Chapter Twelve: The Blurring Line

Dinner with a notorious crime boss was a laughable farce if there ever was one, and yet, it made for a surprisingly entertaining Thursday evening. After A'isha tasted a spoonful of the pineapple, mint, and chilli sorbet, she voiced her verdict. "Sweet, yet fierce. Like an identity crisis right on my tastebuds."

Another of Marik's chuckles filled their private booth, a continual backdrop to her quirky food commentary. "Another hit, I take it?"

"Absolutely," she said with a merry nod. "These palate cleansers are a fun detour on the taste journey, right?"

"The element of surprise," he said, thoughtfully swirling his non-alcoholic wine. "It's the essence of a degustation experience."

Their conversation had flowed with the evening, jumping from shared interests and culinary revelations to his tales of global escapades and her passion for performance. Marik's charisma had rapidly become a dangerous distraction, his superiority complex momentarily veiled by glimpses of warmth and easy smiles. Was Operation: Mellow Marik paying off, or was this another of his masterful acts?

Lucia, their hostess, breezed in with their seventh course: a deconstructed tiramisu. With each bite of the heavenly dish, A'isha felt like she was hearing an angelic chorus, and judging by Marik's face, he was similarly fighting the urge to get down on one knee and propose to his dessert. "This is a caffeinated cloud of pure bliss," she shared her latest verdict.

"A revelation," he concurred, completely serious.

A'isha burst into laughter. "The coffee addict finds comfort in tiramisu. Who would've thought?" Sampling her latest mock wine, a fusion of berries and oak, her curiosity stirred. "These wines; how close are they to the real thing?"

Marik took a measured sip, maybe contemplating his answer. "They emulate the body and character of alcoholic wine," he finally said, "but they lack the punch. The heat of alcohol, the tannins - they're absent. But these mock wines are commendable, nonetheless."

A'isha studied him, spoon paused mid-air. He clearly knew she didn't like alcohol. He'd tried to discuss it on his jet. He'd even planned this alcohol-free evening. But how much did he know from Amara's brain? And how much was he guessing?

As they finished their tiramisu, A'isha considered her next move in Operation: Mellow Marik. Her eyes wandered to the moonlit vineyard beyond the window, stars shimmering like diamond dust, as the memory of their shared breakfast and Marik's unsettling tales of his past replayed in her head. Would it help him feel like their connection was stronger if she divulged stories from her own scarred past? How would he react? With empathy? Dismissal? Derision?

The idea of getting down and dirty with the feels had her stomach fluttering, but she had to take the plunge. Operation: Mellow Marik was doomed without trust. And trust was a two way street.

Marik's teenage years, dominated by the rise of the Rare Hunters, were an ongoing masterclass in deception and strategy. Yet now, as he conversed, bantered and laughed the evening away with A'isha, he found himself wondering - was this how ordinary teenagers experienced camaraderie?

Pushing the thought aside, he focused on his unfolding plan. The distinct boundary between captive and captor was growing faint, the promise of her cooperation just a matter of time.

A'isha, now silent, split her gaze between him and the window, absent-mindedly playing with her spoon. He considered probing, but her trust was a budding rose, not yet fully bloomed. So he held back, leaving room for her to steer her thoughts. Fortunately, she didn't keep him waiting.

"Do you know why I don't like alcohol?" Her voice was unusually timid.

Hiding his curiosity, he took a sip of his wine. "I don't," he answered truthfully.

A'isha met his gaze, silence stretching between them as she searched his eyes. Perhaps doubting his claim. Holding her gaze, he took another unhurried sip of his wine, silently encouraging her to continue.

"I don't usually talk about this," she murmured, "but my parents died when I was a baby."

Marik stilled. He had suspected as much, but her volunteering such an intimate detail was rather unexpected. Every aspect of her - the subtle quiver in her voice, the agitated twirling of her dessert spoon, her fleeting glances - suddenly commanded his full attention.

"I was meant to grow up in Los Angeles, not Alexandria. My parents loved to travel, loved LA. When they found out they were expecting, they thought 'why not settle in sunny California'? My uncle… he says they were vivacious - always singing, always dancing, proper theatre enthusiasts." She offered a weak laugh. "Guess that's where I get it from…"

Marik could almost see it - A'isha's parents, their world alive with music, laughter, joy. His chest tightened.

