Chapter Seven: The Aerial Asylum
A'isha slouched in a chair fit for a king on what could only be described as the flying manifestation of Marik's ego. His private jet screamed chic minimalism, with its cream leather upholstery, light woods, and rich purple accents. Add the curved ceiling and she was basically trapped in a giant can of pretentious air. Who did Marik think he was, Tony Stark?
She thought back to them standing on the wooden jetty, Marik's sea plane bobbing nearby. She'd been determined for him to board and seat himself first, so she could make sure to sit as far from him as humanly possible. That, of course, meant that even the simple act of boarding had been a war of words. And Marik had been armed with a thesaurus.
"Ladies first," he'd insisted, standing smugly by the steps to the plane.
"Beast before beauty," she'd challenged, eyes locked with his.
"I insist," he'd pressed, holding her stare.
"I persist," she'd fired back.
"I behest."
"And I resist."
"So I repudiate," he'd lobbed that last word into the verbal crossfire like a live grenade, leaving her temporarily stunned as her internal thesaurus failed her. His smirk broadened at her silence. "It means—"
"I know what it means!" Thanks to the power of context, but he didn't need to know that.
Their verbal tennis had continued until Marik threatened to carry her on-board, a proposition she suspected was more bluster than reality, but wasn't willing to risk finding out. Whether or not her captor was physically capable of lifting her into his arms was something she'd prefer to remain an untested hypothesis. And so, she'd caved and climbed the steps ahead of him, feeling his gaze on her back and hoping it didn't creep lower.
After boarding (and processing the excessive extravagance), she'd commandeered the aisle seat in the final row of four, a weak attempt to deter him from setting up camp right next to her. But Marik, in all his obnoxious glory, had just squeezed past her, sacrificing the extra leg room in the first row to instead claim the window seat beside her. What a gentleman.
Now, they were about an hour into their three-hour flight, or maybe just five minutes; time dragged like a wounded snail in Marik's presence. Engrossed in some book, his elbow invaded her space each time he flicked a page, but at least he wasn't verbally harassing her. What did mind-controlling, narcissistic crime lords even read? The Art of War? How to Win Friends and Influence People? A few covert glances revealed it to be a first-person novel involving magic. Marik? Reading fiction? Colour her baffled.
"It's called 'The Name of the Wind'," he volunteered, like she was more friend than captive, "an epic fantasy about—"
"I didn't ask about your fat book." Had he known this whole time she'd been peeking at his reading material?
"Your curiosity was clear." Apparently, the novel in his lap wasn't the only open book in the room. He bookmarked his page and shifted in his seat, angling himself toward her. "So, are you enjoying 'The Princess Bride'?"
She crossed her arms and glared in a direction he wasn't - at the sliding door to the galley. Clearly, he knew she'd started reading it; probably because of the CreepCam or her poor cousin's head. And unfortunately, she was enjoying the stupid book – the narrative voice was witty, sarcastic, right up her alley – but she wasn't about to tell him he was right to recommend it to her.
A few minutes of silence ticked by, Marik's visual attention drifting out the window, while hers remained firmly on the closed galley door. Then something skimmed the side of her leg: Marik's knee, threatening a territory dispute. It seemed he'd spent the last few minutes inching his legs wider, as if an invisible force field had taken up residency between his thighs.
"Quit man-spreading!" she barked, shoving his knee away. "You're not packing a python!"
He leaned in, his shoulder grazing hers. "That you know of," he whispered.
For a moment, A'isha choked on words. "Oh please," she finally managed, now pushing his shoulder away - hopefully the last of his limbs she'd need to fend off for the foreseeable future. "You're a textbook example of small dick energy."
Unfazed, Marik continued his flirty tyranny, "I wouldn't object to proving you wrong. I'm sure Amara wouldn't either. She seemed incredibly proud of her suggestion for you to seduce me."
