Chapter Five: The Shopping Spree
For the second night in a row, A'isha lay wide awake beneath the cold, metallic underside of Amara's bunk, her cousin's soft snores wafting down to mock her insomnia. The uncertainty of what was to come kept her awake for what must've been hours, but weariness was creeping in, weighing down on her eyelids, and she clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight might finally bring some respite.
As drowsiness began to shroud her reality, the confined cabin space around her dissolved, and Amara's soft snores twisted into a chillingly familiar sound - rain slamming on asphalt. An uninvited memory materialised in her mind, a dimly lit street in the midst of Alexandria's worst storm in years.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sudden sound, a lifeline, yanked her from the maw of a nightmare that refused to die. As she sat upright, heart pounding, the dimly lit street receded in her mind. Grounding herself in the present, she realised the knocks had come from the hallway door. Morning already? Or, well, Marik's skewed perception of morning. She hated how even semi-conscious she'd recognised his stupidly distinct knocking pattern.
Pushing herself off the mattress, she stumbled toward the door, only to remember she couldn't open it. "What d'you want?" she called out, bracing herself for whatever BS he had in store.
The door clicked open, and in strode Marik, again with the immaculate self-presentation of a real-life Narcissus. He leaned casually against the free-standing closet, leaving the door wide open behind him. Typical. "It's morning," he said, with an annoying nonchalance. "I trust you've reached a decision."
His words wrenched her from her sleep-hazed state. His proposition! Yes, she had her answer ready. She straightened, pulling herself together to at least seem composed. "I have a condition. Agree to it, and I'll agree to your"—her nose crinkled—"dinner of torture." But with a little luck, next Monday would find him eating dinner from a prison cell, not a restaurant.
Marik raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue.
"We demand a shopping spree," she asserted - not a request, but a requirement.
The early light of dawn trickled through the drawn curtains, casting a soft glow on his unchanging expression. She scanned his face for an inkling of his thoughts - a brow twitch, a tightening jaw, a glimmer in his eyes - but his poker face was impeccable. Finally, he broke the silence, "Elaborate."
A'isha chose her words carefully. "We need an escort to take us shopping. All-expenses-paid. Clothes, boredom breakers, snacks." She emphasised the need for an outing, not just a delivery of goods. Their best chance of escape hinged on returning to solid ground. "And I doubt that this"—she gestured to her outfit: a top, cardigan, jeans and chucks—"will be suitable for your fancy schmancy dinner venue." Especially if said venue reflected the wealth of his ship.
A flicker of contemplation crossed Marik's face as he raised a hand to his chin, the other dipping into his pocket; a pose she was sure she'd seen him pull before, maybe during his Namu façade. Was he seriously considering her condition? Or just toying with her?
Suddenly, a muffled squeal filled the tiny cabin. "Sorry," Amara said, behind a pillow that utterly failed to mute her excitement. "Shopping sprees just get me so heckin' excited."
A'isha rolled her eyes, making a mental note to discuss Amara's misplaced priorities once they were back in Alexandria.
Marik's gaze shifted to Amara, and A'isha swore she glimpsed the Millennium Rod flash briefly. Was he probing Amara's thoughts? Or even her own?
Finally, he turned back to her, and she held her breath, her hope for a successful escape balancing on a razor's edge. "I can arrange a shopping trip," he began, though her relief was short-lived as a sly smile crept onto his lips. "But I have one condition."
A'isha adjusted Marik's "one condition", the stupidest disguise to ever grace the big screen: Clark Kent glasses. Meanwhile, Amara had gotten away with a cute beret. Marik was just mocking her, wasn't he? Well, how would he like to trade out his snug jeans and shiny bling for an orange jumpsuit? The image of him in just that, a ball and chain around his ankles, gave her a delightful dose of satisfaction - orange wouldn't suit him at all, but it'd suit her just fine to see him in it.
He'd brought them to some place called Kings Avenue Mall, an expansive shopping complex replete with trendy boutiques, shimmering water features, and gleaming marble walkways. At her first request for new underwear, the lingerie store he'd steered them into was no exception, radiating sophistication with its soft lighting and velvet furnishings. Colourful rows of neatly arranged lace, satin, and silk lingerie tempted fellow shoppers, all clueless of the kidnapping right under their noses.
As Marik followed her around the store, she made sure to choose the most unflattering, granny-like pieces she could find in his disgusting presence, but he refused to look away for even a second.