"Being new parents was chaotic, of course. They'd had zero time to themselves. But then, their favourite artist was performing in town. Uncle Ahad had flown over to meet me. He surprised my parents with concert tickets, offering to babysit while they enjoyed a much-deserved date night."

A'isha's narrative came to life like a meticulously crafted painting, each stroke a spectral memory she had painstakingly created. Yet, the ominous undertow of impending tragedy cast a dark shade of grey over it all.

"Dad's faithful motorcycle hadn't seen much use since I was born. Not exactly baby-friendly. So, they dusted it off and took it out for the night. Ahad showed me videos of them belting out songs at the concert, making funny faces at this diner where they grabbed dessert afterwards. They were having a blast."

A'isha fiddled with her napkin, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. A lump formed in his throat.

"And then…" Her eyes fell to the table. "On their way home, it happened. A drunk driver missed a turn on a high-speed road. Dad swerved to avoid a head-on, but… they crashed into a lamppost."

Everything clicked into place - her distaste for alcohol, her aversion to motorcycles. It all tied back to the traumatic accident that claimed her parents. An instrument of freedom had cruelly become a harbinger of disaster.

"The drunk driver didn't even stop. He just kept driving. When the police caught up with him, he was destroying his car. And the bastard is already out of prison, even got another DUI. He got drunk, killed two people, and what did he learn from it? Nothing." Her breaths were deep and shaky as she seemed to fight her simmering anger.

Marik watched, his jaw set.

"When I was ten, I found a newspaper clipping while helping Uncle Ahad spring clean. It had a picture from that night. The motorcycle… it was barely recognisable, just twisted metal and glass scattered everywhere… People tell me they would've died instantly, wouldn't have felt any pain, and I know they mean well, but… my parents had so much more life to live, so much more to offer. Them, me, my whole family… we were all robbed of countless might-have-been memories."

Marik had been a slave to responsibility and fealty before he even drew breath. A'isha, on the other hand, was born to two parents who had loved her. She had not needed to do anything or be anyone to earn the love of either parent. Both had simply loved her for existing. And in one night, her entire life had changed trajectory, robbing her of that love.

"I miss them…" Her confession was a bare whisper, striking an unexpected chord within him. "That probably sounds stupid, missing parents I don't even remember—"

"It isn't stupid, A'isha," he found himself reassuring her, a familiarity brewing in the void carved by a mother's absence. A void deepened by a merciless father's rule, or in her circumstance, a domineering aunt. "My own mother passed away during childbirth. My birth. I often wonder what shape my life might have taken had she survived."

A softness melted into her gaze, her lips curving into a sad smile. "I'm sorry you never knew her." A'isha's words were soaked in a tenderness he hadn't anticipated, not when he was their recipient.

The moment held him in a serene spell. Sharing his pain with her didn't feel like bearing a vulnerability, but like forging a wordless pact of mutual understanding. "And I'm sorry you never knew your parents."

The warmth in her smile amplified, and despite himself, his own lips pulled up in response.

Lucia returned, balancing dessert plates with reverent care, each topped with a pastry marvel. Marik's eyes roved over the evening's concluding indulgence: a fruit tart gleaming like a semi-opened rosebud.

"How was the tiramisu?" their hostess asked.

A'isha sought Marik's gaze, a knowing glint in her eye. "It was… a revelation."

His grin widened at the word choice. "Indeed, quite the revelation."

Their journey back to The Liberty Hotel was coated with the kind of quiet contentment that follows a day crammed with new sights, tastes, and deep revelations. As their chauffeured chariot cut through the Sicilian twilight, A'isha took in the nocturnal panorama: hills cloaked in shadows, vineyards beneath a star-studded quilt. The fusion of dashboard glow and moonlight inside their posh ride draped everything in a palette of blues and silvers.

Beside her, Marik looked like a ghost spun from the night, a calm smile on his face. Conversations about her parents were far and few, a subject she usually evaded due to the unwelcome pity it brought. But his reaction had been a breath of fresh air; he had simply listened, providing room for her narrative, then reciprocated with a delicate piece of his own past. No pity, just mutual understanding.