The comment hit her like a slap, flushing her cheeks. She'd suspected he'd overheard their conversation, but him confirming it felt like an unwelcome intrusion. "Go join the mile-high club with yourself!" Without further ado, she tried to rise from her seat - only to be jerked back by her forgotten seatbelt. Damn it! After an excruciating moment of fumbling, she unbuckled it, stood up, and swung around to face him. "I would never stoop so low." She emphasised each word, refusing to let him see the flustered state he'd thrown her in.
Twirling on her heel, A'isha strode toward the bedroom, seeking solitude, or at the very least, distance from Marik. Once they landed in Catania, he'd stick to her like a leach, and she wanted to enjoy every moment of peace before then. Reaching the sliding door to the bedroom, she spun back to face him. "Just so we're clear, I'm going into the bedroom to get away from you. This is the opposite of an invitation."
The bottom half of his face was hidden by his headrest, but his eyes alone spelt his amusement quite clearly. "Understood."
"Good."
"Good," he parroted, maintaining eye contact. The exchange was all too reminiscent of her initial encounter with 'Namu'. He'd parroted her that day too - twice - while maintaining eye contact. God save her from men with staring problems.
With a tad more force than necessary, A'isha slid the door shut behind her. Throwing herself onto the cushy bed, she shuddered at the thought of who might've been charmed into (and let down within) Marik's silken sheets. Ugh! The jerk was like sandpaper against her patience. By the time they landed, she'd probably need a straitjacket to keep herself from throttling him.
While she laid there, her eyes were inadvertently drawn to the symbols and motifs around her, all of it screaming ancient Egypt. What was with that, actually? Was he just obsessed with her home country, or was he Egyptian too? She rolled the thought around her head, letting it marinate as she continued to take in her opulent, albeit unwanted, surroundings.
And then she realised something - soaring above the earth, Marik didn't feel the need to hover over her like a hungry vulture. It was the perfect opportunity to sweep the bedroom and bathroom for anything that might help her pull off an escape in Catania. They hadn't gone through any security before boarding, so it stood to reason that they wouldn't upon disembarking. Anything small and useful enough could be stashed in her bra - nature's pocket.
Beginning her search, A'isha sprung up from the bed to scan her temporary prison. She spied a slim, pointed letter opener, its surface etched with intricate Egyptian symbols; a good make-shift weapon or lock-picker. She tucked it flat under her bra strap, its metal cool against her skin. Next, she found a pen and a small notepad, perfect for leaving breadcrumbs. Wasting no time, she tucked the notepad between her back and bra strap, while the pen found a home between her boobs.
In the bathroom, she stumbled upon a compact grooming kit: a nail file, tweezers, and a pair of small scissors, all encased in a lotus-etched leather pouch. Although far from weapons of mass destruction, they were handy tools in a pinch. Stowing the pouch away in her waistband, she found comfort in knowing that her oversized men's t-shirt nicely hid the odd shapes and a search of her pockets would yield nothing suspicious.
A'isha mentally congratulated herself for a job well done. First, the means for a writing tool, now a covert pocket. Was there anything a bra couldn't do? Giving both rooms a final look-over, she noticed the orange-pink hues of the setting sun beyond the jet's windows. Marik's doting air hostess, Elena, had promised to serve dinner at sunset, and with precious little time until then, she wondered if there was any other way she could exploit her sweet, sweet solitude. Oh, indeed there was.
Removing the pen and notepad from their hiding spots on her person, A'isha quietly peeled off a single sheet of paper, before slipping the pad back into its new home between her back and bra strap. If Marik decided to frisk her for stolen goods and discovered her stash, maybe, if she was lucky, he might fail to check her socks. She scrawled a short message on the sheet:
'SOS! A'isha Dahar was here. In Catania till Monday. Kidnapped by The R.H. Call Det. Ahad Dahar at Alexandria Police, Egypt.'