"Iiiiish," came Amara's plaintive cry from a nearby fitting room, while Odion sat sentry outside. Of course, Marik had assigned Odion to watch over her cousin, keeping his 'dear fiancée' all to himself. "I need your opinion, Ish!" Amara called out in Arabic, the language Marik had insisted they use during this outing, probably to minimise the chances of being understood in Cyprus.
"What's your question?" A'isha responded in kind.
"Do my boobs look small in this?"
Glancing back at her unwelcome shadow, A'isha shrugged before leaving the shop floor and passing the rows of fitting rooms to join Amara in hers. After checking the curtain was securely drawn, she faced Amara, who was scrutinising her reflection, humming and hawing over a lacy scarlet push-up bra. "Hey, Ish!" She puffed out her chest, all emphasis on her boobs. "What do you think? Do the ladies look full and perky?"
A'isha's face likely spelt her thoughts, but she voiced them anyway. "Why are you thinking about your boobs when we've been kidnapped?"
Amara's mouth fell open. "Fair point," she conceded, before inflating her chest again. "But it never hurts to look good, right?"
Gripping Amara's shoulders, she whispered, "Look, Mar. I have a plan—"
"Are you gonna flash him?" Amara asked, dead serious. "'Cause I think it'll work. He has the hots for you, I can tell."
"What?" A'isha squeaked, disturbed by literally every word that just left her cousin's lips. "No, I—"
"A'isha?" Marik called out, sounding like he was still on the shop floor rather than in the wider fitting room. He hadn't followed her - probably because Odion was right outside - but even so, he wouldn't think twice about barging in if he thought they were up to something.
A'isha suppressed a groan. "I'm going to make a scene." The opposite, actually, but if Marik was in Amara's head, maybe this would throw him off. "Just stay cool, okay?"
Emerging from Amara's fitting room, she expected to be greeted by her captor, but the wider fitting room was still devoid of anyone except Odion, who sat on a stool in the corner, offering a subtle smile. She returned it, only to remember who he was and wipe it away. Leaving the rows of fitting rooms behind, she walked onto the shop floor. Where was that royal pain in the—
Ah.
Marik had been waylaid by a petite brunette with a bright smile and bold red lipstick. And ugh, he seemed to be going full Namu on her, talking up a storm in… French? Yeah, that sounded like French. Jeez, how many languages did the guy speak?
"Ah, here's my lovely fiancée," he exclaimed, still in French, beckoning A'isha over. The only reason she listened was because her imminent plan required that she talk to him - but after walking over with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner walking the plank, he wrapped an arm around her waist, and she immediately regretted her decision. The heat of his arm leaked through her top, warming her skin, and it took all of her self-control to resist a grimace. "My bride-to-be is as brilliant as she is beautiful. She's also fluent in French." And suddenly, four years of high marks in French felt like a curse as she endured Marik's repugnant display of faux charm. "Nicolette is visiting from Paris," he said, indicating the brunette before them.
"Nice to meet you," A'isha managed, hoping her French was clear and well pronounced lest Marik be a dick about it later. "I hope my fiancé hasn't been bothering you too much."
"Not at all, A'isha. The pleasure is mine," Nicolette returned in a thick French accent, a basket full of undergarments slung over her forearm. "And as someone who's grown up in The City of Love and Lights, let me just say it brightens my day to see such a loving relationship."
"What a compliment," Marik piped in, all smiles and charm, when he undoubtedly couldn't care less about this poor woman. "After all, from what you've told me of you and Antony, it's clear that you know a healthy relationship when you see one." His attention shifted back to A'isha, a warm smile on his lips. If she didn't know any better, she might've thought it was legit. "And speaking of healthy relationships, I certainly shan't keep my lady waiting on my input any longer." He gave her waist a light, seemingly affectionate squeeze. Could he maybe do it harder and squeeze the life out of her? Make this end faster. "It was lovely to meet you, Nicolette," Marik continued. "Enjoy the rest of your trip and all the best for that course of yours."
After wishing them well for their upcoming wedding, Nicolette bid them adieu with a nod and a graceful wave before heading to the counter to pay.
Once her eyes were no longer on them, A'isha wasted no time peeling Marik's arm from her waist, only for that same vile arm to reach past her with no regard for her boundaries.
"Forget the granny pants," he said in Arabic, plucking a lacy black number off a rack. "Not only would this suit your skin tone. It would also accentuate your hourglass figure far more than the unsightly garments you've been considering to deter me."
Heat crept up her cheeks. In retaliation, she slapped a lavender granny bra against his chest. "This matches your eyes."
