C53 - Soul-ed MATE

Time passes in a blur of black boots and hushed words. Apparently Baek Security is full service, because the boss himself arrives to transport Kim Yongdae to a secret holding facility and clean up evidence that we were ever there.

In twenty minutes a limo glides to a stop in front of the asylum. Yoongi’s dress shoes appear in front of me, still shiny despite the events of the evening, my sunshine-yellow loafers blackened and torn in contrast.

“Let’s go,” he says, his voice low.

Where are we going? I think the words, but sometime while watching Kim Yongdae, still bleeding and feral, wrapped in chains and transported in an unmarked van, I seem to have lost the ability to speak.

How long did he exist in my mind, whispering suggestions?

How long did I obey my father, even without knowing him?

“Home,” he says, hearing me anyway.

It’s his house, though. His estate. His million dollars sitting in my bank account.

I don’t have anything left, not even myself.

He bends, scooping one arm beneath my knees, the other supporting my back. Then I’m in his arms, being carried down the lawn toward the waiting limo. It might have been romantic if I didn’t know the brown stains on his shirt were blood.

My father’s blood.

Without speaking he settles me onto the plush seats. They feel almost shockingly warm, burning, as if the leather will melt my skin. And then the blessed numbness surrounds me, cotton and cool breeze, where nothing can touch me.

Not even Yoongi, when he climbs in beside me and pulls me onto his lap. His mouth presses against my hair, not quite a kiss.

“Don’t let him win,” he whispers, fierce, almost desperate.

It isn’t about letting Kim Yongdae win. That contest ended when I was five years old, the first time I heard a voice speak to me—and opened my mouth to speak back. My lips are too starched to explain, though. My eyelids too heavy to open. His hands run over me, more like they’re checking for wounds.

Pain blooms in parts of my body that shouldn’t hurt. My hands. My heart. Even between my legs. Yoongi may have taken my virginity, but my innocence was stolen long before that. Instead of curious exploration, instead of the patient guidance of an elder, I had a voice in my wall. And I feel the weight of those words on my cock, sharp and hot.

No, fight it.

Sometimes the only thing you can do is survive, so I push down the feelings, the horror. I imagine I’m some other boy, who never knew how little I was loved. I let myself be a doll in Yoongi’s arms, unthinking, without protest. It turns out that’s all I can be.

Without interest I listen to Yoongi speak to Taehyung on the phone. “It’s done?”

“Yes,” comes a voice that’s painfully familiar. “We sent the code word and got confirmation. Only time will tell if the information was valid.”

“What’s your read?”

“I think he didn’t really want Jimin dead, like he said. But with my father, that means you’re half-buried already.”

Yoongi’s hands tighten around me. “No one’s getting near him.”

“Even me?” Taehyung asks, his voice wry. “As it turns out, we’re related. Which makes the whole virginity-auction thing a little taboo.”

“It wasn’t taboo already?”

“More than that.” A pause. “Has he said anything? About me?”

“He hasn’t said anything. As in, he’s not talking.”

“Shock?”

“Let’s hope so.” A grim silence.  “That’s what you said Jungkook did, and he recovered.”

“Is he at the Inferna?”

“No, I sent him home.”

Yoongi straightens. “Home?”

“His shitty father almost pissed himself when he saw him. Probably figured he was at the bottom of the lake by now. Forgave the debt and everything.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t keep him.”

“For what? Fcuking a scared teen isn’t really my kink. More like yours.”

A low laugh. “Fine.”

“Besides, I’m thinking of going underground for a little while. Which means no keeping omegas, however pretty and wide-eyed they might be.”

“Pulling a disappearing act? Like your father?”

“Something like that. Take care of Jimin, will you? He is my brother after all.”

“I will.” Yoongi whispers in my ear, “What do you need, Virgin lily?”

Of course I don’t answer him. From his sigh I know he doesn’t expect me to. It’s impossible to explain what I need when my heart is locked up tight, impossible to form the words with my body coated in black tar.

Pandora opened her mythological box, releasing the evils of humanity— diseases and plagues. Death. What most people leave out of the story is that there was only one thing left when she closed it again.

Hope, trapped inside.

The question has never been how to close the box.

It’s how to open it again.

!!~~~~!!

