Twenty-Nine
Ara
There was a time when I thought I wouldn’t be here. This part of the city is only for the extremely wealthy, the people who are okay with spending 100 bucks on their coffees. I have known wealth, but Walius puts Phaga to shame. If Luxembourg and Monaco ever had a child, it would be Walius City. The place is crawling with the rich and also dirty, big criminals who live on the top floor of a humongous skyscraper with 86 floors.
Just looking at it is giving me vertigo.
“This way, miss.”
I kept insisting the man Zagan left behind—Yuri—to use my name. But he seems stubborn not to. He barely talks other than asking me where I’d like to go. Oh yes, he took possession of my vehicle as a chauffeur. He even stood outside my lab, drawing weird looks from my colleagues. He didn’t make me uncomfortable. Instead, the idea of having someone on the lookout for me gave me an odd sense of relief. Relief I shouldn’t be having.
I come here with only one clear thought, and I’m bent on seeing it through. No matter the means. Asking for his help in shutting down the organisation that does the horrors of human experimentation. The building looms in front of me, seeming to stretch into the grey clouds gathering around it like a thick fog.
Yuri opens the door for me, and despite the places I’ve been to, I cannot stop the sharp gasp as I look inside the opulent structure.
The foyer looks big enough to seem like an airport lounge accented with glass, dark walls, shiny black marble and deep green furniture. The reception area is oval, the counter is made of grey marble, and the wall behind holds golden glinting letters of ZD. There is a man behind the counter who gives me a customary glance and gets back to his work of vigorously typing something into the system.
A huge rectangular crystal chandelier drops down from the roof at the centre of the room. The crystals lay like a thin veil of spherical icicles, giving off an image of a sheen of rain pouring down from the sky.
The lounge area is void of anyone except for a man who is occupied with his laptop and the guards surrounding the floor. I walk to the elevator as Yuri presses the button, and the metal door opens into the rich interior of steel grey walls. There is a small L-shaped white couch that is attached to the wall in front of me. Yuri presses a code on the digital keypad and touches the letter T on the glass board on the adjacent wall before it glows.
“I’ll wait for you here, miss.”
I get into the elevator, the soothing music doing nothing to calm my frayed nerves.
How will I even approach the subject? A topic or situation about Zagan made as much sense as taxes did to me. I cannot understand why my body comes alive under his eyes or why I would even entertain him when I know next to nothing about him. He remains a stranger even after we kissed, and he made an asinine demand and tyrannical orders about me being his.
Is this common? It has been long since I had dipped my feet into dating life. After the disaster of the one-night stand that Ivy insisted I try after my break-up with Burke, I had bid adieu to men as a whole. But the way Zagan behaves, looks, and downright demands things from me throws me off my game. He always makes me wonder what is wrong with my head.
Even now, as I wait for a verdict that could influence many lives which also includes me and my family, all I can think about is facing him alone in a confined space and stopping myself from barging into his personal space as he did with mine and tracing his scars with my tongue. The thought has me turning bright red as the sexual goddess inside me rolls her shoulders in anticipation. I have no idea what she is preparing for.
To the wicked pleasures he painted in our heads.
Damn him. And damn his mouth, his voice, his eyes and everything. A man cannot be as well endowed in every department like him. It is downright criminal!
Before I can dwell deeper into my hormonal thoughts, the doors open. I see no men on this floor, and I hear no noise from any of the floors below. Either this building is soundproof, or the people who are working here are ghosts.
Despite the lack of guards on this floor, there is a certain darkness surrounding the area. It isn’t because of the dark walls or furniture but because of the man who is behind the set of double doors that loom in front of me like the doors to hell. I can almost feel the animosity of the man, feel his dark aura stretching out from his massive office and filling this entire floor with his raw power.
I take a hesitant step forward, trying to concentrate on the details of the floor, but I cannot. It takes a lot of effort to keep myself standing in front of the tall black doors and not bolt back to the elevator and beg Iblis or Eero to help us instead. Eero made it clear that he couldn’t help as he loved his private parts too much to be pinned to a wall, and Iblis, well, he not so subtly indicated that he didn’t care.
I know Iblis can help. But the premise of begging him was as appealing as a stinky sock to me. This devil is all I have, and I pray to the gods to take care of me, let out a shaky breath before I push the doors open.
It is heavy, too heavy for my hands, so I have to use my hips as well to push it open. For a moment, I revel in triumph as I step inside and lean on the door, breathing heavily. But when my eyes cut towards the figure that stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me, the temporary triumph leaves and nerves settle in.