"Thanks for today," she found herself blurting, and wished she could shove the words back in her mouth as his faraway stare instead focused on her. "I mean, I only considered ripping my hair out, like, six times, so hey, a gold star for you."

"Is this your diplomatic way of admitting you've enjoyed my company?" His smirk was a familiar taunt.

She huffed, idly playing with her seatbelt. "I've survived your company. Big difference."

That taunting smirk of his mellowed into something softer. "I'm glad you had fun today, A'isha."

Turning back to the silver-lit road, she brushed off the odd tug in her heart. Her mind meandered back to his past: a sun-starved childhood, a cruel father, the maternal affection he, like her, had missed out on. She couldn't help but wonder, what alternate versions of themselves would they be if their lives hadn't been marred by such loss?

"Tell me, what was your highlight of the day?" His question knocked her off her introspective train of thought.

She snorted. "Hoping for an ego stroke?"

Clearly unable to refrain for long, Marik leaned over the centre seat and right into her space, a mischievous spark in his eye. "Indulge me?"

As A'isha rewound through her memories of the day, she couldn't help but compare them to her last jaunt to Catania. Back then, the boisterous chaos and relentless pace of her trip with Dani had been exhilarating, no doubt about it, but it'd also been stressful. They'd been so busy drinking in the sights, cramming in activities, that there was seldom time to sit back and reflect on them. Yet today, an itinerary led by her annoyingly knowledgeable Italian-speaking tour guide - rounded off with a meal in which her disdain for liquor was oddly respected - had been a whole new ball game. The biggest surprise, though? If she was really honest with herself, the cherry on top of her day might've just been... him?

As he reclined back, a self-satisfied grin curved his lips. "Too many highlights to choose from?"

"More like an uphill battle to find a single one."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Rain-check granted."

"Your generosity knows no bounds." His cheeky grin nudged her to throw his question back at him. "How about your highlight, huh? 'Indulge me'."

His playful demeanour dimmed, replaced by an unsettling sincerity. "Our conversations. They felt… real."

His honesty rendered her silent for a moment. "Well," she finally replied, "I'm glad I could amuse you." Maybe his honest answer deserved an honest response. Isn't that how to build a connection? By surprising him with a little truthful vulnerability every now and again? "Marik, getting to know you better was the highlight of my day."

It was as if she'd smacked him with a fish. His eyes widened, his mouth forming an O of surprise. That cocky confidence evaporated, unveiling a Marik she'd never met - startled and completely disarmed. In a weird, messed up sort of way, it was actually kind of adorable.

Regaining his composure, a smile brightened Marik's eyes. "I'm glad I could amuse you too." This time, he'd mirrored her words, and her heart did a weird little pirouette.

Why were her insides doing ballet? Get it together, Ish! She snapped her head back to the window, dismissing the peculiar flutter in her chest as a harmless side-effect of her plan. His reaction, priceless as it was, suggested her revelation had been the right play. Operation: Mellow Marik seemed to be on track. So why did this tiny victory feel like dancing precariously on a cliff's edge?

Marik slotted the last bottle of Vigna Dorata's premier wine into the kitchen cupboard, the soft clink of glass against wood serving as a backdrop to his winding thoughts. A'isha had claimed that getting to know him better was the highlight of her day, and naturally, his innate skepticism compelled him to scrutinise her claim, hunting for falsehood. However, as he navigated memories of the day's shared laughter and intimate dialogues, an intriguing possibility presented itself: was she simply telling the truth?

A'isha emerged in his peripheral vision, discarding her jacket over a dining chair before drifting toward the grand piano - an interesting choice. The instrument gleamed near the balcony, through which an opalescent cascade of moonlight filtered in, lending an ethereal glow to the curves and motifs adorning it.

"So," she started, her fingertips reverently grazing the piano's polished white and gold surface, "I may have been a little humble when I said I couldn't play."

He arched a single brow upward, draping his own jacket atop hers. "Is that so?"

Behind her enigmatic smile, a secret seemed to take refuge as her gaze bounced between him and the instrument. "Well, I suppose I wasn't completely lying. I used to play, but I'm definitely no Beethoven." She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip, "Would it bother you if I'm rusty?"

"Quite the opposite," he responded, moving closer. "I'd be privileged to witness your piano renaissance."