With a speed borne of urgency, A'isha folded the sheet into an inconspicuous square. She'd plant it somewhere in Catania when the timing was right. Until then, in her sock it went. Once it was safely tucked away, she flung herself back onto the bed, allowing herself a small, triumphant smile. If Marik thought he could just whisk her away to Catania without resistance, he had another thing coming. She was another step closer to kicking his pretentious ass to the curb.
Marik found himself aimlessly tracing the pages of his book, 'The Name of the Wind', a narrative he'd usually devour with fervour. Today, however, it seemed to have been composed in a language that even a polyglot such as himself found indecipherable. His thoughts were tugged in all directions, like a ship caught in an unruly storm. Somewhat alarming, considering his usual prowess in cerebral gymnastics. But the cause was undeniable - A'isha.
Currently, she was sequestered in the bedroom, likely plotting and scheming. Such delightful subterfuge, their interplay.
As he pondered on strategies to lure her back, his personal flight attendant emerged from the galley. Elena's chestnut curls bounced as she announced, "Dinner is nearly ready, sir." Ah, a perfect opportunity to pry A'isha from her lair.
He thanked Elena with his customary charming smile. "We'll dine in the first row, if you will."
As Elena moved to arrange their dining set up, Marik cocooned his book back into his carry on; then, rising from the plush embrace of his seat, he moved toward the bedroom door. He used his usual three knock rhythm, a sort of code between them now. "Dinner is upon us, my love." A term as sincere as his preference for flying coach.
Her reply came as expected, clipped and dismissive, "Have Elena bring it here."
He chuckled, the sound muffled by the humming engines. Perhaps a pinch more playful banter was in order. "My dear A'isha, sans your sparkling presence, my dinner might as well be sawdust, and the sunset, a drab watercolour." Beneath the seemingly heartfelt words was a silent reminder; in the presence of others, such as Elena, she was not his captive, but his enamoured fiancée. After all, she desperately needed the practice.
Eventually, the door surrendered, revealing A'isha, her eyes an alluring canvas of azure hues. His gaze meandered from her dark, wavy tresses, down to her broad shoulders, then lower - only to snap back as he doused the embers of his rampaging teenage hormones with a façade of aloofness. To remain five steps ahead of her, he had to be sharp and alert. She was a threat, and he would not let any objective physical attraction dampen his acuity.
The room behind A'isha was a stage for a silent narrative – the absent letter opener, the vanished notepad, the missing pen. Intriguing, indeed. But it was a puzzle he would set aside to decipher later, when timing and circumstances were more favourable.
A'isha pulled what she prayed was a winning poker face as she left the bedroom, feeling the notebook mould to her shoulders with each step she took. The stolen items - they were secret reassurances, hidden from Marik's probing gaze. She shrouded herself in her usual disdain for him - which, by the way, was as genuine as it got - and hoped the mad drumming in her chest wasn't louder than the consistent hum of the jet's engines.
Reaching the first row, a spread worthy of a MasterChef finale greeted her on a golden collapsible table. Their plates had grilled veggies stacked like a tiny Leaning Tower of Pisa, and fruits fresh enough to have been swiped straight from Eden's orchard. It was a tantalising mix of smoky and sweet, but it would no doubt taste sour with Marik for company.
Marik was all faux-charm as he motioned for her to sit first, so she'd be stuck between him and the window. With a first class view of the sunset and a reminder of her high-altitude jail, it seemed like a typical Marik power play - smothered in false courtesy, but leaving her no room to manoeuvre. Sure, the flaming canvas of the sunset against the clouds beneath them was a sight to behold, but she was no damsel impressed by pretty colours and the smirking creep knew it.
A'isha slid into her designated spot, stifling a huff only because the galley door was open, Elena manoeuvring around the compact kitchen within. As he plunked down beside her, his arm grazed hers. Goosebumps swept up her arms, not from any spark or whatever Hollywood drama he hoped this stupid trip would bring, but because she was sandwiched between a lunatic and a window. There was no exit, unless she fancied skydiving without a parachute. (Never say never. They were only halfway through their flight.)