I spend the next week in bed. At least I think it’s a week. I’m asleep most of the time, so the mornings blend into night. Only the meals change, as any kind of marker.

A thin oatmeal mixture, more milk than grain.

A fragrant broth that has vitamin powder poured in as liberally as the spices. And finally some kind of caramel pudding, both salt and sweet.

Every day Yoongi struggles to feed me, to force me, but he could sooner have sex with me than he could make me eat. There’s always a hint of regret when he gives up, the briefest sorrow that I can’t be the someone he wants.

Then the door closes behind him, and numbness drifts over me again. A tray of food appears on the side table, a bowl of steaming broth. The smell assaults me with bittersweet flavor, the memory of caring for Jungkook when he had lain in bed, broken, bruised. Now it’s me trapped beneath the sheets, trapped by the very evil I unleashed.

Being a little boy didn’t excuse me. Being afraid. Being in love. All of them explain what I’ve done in my life, a dark symphony always underscored by the heavy beat of my innocence stolen ruefully from me. A burden I never asked for, one I wouldn’t trade even if I could.

It’s not Yoongi this time.

The mattress dips as Mrs. B sits on the edge of the bed. Her hand reaches for me, hovers a moment before pulling back. From the corner of my eye, her expression looks repentant.

Maybe he’s finally given up on me.

“Rick told me that you might have heard what I said before.”

For half a second I wonder if I might be curious about this.

Did Mrs. B betray Yoongi?

Does she feel bad about it?

And then I remember that I don’t care, not about any of it.

“It wasn’t that I hated you. I’m sorry I said that. And I’m very sorry that you heard me in that moment of weakness. Lord knows you’ve been through enough already.”

The doubt must show on my face.

“What your father did. Even Yoongi. As much as I owe him, I have no illusions about the kind of man he is.” Her round cheeks turn pink. “I also threw away the sheets after your first stay.”

The ones with my blood on them.

“Yes, well.” She busies herself straightening a corner on the white sheet. “You know. I have some experience with that, myself. With being used. Being sold.”

My heart wrenches, a faint beat of pain beneath the cloud of disassociation. I’m starting to think everyone has been used that way, everyone has been sold.

Which ones of us have escaped that fate?

Was my dream of a gentle mate just a shared fever dream?

Is a white picket fence just another form of turrets on smaller castles?

“It’s not an interesting story,” Mrs. B says. “I wasn’t pretty enough to earn money for Yoongi’s father. He would give me to the roughest customers, the ones who couldn’t be choosy. Or the ones who wanted to mess me up.”

I’m sorry. The words echo around inside me, in the silence of the room. “It was Yoongi who convinced his father to let me clean the house, to work in the kitchen. I only found out later that he had done it, after one night when he’d had to pick me up from the floor.”

How many omegas does Yoongi need to save until he’s whole again?

“When he killed his father—”

The jolt that runs through me is completely involuntary. He killed his father. I knew that he despised his father, with this Darkmoon brothel and brutality. And I knew that he failed to save the little girl who had grown up.

Mrs. B looks stricken, having seen my surprise. “He didn’t tell you?”

Even if I could speak now, I wouldn’t. I’m too busy working through what it means that Yoongi killed someone—killed anyone. And to kill your father.

A sigh.

“Yoongi isn’t a perfect man. He isn’t a kind man. Some of the things he’s done, they might shock you. They might shock me. He’s always been private.”

No, he didn’t answer to anyone.

“I can’t say I was comfortable hearing he had purchased you, with being a part of that. And it made me uncomfortable to be near you, and Jungkook, knowing what had happened to you. Seeing the looks on your faces, as if I were back in that place, surrounded by trapped ones.”

A pause.

“I’m not proud of this, but most days I pretend I grew up with two loving parents.” A small laugh. “I even invented an imaginary husband. He was strong enough to protect me, but always gentle.”

I put my hand on hers and squeeze.

Her small eyes meet mine, wide open, shimmering with tears. “And then I met Rick, the security guard you heard me talking to, when he came for the first installation here. It was shocking enough to me that he wanted me—me.” She looks down at her body, with her generous curves and thick arms.

Her cheeks turn pink. “Especially with how he looks.” The man with the silver hair. They’re together.