"Silver-tongued as always," she teased, settling on the piano stool's velvet cushion.

"It's one of my many talents," he said as he joined her.

With a dramatic roll of her eyes and a genuine smile, she gingerly lifted the piano lid, sending a soft creak through the suite. Her fingers poised over the keys, the apprehensive painter before a virgin canvas. "Just give me a sec to reacquaint with this beast."

Marik nodded, allowing her the concentration to weave a connection with the instrument. As she teased a vaguely familiar melody from the ivory keys, her arm brushed his; an innocent touch that, despite its brevity, felt like a comet streaking across his senses—

A dissonant note pierced the air. "My bad," she said, her cheeks flushing under the chandelier's golden glow.

"As you said, you're rusty," he reassured her, his eyes lingering on her blush.

Her giggle was quick, followed by a brief clearing of her throat. "Okay, I'm ready. Just remember it's been a while."

He lightly nudged her shoulder with his. "You'll be fine."

With another sweet giggle, she nudged him back. "I'm no rockstar, but here's my rendition of Pink's 'Just Give Me A Reason'."

As she began, the room's atmosphere seemed to recalibrate, her initial hesitance eaten up by raw emotion pouring out through her song.

"I let you see the parts of me that weren't all that pretty," her voice resonated, filling every corner of the suite with haunting echoes.

Marik, always in control, felt an unexpected disarray. The lyrics - they began to parallel the relationship between him and A'isha. The intimate tales they'd exchanged, the wounds of their pasts exposed to one another. How was it that she had found words that encapsulated their current situation so perfectly?

"It's in the stars, it's been written in the scars of our hearts," her song continued. "We're not broken, just bent, and we can learn to love again."

The melody wrapped around him, her voice its own instrument, and with it came the realisation that his perception of her had cracked. She had stolen his attention, his heartbeat in sync with the rhythm she produced. It was unsettling, this vulnerability, but also strangely soothing. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and suddenly, their roles reversed: he was the captive, she the captor.

It wasn't just the strength of her voice that enthralled him, but the sight of her losing herself to the music. She was a torrent of emotion transformed into a melody, the chronicle of her soul unfurling with each resonant note. The resilient, fiery A'isha was momentarily eclipsed by a young woman unveiling her passion, her joy. She was sharing a piece of herself, fragile and beautiful, and trusting him not to break it.

The music faded, and she lingered in the silence, a sigh of contentment passing her lips.

"A'isha," he breathed, his voice a ripple in the serenity, "thank you for sharing that with me."

As she looked at him, shoulder to shoulder, uncertainty flickered in her eyes. But then, a radiant smile dawned. "You just witnessed the peak of my piano-playing abilities. After that, it's all downhill. But I wouldn't be a Pink fan if I didn't do her justice, right?"

His lips curved up. "Why did you stop?"

She pressed a few random notes like an afterthought. "Juggling piano with singing, dancing, theatre... it was too much."

Before he could stop himself, his hand reached out, his fingers brushing against hers atop the black and white keys. A quiet gasp escaped her, but she didn't withdraw. Instead, her fingers laced with his, their palms melding together in a manner that a part of him had quietly yearned for since their last parting. The flush on her cheeks intensified, their breaths synchronising, as his heart hammered out a wild rhythm. "You have a way of captivating an audience, A'isha."

Her laugh was quiet, sincere. "Marik, if anyone here knows how to captivate an audience, it's you."

"Perhaps through fear," he whispered, "but not admiration."

A'isha's oceanic eyes locked with his, and a strange warmth bloomed within him. "I'm not so sure about that." Her thumb traced the back of his hand with an almost imperceptible tremor, her light touch igniting a pleasant fire within him.

As their shared silence stretched into infinity, creating an intimate space that held just them, Marik was confronted by a startling revelation: A'isha was beautiful. In the physical sense, yes, he had never denied that, but even beyond. Her resilience, her wit, her empathy, her kindness - all of it merged to create a woman unparalleled. As he sat beside her, his fingers intertwined with her own, these emotions coursing through him - emotions he could no longer deny - were no fleeting fascination. No, this was deep. This was real. And as he looked into her eyes, he couldn't help but wonder: did she feel it too?