Savouring a glass of merlot like it was the jackpot at the end of a rainbow, Marik appeared at ease. A'isha could only hope his liquor control was more reliable than his morals; he was already a walking nightmare when sober. Abruptly, as if feeling her gaze upon him, his own flicked to her. "Why the aversion to alcohol?" Marik asked in Arabic, a language Elena didn't understand. He swirled his merlot like a detective with a magnifying glass.
The unexpected question had sliced through their bubble of silence, and for a moment she hesitated, searching for a believable response. "You have to be twenty-one to buy alcohol in Egypt."
With an annoyingly casual air, he countered, "That doesn't stop Amara." Unfortunately, he was right. Her cousin, barely a teenager, was prone to breaking the rules, causing a fair share of family drama in the process. But Mar's behaviour of late had lit a small spark of hope in A'isha that maybe she might just turn a new leaf once they escaped back to Alexandria.
"Well," A'isha began, "I've never seen the appeal of alcohol." She braced herself for his next invasive query, but to her surprise, it didn't come. And true to form, his expression gave no indication of his thought processes. A part of her was relieved that it seemed he'd let the subject slide, but another part was confused, which inevitably gave way to suspicion. Why wasn't he prying? Could he use the Millennium Rod when it was tucked away in his carry on bag? And had he used it as a shortcut, plucking the answer straight from her brain?
Those unsettling questions lingered as she finished her appetiser, then turned to her glass of coca-cola. The ice cubes clinked against the crystal as she took the occasional sip, the fizz tickling her tongue. Elena soon swooped in to replace their empty appetiser plates with the main course: a gourmet version of koshary, the lentils, rice, and pasta artfully arranged amidst a fragrant tomato sauce. The dish was Egypt's carb-heavy gift to the world. It was also considered a street food, but this take felt absurdly grand in its presentation. Of all the mains they could've had, koshary, of all things, seemed like a very odd choice for a snob such as Marik. Between bites, she couldn't help but sneak glances at him; the way he savoured his own food, treating each bite like a slow dance, was oddly entertaining.
A sudden realisation dawned on her, and taking a leaf out of Marik's playbook, she decided to throw her own curveball. "Are you Egyptian?" After all, his fancy jet and private quarters back on his ship were both scattered with Egyptian influences. And Marik, oddly enough, could easily pass for a (rather flamboyant) local from her little slice of the globe.
After finishing his mouthful, he answered in that annoyingly breezy tone that seemed to be his default. "As The R.H., it's only natural that I'd find Egypt intriguing. It's where duel monsters originated, after all." A non-answer. Typical. Still, she banked her theory for later, so she could spill it to Ahad once she and Amara were free.
As they returned to eating in silence, A'isha begrudgingly found herself backed into a corner of culinary confession - this food was heaven on a plate. The tangy tomato sauce was a perfect partner to the hearty lentils and rice, and the fried onions added a crunchy surprise. Ahad had a love affair with koshary, something she'd capitalised on a few years back with a birthday surprise. She'd learnt to cook it just right, and there was a solid chunk of pride attached to that achievement. But this gussied-up gourmet version? It would've made her own dish cry in the corner.
Then came the dessert, the grand curtain call of the evening's culinary theatre, and though A'isha was bordering on stuffed, she would never say no to chocolate. She found herself engrossed, caught up in the sweet symphony of flavours that could be something so simple as a dark chocolate and caramel mousse. Eyes shut, she slipped into a make-believe world where she was dining in a Michelin-star restaurant. No fancy jets. No creepy magic. And most definitely, no Marik. A moment's peace that was, of course, promptly shattered by his laughter.
"What's so funny?" she snapped, eyes flying open to be met by a grin.
"You." He lifted his wine glass, as if toasting to her irritation.