He accepted the hanger, his smile feigning flattery. "How sweet of you to notice, my love." As he stepped closer, returning both bras to the rack, her body seized up. His proximity, his sharp cologne, the teasing glint in his eyes - all of it made her want to scream.
But she steeled herself. "Well, it's impossible not to notice your eyes when they're a measly inch from my face." Huffing, she turned back to the hangers, scraping through them as if on autopilot. She couldn't help but think of that encounter with the Parisian brunette. Marik's superficial charm, his manipulative prowess - it supported a theory she felt compelled to voice. "So," she said, her voice tight, "do psychopaths just know that they're psychopaths? Is that a thing?"
Marik merely arched a brow. "Quite the thought-provoking question. What, pray tell, has led you to such an audacious assumption about me?"
Her answer was a flat, skeptical stare; one that left him smirking.
"I'm not a psychopath, A'isha."
"A sociopath, then?" she challenged.
Laughing, he raked a hand through his blond hair, regarding her for a moment. "You're very interested in unravelling the enigma that is me."
Rolling her eyes at the accusation, she pivoted away from him - and as she continued browsing, with Marik trailing behind, she began to set her plan in motion. Grabbing a handful of bras, but steering clear of Marik's lacy black selection, she announced, "I'm trying these on. Assuming you'll at least allow me that much privacy."
With a wave of his hand toward the fitting room, he silently conceded. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. She was halfway there, passing a quiet Odion and a waving Amara on the way, when a woman's hushed voice caught her attention, "Is she okay?"
A'isha stopped just inside the wider fitting room area. Was someone talking about her? Had they discerned her distress? She soon had her answer, and it turned out that was a double yes, but true to her luck (or lack thereof), the woman had asked one of the two damn people in the store that she really, really shouldn't have - and the worse of the two, at that.
"Our wedding's next week and she's understandably feeling the stress." Oh, how she hated his sickeningly sweet Namu persona. "And perhaps she's taking it out on me a little, but it's by no means her normal, so I'm just being patient with her."
A'isha yanked the fitting room curtain shut behind her, but it did nothing to drown out the rest of Marik's psychopath spree. Or sociopath. Some kind of 'path'.
"Aw!" the woman cooed, clearly falling for his stupid act. "Well, it may not seem like it, but I'm sure she really appreciates your patience." No. No, she didn't. And there was no patience. Just smirks and schemes and suffering and even more smirks. "My husband was like you before the wedding and I guarantee, if he hadn't been the voice of reason, there wouldn't have been a wedding."
Marik let out a light-hearted laugh. "Well, I sure don't want that!" Oh, gag her already! She'd hurl soon enough anyway just listening to this rubbish.
But thinking of which, this woman was sort of unintentionally distracting him. And that was perfect. Instead of listening in, she could (and should) focus on enacting her plan without him loitering two feet away like the creep he was.
After double checking that the fitting room curtain was secure, A'isha shedded her top and unclipped her bra with practised ease. Then, she extracted the bra's underwire, a piece so mundane that Marik wouldn't even consider her using it. Wielding the underwire like a pen, she turned to the stall's far wall: a pristine, full-length mirror dominated it, but to each side of its reflective surface was a gap begging to be defaced. And deface it, she would.
Dropping to her knees, she got to work, her pulse echoing the tick-tock of the metaphorical clock. With her senses on high alert, each scrape of the underwire against the wall sounded deafening, so she rustled her discarded top, hopefully masking the sound. Her hands shook, but she remained undeterred, her plea on the wall inching closer to completion—
"What's that noise?" Marik's sudden question on the other side of the curtain startled her, the underwire nearly slipping from her fingers. Shit, he must've wrapped up that conversation and beelined for her fitting room.
"What noise?" She skimmed over her half-finished message. It was hasty, desperate, but it'd have to do. "Oh, isn't the store's speaker busted?"
There was a moment of silence that stretched thin, a thread on the verge of snapping. Please, buy it.
"You have five seconds to get decent before I come in."
Panic zapped through her, a quiet curse slipping through her lips.
"Five."
A'isha stashed the wire in her waistband, her fingers lightly trembling.
"Four."
Scrambled for her top and started fishing for the collar.
"Three."
Shoved her head through said collar. Wait, no, that was a sleeve!
"Two."
Shit shit shit! Where was the fucking collar? "I'm not ready—"
But the word "one" was already half-way off of his lips, and it was all she could do to slap her top to her chest, providing a bare modicum of decency as the curtain was yanked aside. Their eyes clashed, her ragged breathing punctuating the silence, and the tiny fitting room seemed even tinier under his intense gaze. "Get out!" she stammered, hyper-aware of his eyes sweeping over her - her flushed face, the top held tightly to her chest, her discarded bra on the floor.