Conversing or looking at Zagan in the morning is different than in the night. In the morning, if I squinted hard enough, I could pass him for a man who isn’t dangerous. I had to squint real hard, mind you. But in the night, in a confined space—even if it is larger than my home—when in his element, it is impossible not to see him as anything but dangerous. With his staggering height, heavy build and the Olympian personality that he fit in a custom-made suit, he looks like the ruler of darkness people whisper him to be.
He has yet to turn back to grace me with his face, and I am disappointed and grateful at the same time. I need a few minutes to gather myself before his handsome face makes me useless, especially after this morning. I take my time to gather myself and prep my hormones so as not to go haywire before I clear my throat. When he doesn’t turn even then, I take a step forward.
“Hello, Mr Devlin.”
I keep referring to his second name just to antagonise him. He asked me to call him by his name when we first met, as if it pleased him when I referred him as Zagan. After witnessing his irrational behaviour, I decided not to do anything that pleased him.
But right now, I am downright scared to call him Zagan. I have next to no clue why. I seemed to be full of hot air just this morning. Going toe-to-toe with the man, kicking all my self-preservation out the window.
When he stays rooted to his spot, refusing to acknowledge my presence, I take another step forward. If not for the minuscule change of his back muscles flexing as his body goes rigid, I would have thought he didn’t hear me. But that is impossible. I don’t think he is a man who misses anything, let alone me barging into his office, panting like a tired dog.
“Um, is it a bad time? Do you want me to come sometime later?”
I ask one thing and do the other. If I want to leave, why am I moving forward? If the prospect of being alone with him in this dimly lit spacious office is scaring the living daylights out of me, then why am I closing the distance between us to see his face? My mind and body are in complete contradiction when this man is involved.
I step on the raised platform that hosts his large table in the center, the wall behind it made of bookcase and an open space to its left, where he stands, gazing down at the city. I put a distance that could fit two Zagans between us as I go to stand beside him and look down. Vehicles are running below us, the lights shine under the dark sky, resembling the twinkling stars on a dark blanket.
I try to understand what it feels like to look down at the city one owned. But the beautiful city holds no appeal when he stands beside me, and despite myself, I turn my head sideways to glance at his side profile. His scarred side of the face shines under the ceiling light while the other half is hidden by the shadows, painting him in a darker and rugged shade. The jagged scar moves when a muscle in his jaw ticks, and before I register what I am doing, I move closer, and my hands shoot up to trace its outline.
My index finger is mere inches away from his face when his head snaps towards me, which has me gasping and jumping back a few steps after looking at the hostility in his eyes. Okay, he is touchy about scars. Noted.
“Sorry,” I squeak and bite my lower lip in tension.
Anything he could have said would be better than him taking a threatening step towards me.
I try to move away, but the look in his eyes warns me not to do so. Somehow, he is different now—than he was this morning. All the times I met him before, there wasn’t the bitterness or bubbling anger that hit me in waves like it does now. Sure, he was his surly and broody self, but not this unhinged anger.
Why?
When he stands two paces from me, I turn to look up at him. Those pools of greys shine under the ambient orange light, casting a glow that makes him look similar to the devil. He remains silent, and I expect nothing less from him. This man has an unhealthy aversion towards communication that is testing my saintly patience. Like every time, the silence makes me restless and pressures me to be the first one to break it.
“Hi.”
He stays quiet.
Really? After all the dirty things he whispered into my ear, left me all bothered and red in my classroom, he cannot muster a single greeting?
I struggle to think about the way to bring up the topic. Sure, being straightforward is always an option, but won’t it seem rude? He would think I only came here to see him because I needed something.
You do need something!
The annoying voice hisses, and I silence it. I don’t need foreign voices quipping inside my mind when I am already struggling to join words together to form coherent sentences with him here.
“How was your day? Was it…” What is the polite way to ask if he encountered any murder attempts or not? “…eventful?” I finish with a cringy smile.
My words go deaf as he continues looking at me with those dark eyes, refusing to talk. No matter how many times he looks at me, I just cannot get used to the intensity in those eyes. Not when my body sings without him even moving a muscle.
“Um…had your supper?”
Supper? Bloody supper?
Who the hell do you think you are?
A maid in waiting for a medieval princess?
“Dinner. I meant dinner.” I correct, already feeling my cheeks warm in embarrassment.
I blow out a breath when he refuses to talk again, giving up on making him converse.
For now.
“Really? You won’t talk? Why? Upped your quota of sentences this morning?”
I am going to regret it tomorrow when I look back on this conversation.
“A fucking imbalance.” I hear him murmur to himself as he takes a step forward.
“What?” I frown.
“Does he have your loyalty or fear?”
His question immediately shuts me down. Who is talking about? Vir? How does he know? There’s no evidence. The little paperwork the police had after I resurfaced—Vir took care of that. He wouldn’t let it be traced back to him. So how the hell does this man know?