Fuelled by a mix of chocolate and defiance, she fired back, "I was pretending to be somewhere you weren't. Thanks for ruining it."
"Oh?" His stupid smile held steady, but his eyes flickered with interest. "Care to share where your mind wandered off to?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I was in a Michelin-star restaurant. Unlike this aerial asylum, it was a place where no one's sanity is questionable."
Chuckling, Marik leaned back in his plush seat, looking as relaxed as a cat in the sun. "Your palate has a certain panache, I see," he goaded. "Then take tonight as the trailer for the blockbuster that will be our Monday dinner in an actual Michelin-star restaurant." There would be no 'blockbuster' on Monday. By then, she hoped to be back in Alexandria wrestling with calculus (a fate she wouldn't have thought a welcome escape until four days ago).
It was then that Elena, ever efficient, darted in to clear away the remnants of their dinner and lower the collapsible tables. In the interim, Marik swapped his empty wine glass for one of those tiny Italian espresso shots.
As she stared out the window, watching his reflection sip away at his miniature coffee, A'isha cradled her second glass of Coke, its fizzy sweetness a stark contrast to her bitter reality. As the night crawled in, it brought with it a sky full of twinkling stars against the jet's window. A sight that, under other circumstances, she might've appreciated. Now, all she could do was count down the minutes till they touched down in Catania, and she could start devising an escape plan with her secret spoils.
As the jet's wheels transitioned from sea mode to land, jarring against the tarmac with a jolt, A'isha's heart drummed a rhythm worthy of a Lin-Manuel Miranda rap. Her mind chanted a mantra - keep your shit together, don't let Mr Omniscient suspect anything. The stolen goods tucked away in some fairly innovative locations on her person might as well have been ticking time bombs. But if she continued to act natural, maybe Marik wouldn't hear the ticking.
Just as her runaway pulse started to slow, Elena appeared from the galley, her professional demeanour as crisp as her uniform, signalling that it was time to vacate the jet. But before A'isha could so much as unbuckle, Marik's voice sliced through the hum of the engine's wind-down, his words punching her pulse back into high gear. "Elena, might my fiancée and I have a moment of privacy?"
The hostess acknowledged the request with a curt nod before disappearing back into the galley, leaving A'isha alone with Marik.
Her mind whirled like a malfunctioning merry-go-round, each thought spinning her deeper into anxiety. "What're you doing?" she managed to ask him, her voice feigning calm while her mind stage-dived into chaos. Was he onto her klepto spree? Or— Oh God, was he planning to drive their fake engagement home by kissing her? Wait, no. He'd need an audience for that, right? And Elena just left at his request.
Marik unbuckled his seatbelt and sauntered toward the bedroom. "I just need a moment to freshen up before our drive, my dear." As her stomach churned at his saccharine tone, she began a slippery descent down a rabbit hole of worry. He was checking for missing stuff, wasn't he? Should she start a dramatic coughing fit? Or launch into a passionate monologue about climate change? Maybe she could deflect his attention with some undeserved praise about his interior design choices—
Then the wilder suggestions reared their ugly heads, sounding suspiciously like Amara: flash him, seduce him, confess your undying love for him. She could practically hear her subconscious laughing at her. No! Hell no! She'd sooner belt out all the soprano solos of Henry VIII's six wives while standing atop Mount Everest, no oxygen tank or parka. Not to mention Marik would see through a seduction attempt like a window cleaned with industrial-strength detergent. Damn it! Distracting him seemed as futile as trying to divert a cat from a laser pointer.
When Marik returned to the seating area, his eyes had a new intensity. It was like being under an interrogation lamp, and she was the suspect. "I seem to have misplaced a few things," he stated with an Oscar-worthy performance of innocence. Shit!
With a tilt of her head, A'isha embraced her inner-actress and played the part of the confused. "What's missing?"
He watched her, a knowing smile spreading across his lips. "I believe you're well aware."