A'isha could certainly feel a pull toward Marik, and for once, it wasn't the intense gravity of his planet-sized ego. Their interlocked eyes? Like fireworks before the grand finale. Their linked hands? A sizzling tango of charged ions. And him? The calm eye of her storm - funny, since he'd shoved her into its path to begin with. So why, then, did she feel so damn safe with him?

His thumb grazed her hand, his touch a scattering wildfire to her thoughts. The sensation felt like an unspoken agreement—

Panic gripped her like a vice. This wasn't right. In fact, Mr Right looked terrifyingly wrong from this angle. He was a crime boss, a kidnapper, likely a murderer. And yet, against all logic, she was tumbling into feeling something for him. This was far from the plan - she was supposed to be lulling him into a false sense of security with a (surprisingly decent) piano solo, not getting lost in his lavender eyes or swooning at his touch. Operation: Mellow Marik was going sideways.

She had to escape. Now. But she couldn't just throw a sassy 'bye Felicia' and waltz out. That goddamn Millennium Rod was her constant obstacle.

Then it clicked.

Without the Rod, he'd be a regular Joe.

Well, a crime boss Joe, but magicless nonetheless.

That was her escape key. Snatch the Rod tucked under his belt, punch his family jewels (a universal male Achilles' heel), and dash to the elevator—

Marik's gentle squeeze on her hand yanked her back to reality. "This is not the path I foresaw, A'isha," he confessed, his voice so gentle it made her heart do a flip. "The realm of the heart is unknown to me. I won't blame you if you wish to pull away."

His eyes held a sincerity more enticing than any smouldering glance he'd ever thrown her way, but remembering the wolf beneath the sheep's clothing, she grounded herself. Her heart may have progressed from rigid ballet to chaotic breakdancing, but her brain was the disciplined referee. It was time for Operation: Mellow Marik's grand finale.

Taking a deep breath, A'isha gently manoeuvred their interlaced hands onto his lap. His grip tightened, like her hand was a priceless relic about to be ripped from his grasp.

"I don't want to pull away, Marik," she whispered into the fragile silence.

His eyes, usually calm as a lagoon, flashed with something foreign… something thrilling… something that echoed the static thrum in her veins. Her gaze flicked to his lips - soft, tantalising.

"I feel this too." She squeezed his hand, a reassuring mask over her intent. Guilt was a luxury she couldn't afford; not while she was leaning in, not while he was reciprocating, his eyes half-lidded, his face alarmingly vulnerable. "It's confusing." Her free hand, trembling, moved toward the Rod. The space between them was electric. Too close, screamed her brain. Not close enough, begged the rest of her.

As if in agreement, Marik inched closer.

"But it's exciting." Her fingers grazed the Rod, a bolt of static leaping up her hand as though the artefact was sentient, aware of her imminent betrayal. But she pressed on, "And I don't know what to think." She fended off the mental image of his betrayed expression, the walls he'd rebuild thicker and higher—

"Are you certain you want this?" The question was a whisper caressing her cheek as Marik tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "I respect you, A'isha."

A reckless part of her screamed to forget the plan, to close the gap, to drown in him completely. But she had to tread carefully, to not be lured by his charm while skirting closer to the precipice. The Rod was almost within her grasp.

"I have no intention nor desire to take advantage of you," he reassured, his free hand painting a trail of concern along her cheek before cradling her face, a touch both tender and tormenting. "Consent always matters when it comes to intimacy."

Consent mattered, full stop. She couldn't let herself forget who he was - the one responsible for her nightmares, Amara's manipulation, their abduction; the source of Ahad's despair for his missing girls.

"What's between us, Marik… it's real, right?" She was dancing with the devil, but would he play along?

"Is it?" He raised an eyebrow at her, a corner of his mouth lifting with it.

A'isha couldn't decide what was more dangerous - his stupid bedroom eyes, his little half-smirk, or the dash of hope lacing his voice even as he challenged her sincerity. Irrelevant. All of it. She had to soldier on. "If you're willing to explore it…" Leaning in, she invited him closer, his scent enveloping her - a rich, earthy mix with a zest of citrus. Her eyes slid shut as her fingers finally closed around the Rod. "Then so am I."