“That’s what we were talking about. It was one thing to steal an hour away with him. Another to leave the safety of Yoongi’s home and marry Rick. I was worried that Yoongi would see it as a betrayal. Didn’t he deserve my loyalty?”

That’s what they were whispering about. A thread of gladness winds through me, that she found someone to appreciate her. That she found someone to appreciate in turn.

“But Yoongi wouldn’t have been angry with me,” she says softly. “I think that was an excuse, because I was afraid. Afraid that I wouldn’t survive outside these walls. Afraid that Rick would hate me once he knew the truth.”

As quickly the feeling is doused by that persistent blackness, because there’s no way to be happy without acknowledging the sadness. Better to float here in this place, where nothing hurts me. Nothing horrifies me.

“Of course, I kept my past a secret, but they’re very thorough with the background checks. Turns out Rick knew all along. He finally told me. Told me it didn’t matter, either.” She looks away, at the bowl of soup that no longer steams. “I don’t know everything that happened to you. But I know that Yoongi won’t hold it against you. He has his own past. And like Rick says to me, the things that happened to us, they only make us stronger.”

With her flyaway graying hair and twinkling eyes, Mrs. B may come across as soft. Maybe even weak, if you don’t know about the inner strength in someone with her history. She lived through hell and came out the other side as someone who can laugh and love.

And I have faith in Jungkook’s ability to do the same.

I’m not made of marble or anything hardy like that. I’m built from crystal flutes and rare silk. From the brushstrokes of my mother’s portrait.

I’m a shadow of a human being, only a cautionary tale whispered from mother to her abandoned son. A collection of dangerous words. I’m a myth. And as long as I don’t speak, I can bury myself.

!!~~~~!!

I don’t feel anything while I’m nestled in Yoongi’s large bed. Not hunger. Not pain. Definitely not horror at what my biological father did to me. And that’s how I want to stay.

There’s a flicker of relief when Dr. Namjoon comes in.

Alive.

He has the black bag with him, which he sets down on the bed. “You must be surprised to see me?” he says, a glint in his ice-blue eyes. “Disappointed I didn’t bleed out on the stairs.”

I’m not sure how much more death I can handle.

None, really.

“Yoongi says you aren’t talking. I don’t suppose you’ll whisper something to me. He would be incredibly jealous. Imagine how fun that would be?”

His words have to travel the cottony padding of my mind before reaching me. Disappointment flashes on his face before he flips open the bag. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to poke and prod to figure out the answers myself.”

What he doesn’t realize is that I’m completely numb. His hands. The cold flat of the stethoscope on my chest. Pricks of needles drawing blood. All of them pass like seconds ticking by, separate from me. My entire body, separate. It’s still a relief when he leaves, closing the door behind him. All I want to do is sleep.

“He has to want to get better.” Namjoon’s voice crashes through the closed door, despite his attempt to keep it low. “If he won’t eat, won’t fight for it, there’s nothing I can do—medically speaking.”

“What is there to do not medically speaking?” That’s Yoongi.

“There’s a reason they revoked my license.”

“He’s wasting away in there. I can see his bones. Every day I go in, I’m afraid he won’t open his eyes. Every breath he takes, I’m afraid it will be his last.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Namjoon says dispassionately. “Heart failure, probably.”

A loud crash. Probably a fist against a jaw, my mind calculates without emotion. Followed by ceramic breaking and wood splintering. The oriental vase and antique hallway table. Priceless. And now it’s broken into a million pieces.

“Fcuk.” Namjoon’s voice sounds muffled.

“That’s not good enough. Tell me how to help him.”

When the other man speaks again, there’s a slight lisp as if his lip has puffed. “Sometimes with patients who have a significant trauma, they’ll induce a coma. To protect the brain.”

“You’re saying you want to induce a coma?”

“I’m saying he’s in one. The brain patterns. The metabolism. His body has done it.”

“But he can still hear me. Sometimes he looks at me.”

“Yes, and if it were done by drugs, he wouldn’t do that. But the body doesn’t exactly measure things in vials before injecting him. The goal is to protect him, and his physiology is doing that.”

“So, then I should leave him this way?”

“Well, he’ll definitely die. Fevers are also mechanisms to protect the body, raising the heat level to kill off infections. But too high a fever can kill the brain cells, too. They can kill the very person they’re designed to protect.”