"I'm really not?" Her drama teacher would be beaming with pride.
But of course, he continued to press the matter. "Has your aversion to a strip search waned since our shopping trip?"
It took everything in her not to bury her nails into her armrests. "Whatever you've lost, I don't have it. We're on a plane. Things could've moved during take-off or landing."
The doubt in his eyes was clear as day, scrutinising her every reaction. He wasn't convinced.
Managing to keep her breaths even, she unbuckled her seatbelt, stood, and turned out her sweatpant pockets. "Behold the vast emptiness," she declared, her tone full of offence.
Alas, Marik's raised eyebrows sent a clear message: 'You can't fool me.' "It's rather warm in here, isn't it?" His eyes echoed his unspoken challenge. "Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable without that shirt."
A low growl grated her throat. He likely suspected she'd sought help from her trusty bra again, just like at the mall. Argh! She'd become predictable. Finally giving in, A'isha glared at him as she retrieved the pen and letter opener from her bra - careful not to give him a show - and tossed them on the seat beside her. Hopefully those two items would satisfy him.
But no. He wasn't finished, was he? Those eyes demanded more.
Fine! With a huff and a bout of flexibility that would've made a gymnast proud, she wriggled the notebook from its well-concealed position between her back and her bra strap. It felt like a magical performance of contraband. She half-expected him to clap.
But Marik kept staring, still unsatisfied.
Muttering curses under her breath, A'isha snatched the grooming kit from her waistband and chucked it at the seat. A sound, somewhere between a laugh and a snort, bubbled out of Marik's throat. If he asked her to pull out a rabbit next, she'd conjure one up through sheer force of will just to hit him with it.
A'isha planted her hands on her hips, hoping against hope that her own private magic show had finally come to an end. There was still a note tucked away in her sock, and by God, she deserved at least one small victory. "Are you happy now?" she snapped.
In answer, Marik performed his own magic trick; he made their hostess reappear from the galley. "Elena, we're ready to disembark."
The woman in question promptly set about arranging their departure, while Marik collected the items and headed for the bedroom.
Deflated but not defeated, A'isha sank back into her seat and heaved a sigh; it was two parts frustration, one part relief. An odd mix, for sure. Although he'd found most of the items she'd stolen, she clung to the tiny victory that he hadn't found the note. She could work with that.
Now, she had to keep her eyes peeled for the perfect place to plant it. Until then, she'd look out for other escape opportunities that might come her way. She was up against Marik, and unfortunately, he wasn't stupid. The very opposite, actually. But she had the advantage of sheer desperation, a formidable foe in its own right. So, A'isha steadied herself - laser-focused on her next plan, her next move, and if the universe had a shred of mercy, her last prison break.
As the jet's door gave a weary sigh, A'isha was met by the biting hello of Sicily's December night. Her baggy t-shirt and sweatpants did about as much against the cold as a paper shield. Last summer's trip to Catania with Dani's picture-perfect family had involved sunscreen and gelato, not thermals and sour company.
This wasn't Fontanarossa Airport. No, she was getting the VIP treatment - a lone airstrip tucked among dark, rolling hills. No customs officers. No declaration forms. In the distance, cicadas strummed their melancholic tune, and the air had that fresh pine aroma that once sang of sunny hikes up Mount Etna. But nostalgia was hardly her agenda for the night.
They descended the stairs, their footsteps conjuring an odd duet - her sneakers tapping tinny notes, Marik's leather shoes thumping a smug bassline. He was in front, of course, wrapped up in his black winter jacket, all flashy gold studs and obnoxious swagger. A poster child for questionable life choices.
Stepping onto the tarmac, A'isha wrapped herself in a tight, self-hug against the chill, scanning the desolate landscape. A mad dash for the hills would be as fruitful as a race against her own shadow. Marik's accursed Millennium Rod would stop her quicker than she could curse his name. Patience was her ally, and Catania City would be her battlefield.