I know he has the resources to dig into my life, but there’s no way he could have anything on that part of it. I made sure of it. That particular closet of mine is filled with the kind of skeletons I swore to keep buried, to take to my grave. And there are no traces of it. Vir made sure of that, as if the forest, the basement, the dungeons—none of it ever existed
“Or both?” he steps closer, and I take an involuntary step back.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I lie.
It is easy. It's as easy as slipping into the skin I wear. I’ve prepared myself for this conversation for years. But I did not expect to be confronted by a man who is shaping up to be my biggest nightmare. I knew the life I chose when I decided to bury that nasty secret inside me. And I’m well equipped to deal with it if someone wants to know that.
His large hands go to grip me around my waist and pull me flush into his hard body. My eyes widen, and I brace the sudden gesture with my hands splayed over his chest. His heart beats steadily under my palm, and I crane my neck to look at him. This close, it is highly unlikely to keep my mind working.
“I told you not to be a pathetic liar, little siren.” His voice is deceptively calm.
Despite not knowing him completely, my instincts tell me to trust him. For all his surly self and brooding face, Zagan’s presence throws a blanket of security over me. Something I have never felt after Dad’s death. Of course, this could turn out to be the biggest mistake in my life, but I have no other choice but this if I want him off my case. I have to at least be partially honest.
“Please don’t make me relive those days, Zagan.”
I’m not as innocent or naive as people believe me to be. They take one look at me and think I’m a goody-two-shoes with a sunshine personality. But little do they know that I’m a liar, manipulator, killer and even a thief if the need arises. And I know being vulnerable with a shaky voice while I use his name can get him away from this topic, at least for now.
It works. Zagan lets out a sigh and loosens his grip slightly around me.
“I was told you are here for something.”
I nod, “I’m sure Iblis told you about the video Ivy took of illegal human experimentation,”
“And?”
“I was told that you have the power to shut it down.”
He stays silent for a heavy minute, making me rethink my words, wondering if I’ve switched to my native tongue by mistake.
“Why should I?”
Of course, everything is a deal to this criminal. He cannot just be kind enough to help someone who direly needs it.
“I don’t think it's money because you have more than enough. So what do you want in exchange?” I do not feel the confidence that I force into my voice.
If at all, my insides are quivering, and my heart seems to stop for a moment in anticipation of what he will ask.
No.
He doesn’t ask. He demands .
A devious glint crosses his eyes, and the grip around me tightens again as he presses me tight against him. His hard muscles flex under me, blazing heat seeping off of his skin as he holds me impossibly close.
“You. You will be mine.”
I close my eyes for a second to allow the traitorous tears to step back. I guessed as much, did I not? Then why did I feel the dread creeping into my body even after preparing for this? Maybe because I knew I could not survive Zagan. My already battered heart would blow into smithereens under his rough handling, and all I could do would be to watch as he crushed it. But do I have any other choice?
No.
Despite the conversation this morning where he blatantly declared that I was his—rather ridiculously, might I add, I knew he wanted my willingness in it. He told such. He told me that I’d be his, willingly. He does not seem like the man who forces himself on a woman, but he definitely is the devil who will force her hand.
Yes, I can just say chuck it and get away from him. But this is the least I could do for Ivy for everything she does for me. She has been an important pillar in my healing. She was there, not asking for anything. I know she would understand if I backed out, but I cannot be selfish. Not with her.
When I open my eyes, it is with determination that I wouldn’t let this man anywhere near my heart. Yes, I never had casual relationships or only sex. But how hard could it be? The fast-beating heart and sweaty palms indicate that it could be the hardest-dead thing I would ever do.
“A little negotiation? Maybe I could offer you some science classes instead? You seem to be rather interested in them,”
I try one last lousy attempt, to which he replies with a blank stare.
“Fine,” I relent. “I have no clue what this being your business means. But just for the record, you cannot own a person. You can only own a commodity, any materialistic thing and a human being isn’t a commodity.”
“I can damn right own anything if I want to.” He deadpans.
I let out a sigh. It’s like talking to a wall.
“All right. I have a few stipulations before we proceed further.”
He raises his brow slightly as if he is humouring me to go on.
“But before that, tell me what being yours means, Mr Devlin. Because this is my first, and I need to know the rules before I dive into it.”
It is so shameful how easily I agreed to this deal. A little effort would have been nice for my self-respect. The truth is, as much as I want to throw an excuse for doing this for a noble cause, there is a part of me that jumped in glee about being owned by this man. And that part is being severely judged by the feministic, progressive, logical and independent parts of myself.
Instead of answering, Zagan takes a step back, another and another, until he gives me his back and goes to take a seat behind his great mahogany table. The look in his eyes is beginning to turn me apprehensive as he rests his chin on his closed fist.
“Take a seat.”