As she was about to coax the Rod free from his belt, Marik pulled the rug out from under her. Not with his snark or a smirk. But with a kiss.

His lips brushed against hers, so warm and feather-light, and her eyes flew open in shock.

His voice was a whisper against her lips. "Was that real, A'isha?"

A pulse of electricity shot through her.

She hadn't expected him to actually kiss her.

Him.

Marik.

A crime boss.

The very man responsible for her current situation.

And he was leaning in to do it again.

As their lips met a second time, a gasp caught in her throat. She'd kissed before. A grand total of one person. But this, how could a single kiss undo her so thoroughly? Her senses were acutely alert, her body a whirlwind of sensation. This wasn't the heart-stopping plummet of a roller coaster, but the exhilarating ascent, that delicious pause at the peak before gravity yanked you into blissful chaos.

Their lips brushed, melded, melted in synchronised harmony like a perfectly practised choreography. He tasted like fruity wine, berry glaze, and just a hint of tiramisu; an unexpected ninth course on her evening menu, the sweetness of his soft lips a revelation all its own.

Untangling her fingers from his, she reached up, sinking them into his ridiculously silky hair, likely pampered with extravagant serums that had no business mingling with the unglamorous sweat of her palm.

His hand, now free from hers, fell upon her leg, his thumb drawing dizzying circles against the fabric of her jeans. Her knees parted slightly, and his fingers daringly explored higher, higher.

With a sigh, she urged him closer, deepening the kiss, her fingers tightening in his hair. His reaction was instant and intense - a soft, breathy moan, her name exhaled from his lips like an adoring mantra.

This new Marik. He was confusing. And confusingly sexy. A side of him she'd never dared to imagine—

Because she shouldn't imagine it.

Because she was his captive.

His captive with a plan—

Marik's lips broke away from hers, blazing a heated descent along her jaw, down her neck.

All thoughts ceased.

A hushed moan slid from her lips, and Marik's restraint seemed to snap; his grip on her thigh became a possessive claim, his mouth on her neck an urgent demand that spoke of a hunger no longer contained—

Her eyes shot open.

She needed him to stop. She wanted him to stop.

Her every coherent thought was a stroke against a tide that wanted to consume her, but she'd always been good at going against the flow.

As she drew in a shuddering breath, her fingers wrapped around the cool, metallic handle of the Millennium Rod, pulling with as much stealth as she could muster. Yes! She had it.

But his lips were still tracing a tantalising path across her neck, his body leaning into hers.

He wasn't stopping.

"Marik," she breathed, the tremor in her voice barely disturbing the silence that blanketed the room. The magic of his name broke his trance, his lips halting in their voyage as he pulled away, seeking her eyes.

His hair was a mess. His breaths, heavy and warm, slipped past his slightly parted lips to brush against her face. And his normally piercing eyes, now half-lidded and kiss-dazed, wandered from her gaze to her lips.

But then something else stole his attention.

Those eyes drifted down, down.

To land on the Rod.

In her hand.

His expression flipped in an instant. Gone was the man who'd just worshipped her and in his place was a guy who'd just been stabbed in the heart.

"A'isha, what are you doing?"

There was no stutter. No uncertainty. No feelings. It was a terrifying shift from the way he'd just breathlessly moaned her name.

Perched next to him on the piano stool, A'isha's body felt like a seismic force, its tremors threatening to erupt into an earthquake. Her answer, when it came, should not have sounded so meek, so uncertain. "Saving myself and Amara."

The cold night air slithered in as Marik removed his hands from her. Her skin whispered that she missed his presence. But her brain screamed that his presence was the very thing she was trying to rid herself of.

His eyes were on the Rod she'd seized.

Then his gaze shifted upward, traversing the distance to lock onto hers. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling. His trembling hands clutched his knees until his knuckles turned white and the shaking subsided. Was he plotting, or just barely holding his wrath in check?

Neither scenario was in her best interest. She had to act now - before he unleashed his next scheme or let loose the beast lurking beneath his crime boss exterior. But what were her options? A crotch punch was now off the table; he'd see it coming. She could make a run for it, but he'd pursue. A punch to the face? He'd parry it. Would she… have to use the Rod on him?