A lone car idled nearby, its engine humming softly in the night. A middle-aged man, presumably their driver, was loading their luggage into the trunk. As she moved to join him, Marik's arm appeared in front of her. "Wait here," he commanded, before effortlessly transitioning from English to Italian, casually chatting with the driver. How many languages was that, now? Five? Maybe six? Marik, the multilingual maven; another annoying attribute to add to his list of infuriating qualities.
Then he sauntered to the trunk and started rummaging through his suitcase. What was he after? It couldn't have been the Millennium Rod; he'd brought that with him in his carry-on. (She'd half-expected him to cuddle the thing for the entire flight, his precious little artefact.) Her question was soon answered as he retrieved a black puffer jacket, holding it out to her with a proclamation of the obvious. "You look cold."
A'isha's grimace was her immediate answer, a sour contortion that rivalled the most lemon of faces. "That's yours," she managed, in what she hoped was a dismissive tone.
He had the gall to say, "An astute observation." Of course, it was. She had a functioning pair of eyes, after all.
She glanced toward the car, where she'd seen their driver stow her suitcase. "I'd much rather wear my own." Even if his jacket, with its plush lining, looked more like a cosy winter haven than the thin rag she'd packed.
At that moment, their supposed ride roared to life and took off down the airstrip. Her luggage, along with her own jacket, whisked away into the inky darkness. Well, there went Plan B. "Isn't that our ride?" She knew better than to hope he'd chase it like a moron, but a girl could dream, right?
Marik's chuckle echoed in the chilly air. With a flick of his wrist, he directed her attention to an ominous shape lurking in the shadows. A sleek, black motorcycle, looking more like a murderer in mechanical form than a mode of transport.
A bitter laugh escaped her, fuelled by disbelief and a sudden understanding of her impending doom. "This is some kind of sick joke, right?"
"It's a perfect trust-building exercise. You must become accustomed to touching me if we're to sell our engagement on Monday." Oh great, sadism disguised as team-building.
A'isha's heartbeat pounded in her ears, matching the rhythm of an over-caffeinated drummer. Wrap her arms around him? She'd sooner hug a cactus. And as for the two-wheeled harbinger of death, she'd rather stick her hand in a blender. But she forced her fear down, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "I'm not climbing onto that death trap."
A spark in Marik's eyes seemed to say 'challenge accepted'. "Care to share why, so I may alleviate your concerns?"
"For starters, you've been drinking." A fact he couldn't dispute unless he wanted to insult her intelligence, too.
"True, I did partake in a single glass of wine over dinner," he conceded, as if drunk driving wasn't one of the top causes of road fatalities. "But rest assured, I remain well within the legal limit." Then, as if to showcase his remarkable sobriety, he started reciting pi to an absurd number of places - because that was clearly the measure of a sober man.
She silenced him with a firm hand over his mouth, instantly registering the warmth of his lips and breath on her skin. A sensation that felt surprisingly - disturbingly - pleasant. Almost pleasant enough to forget, for a brief, blissful moment, exactly who he was. But with a jolt of revulsion, she yanked her hand away and furiously scrubbed it on her sweatpants as if she'd touched toxic waste. Because she had. His mouth. Gross!
"Assuming you are satisfied with my sobriety, do share your next concern."
"You're a criminal. Road rules are probably just cute little guidelines to you."
"I assure you that I will respect all traffic regulations so long as you're my passenger." His smile was unapologetic, his tone so sure. Such an art form, his ability to reassure and worry at once.
"Motorcycles are dangerous! People miss them in their blindspots and—"
"I drive armed with the knowledge that everyone else is an incompetent fool," he interrupted, clearly a fan of his own wisdom.
"Well," she stuttered, resorting to the obvious, "I'd rather wrestle a lion than wrap my arms around you!"