“I swear to God—”

“Jesus, stop. Don’t fcuking hit me. I’m telling you the truth. Repressed memories, they’re buried for a reason. Because the mind can’t process the trauma. The fire probably triggered his PTSD from what happened as a child. Then caring for Jungkook, that probably helped uncover the memories. Or maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe being kept in this place reminded him of being trapped at home as a child.”

“You’re saying I did this to him.”

“I’m saying the brain is complex. What I do know is this—Kim Yongdae is a sick fcuk who caused a deep psychological trauma when Jimin was young. And his body suspended the effects of that trauma until now.”

“So, you need to snap him out of this.”

“No,” Namjoon says, sounding farther away. “You do.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“This wasn’t induced by drugs. We can’t use them to snap him out, either.”

“It was induced by his father being a sick fcuk who violated him,” Yoongi snaps.

I can practically hear the shrug in Namjoon’s voice. “Maybe fcuk him, then.”

“OUT.”

“I’m just saying. It can’t hurt at this point.”

“Get the fcuk out or you’ll be flat on the ground. I can’t promise I won’t break your jaw this time.”

Loud swearing fades away, because Namjoon may be crude, but he isn’t stupid. Anyone could tell that Yoongi is serious about that threat. The violence vibrates through his voice—through the air, even in the silence that follows. I can feel it crackle over my skin like electricity, an unwelcome reminder that I can still feel. Despite everything, I can still feel.

I suppose that’s why the word violated feels like the tip of an iron poker, tinged red with heat, imprinting right on my heart, smoke rising above me. It smells like burned skin, like burned hope.

When Yoongi walks into the room, I’m lying on the bed where I always am. My eyes are closed like they always are. My body is still like it always is. But already it feels a little different. I’m more aware of him, of his intent. His determination.

“Hello, bluebell.”

He didn’t call me Virgin lily. He had no intent to fcuk me. The words are casual, but the undercurrent is far from benign.

“I’ve been reading your books. I hope you don’t mind. It didn’t look like you were using them.”

Ah, sarcasm. However drily delivered, it’s a sure sign that he’s reached the end of his patience.

“Of course, everyone’s heard of the Oedipus complex. Every man’s inherent desire to kill his father. Kind of morbid. In my case, stunningly accurate.”

A strange ache beats beneath the darkness.

“It’s the entire point of chess, according to Freud’s protégé. The unconscious motive. Killing your father, in the form of the king. Did you know that?”

More than that, disciples of Freudian psychology even gave sexual connotation to the death—to castrate the father. Checkmate as the ultimate sexual revenge.

“Of course you know,” he says, still mild. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. The strongest. The most beautiful. Does that shock you, Bluebell?”

I don’t believe him. The words ring false, a definite lie. Except that Yoongi never lies to me.

“The awkward part of the Oedipal complex turns out not to be murder, but the idea that you have to marry your mother. Is that required, do you think? Is it a complex if you never knew your mother?”

My heart clenches.

“A prostitute, for sure. She died during childbirth. Or he killed her.” I open my eyes, meeting his burning gaze. He continues. “I don’t know if she was smart or strong. Probably beautiful, for my father to bother with her.”

Stop. The word hovers on my tongue. I don’t say it. Stop blaming yourself.

He unbuttons his shirt, and my eyes widen. “I understand you’d like to stay silent and small. To hide in a place where Kim Yongdae can’t touch you. And that’s hard to do, isn’t it? When he found you in your bedroom. In your mind, even. All you did was speak, and you were his.”

His movements are brisk as he undresses—his belt, his shoes. His pants. Oh God, he’s really doing this.

Maybe fcuk him, then. It can’t hurt at this point.

I’m a little horrified at the idea that he’s going to do this. A little curious, too. He pulls his undershirt over his head, revealing a taut stomach and broad chest. He’s a muscled bronze, so much darker than my pale skin that hasn’t seen the sun in days.

The only thing he’s wearing are briefs that cling to his manhood. He’s hard, I realize. All I’ve done is lie here, and he’s hard. My breath holds as I wait for him to shed the remainder of his clothes. As I wait for him to fcuk me.

Part of me wants him to, just to prove that I won’t feel it.

Nothing can touch me like this.

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