Of course,” I say too brightly. “I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow.”

And I see in this man’s expression the truth. He knows Yoongi isn’t coming back. The way that Jungkook knew that he was in trouble. The way I knew, somewhere deep inside, when I begged him to stay.

In that split second I make a decision. I’m not safe here. And more importantly, Yoongi isn’t safe out there.

When I emerge from the hallway, Mrs. B works at kneading dough on a wooden chopping block dusted with flour. I smell rosemary and garlic. Any other day I would have given her a smile and some remark about how delicious it looks.

That’s what I do today, too. Because I don’t want her to suspect. “Oh by the way,” I add. “I remembered I need something. Can you order it for me?”

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