His laughter echoed through the night, warm and so, so irritating. This wasn't a laughing matter; he was her kidnapper, for Christ's sake! "We made a deal, Ish. You're to play the part of my fiancée on Monday. If you cannot even bear to touch me, perhaps I've overestimated your acting prowess."
She scoffed. "I can act! But touching you and riding that death trap are so far at the bottom of my bucket list, they're considering starting a bucket of their own."
Marik's face drained of its earlier amusement, replaced by a sigh. His gaze strayed to the inky-black hills surrounding them, and his eyes, usually alive with mischief, abruptly mirrored the night - still and unsettlingly calm. His lips, often curled in a cocky half-smile, were now a flat, unyielding line. Instead of the laid-back, conceited confidence, she saw a seriousness that felt almost out of character. "You have every reason not to trust me," he said, his voice a soft murmur swallowed by the Sicilian night. "That's what these five days in Catania are for, A'isha - to build trust, to establish a rapport." He eyed her, pausing briefly before nodding toward the motorcycle. "Are you truly afraid of riding it?"
His sudden change in demeanour briefly rendered her speechless. "I'm not scared," she finally managed, injecting her voice with a flinty undertone, attempting to match his sudden intensity. She would not admit her fears to him, would not show him that vulnerability. "I just don't want to become a decorative accessory to a lamppost." As she clenched her fists, images of twisted metal and shattered glass invaded her mind, a phantom ache searing through her heart.
Without a word, Marik reached into his pocket and pulled out the latest iPhone. The bright glow of the screen cut through the darkness as he unlocked it with facial recognition and dialled a recent contact. A jarring interruption to their tense exchange.
A'isha watched, her suspicion escalating. "What're you doing?"
"Correcting a miscalculation," Marik said simply. Whoever was on the other end answered. As he smoothly steered his way through the conversation, it became clear that - for some strange reason - he was arranging for the car to return. "And crank up the heater. My fiancée is freezing."
A ripple of surprise coursed through her. First, he'd admitted to a miscalculation. Then, he'd rectified it by summoning back the car. And to top it all off, he'd asked the guy to warm it up for them. For her. Was this sudden chivalry a new trick in Marik's repertoire? Another layer of his elaborate scheme to lull her into a false sense of security? Back in that mall, he'd left her alone for ten minutes - underestimated her in that clothing store - and it had almost been his downfall. Now, although he clearly didn't trust her, he seemed eager to earn her trust, likely so he could coax her into submission. No way would she let that happen.
As the call ended and Marik slid the phone back into his pocket, his attention returned to her. The spark of amusement was back in his eyes, but it was tempered by the serious undertone of this bizarre conversation. "Would you like my jacket, or prefer to wait for your own?"
This was a calculated move. A simple offer on the surface but loaded with implications underneath. By accepting his jacket, she would be taking a step toward the trust he sought to establish between them. "Why do you even care if I'm cold?" she shot back, arching a dubious eyebrow.
His shrug was nonchalant. "We wouldn't want you falling ill before our grand performance, now would we?" A classic Marik response. But then, unexpectedly, his voice softened. "I'm not heartless. Truth be told, I simply can't stand the sight of you shivering." He held the jacket a little closer. "Please, A'isha."
Like a harsh winter breeze, his words assaulted her, clearly another strategic move in his mental chess game - all designed to crack open her defences. "No." Her eyes flicked to the distance, where the car's headlights were already becoming a tiny glimmer. "I'll wait for my own."
A smirk slowly curled up one corner of Marik's lips. He folded the jacket over his arm, clearly not bothered by her rejection. "Very well," he said, his voice laced with amused indifference.
She turned her back to him, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. Marik was just another Sicilian winter. A chilling force cloaked in the pretence of warmth, intent on wearing her down. But she was stronger than that. She'd weather this storm, no matter how brutal.
Is it obvious that I have a grand ol' time with A'isha's narrative voice? 'Cause I really, really do 😂