So far, she'd been willing to fake (or not fake, but she'd save that self-interrogation for later) a connection with her captor to get closer to him. She'd manipulated him, exploited his emotions, his vulnerability. But was she capable of taking it even further? Could she use the Rod against him? Invade his mind and force her will upon him?

Her grip on the Rod loosened slightly.

No. She couldn't. Even if she figured out how to use its powers, she could never take control of someone's mind. She'd seen it done to Amara. She'd spent a lifetime pushing back against Aunt Elissa's attempts to control her. She wouldn't stoop to that level. She couldn't sacrifice what made her 'A'isha' to escape. It would be a hollow trade.

A sidelong glance at Marik found him silently studying her. His lips parted, and she readied herself for a verbal assault, but then the coldness in his eyes seemed to melt just a fraction. "Are you okay?"

What? Why ask her that? When he was at her mercy? But his question was a bullet to her heart, dredging up an uncontrolled flood of emotions - guilt, despair, confusion. The enormity of her actions, the abyss of her desperation, how she'd just surrendered a slice of her dignity by making out with her captor. And the worst part? A tiny, traitorous piece of her had enjoyed it - his lips on hers, his hand clutching her thigh, her name a husky moan from his mouth.

He was The R.H. He'd kidnapped her. And she'd let him touch her… kiss her… And if she'd met him in another time, another place, if the Rod in her hand wasn't used on her cousin, if it wasn't the pinnacle of his power, she couldn't help but wonder: where would she have drawn the line?

A tear slid down her cheek. "I don't know…"

"You'll need to use the Rod on me to escape." Marik's words were calm, measured, his attention flicking between her and the Rod. "Do you have it in you?"

Her eyes sunk to the item in her hand, clasped beneath her taut knuckles.

"The Millennium Rod won't obey you. It's loyal to me. It's dagger, however? That doesn't discriminate."

So she wouldn't be invading his mind; she'd be breaking his body. A grisly image flashed behind her eyes - the Rod, impaled in his abdomen. His blood, a startling crimson smeared on her hand. Her face, pale as a ghost, grappling with the aftermath. Her grip shook around the Rod. Could she take a life - his life - to reclaim her own?

Marik's tone was gentle, but it stung worse than a slap. "A'isha, I understand—"

"No!" She was on her feet before the echo of her cry faded, tears flowing down her cheeks. "No, you don't understand!" The Rod shook aloft in her hand.

He stayed seated, his focus not on the Rod, but on her.

"Take it," she choked out, shoving the artefact against his chest with such force that his hand shot out to catch himself on the piano. Sharp notes echoed at his touch, a fitting minor key soundtrack to her plea. "Just take it! I can't do it. I can't hurt you. I— I wish there was another way…"

His fingers, soft yet insistent, closed around the Rod, relieving her of its burden. She was many things, but a killer wasn't one of them.

Now, the Rod had returned to its master.

And she'd have to face the consequences.

As Marik rose from the stool, A'isha kept her eyes pinned to the carpet, bracing for his impending wrath - but when he spoke, his words weren't a storm, but a drizzle. "Integrity is the practice of being honest and showing a consistent and uncompromising adherence to strong moral and ethical principles and values."

His dictionary dive seemed an odd choice for a tantrum.

"A'isha."

She lifted her gaze to meet his.

"You have unparalleled integrity, and for that, I admire you."

A'isha sniffed, rubbing her wet eyes. "I may have integrity," she said, managing a weak smile, "but I don't have freedom."

Marik boldly bridged the distance between them, his hand finding her chin, and she loathed how she ached to lean into his touch. His fingers then journeyed upward, gently brushing a tear from her cheek. How was he not… angry?

"You and Amara will be free one day. As I've promised."

"When?"

She expected him to pull his hand back, but his fingers lingered, softly caressing her cheek.

"Once my family is free from three millennia of servitude."

His words brought a slew of questions to her mind, but a look in his eyes told her now wasn't the time to pry. "Please tell me it won't take three millennia for you to free us." Why did her humour have such impeccably bad timing?

But he chuckled. "A'isha, I am nothing if not determined. You will see your freedom. And I will see my victory. It's only a matter of time."

The fangirl in me just wants them to EFF already, but the writer in me knows better. I hate the writer in me. She's such a cock block.