He nudged it with the tip of his leather shoe. "Where's the wire?"
"It didn't come with one," she said, more defensive than intended.
Crouching to retrieve it, his eyes lasered in on the distended fabric where the underwire should've been. A knowing smirk painted his face as he held it up, echoing her lie, "Didn't come with one, hm?" Shit!
A'isha squared her shoulders. He'd caught her in a lie, sure, but she could at least own it. "Turn around," she ordered, her chin held high. With a mirror behind her, she'd give him an eyeful if she turned away to dress. It made sense for him to face the curtain. Whether or not he'd actually oblige, though…
"And turn my back on an armed captive?" By his theatrical tone, he knew exactly what he was doing.
"It's either that or I poke your eyes out with my nipples!"
A beat of silence followed as Marik's grin mellowed into a small, lingering smile. "Tell me where the wire is."
"What wire?"
"Come on, Ish. I'm not averse to strip-searching."
His moral compass was non-existent. Reluctantly, she answered, "Tucked into my waistband."
"As your hands are currently… occupied…" He dared to glance down at them, still clasping the top to her chest, covering her dignity. The playful edge in his tone reignited his stupid grin. "I'll be the one to retrieve the wire."
She huffed, firing a glare at the curtain behind him. "Fine."
Bridging the minuscule gap between them, his gaze drifted down again, this time to her exposed midriff. The top pressed to her chest felt almost translucent under his scrutiny, his nearness prickling her skin. He reached for her waistband, his fingertips grazing her skin with a feather-light touch that seared a path of awareness down her body. She felt the underwire shift and, just as suddenly, he withdrew, leaving a burning imprint of his touch on her. After pocketing the underwire and gathering the scattered bras around the floor, he finally faced the curtain, but his presence still hung heavy in the room. "Inform me when you're clothed."
She watched his reflection in the mirror, half-expecting him to sneak a peek. But he didn't, and as soon as she was near-sure he wouldn't, she quickly dressed, a question on the tip of her tongue; only when her top was in place did she give it voice, "Why're you still here? You already disarmed me." Had he noticed her SOS?
Without turning, he asked, "Are you dressed?"
It caught her off guard that he'd bothered to double check. "Now, I am."
Smoothly, he turned on his heel to reface her, scanning her newly covered form. "If you'd be so kind as to step aside, I'll gladly answer your question."
She hesitated, stubbornness rooting her to the marble floor. Obliging would expose her SOS, damn it, and she didn't want another chance at escape to slip through her fingers. But whether he'd already spotted it or merely suspected its existence, this attempt was clearly unsalvageable. With a heavy heart, she obliged, stepping aside to reveal the hastily scrawled message behind her.
'SOS! A'isha & Amara Dahar. Kidnapped by The R.H., Marik. Captive on ship. Call Ahad Dahar, Alexandria Egypt Pol–'
As Marik leaned in to read it, his face reflected no surprise or anger, but rather a calm acceptance. Then, he turned to her, an unrestrained smirk revealing itself. Placing a hand on the wall beside her, he drew in even closer, his whisper a caress of warm breath against her ear. "My dear fiancée"—the smouldering intensity of his eyes clenched her stomach—"if I'd known you were hungry for human contact, I would've joined you sooner."
"This is sexual harassment!" Her voice unfortunately cracked.
Suddenly, Marik retreated from her bubble and withdrew the Millennium Rod from his belt. With clear and concerning practice, he unsheathed it to reveal a sharp dagger, its pointed tip gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. Terror gripped her, worst-case scenarios swarming her mind. Had she misread his expression? Was he actually angry? About to—? The harsh scrape of the dagger against the wall interrupted her spiralling thoughts. He was erasing her SOS. "I look forward to you underestimating me again, dear A'isha." She stood there, her heart a beating conga drum as he returned the dagger to its sheath and exited through the curtain. Moments later, he made a reappearance. "In light of the security concern you've conveniently highlighted, an upgrade seems in order." Smirking, he brandished a wireless bra. "Dark blue, naturally, to match your eyes."
With that, Marik made her and Amara swap their wired bras for wireless ones. As they moved onto the next store, A'isha's mind raced, already scrambling over a new escape plan, anything that would bring them closer to freedom. She had to strike while she still had access to the outside world. There had to be a way to outwit Marik, and she wouldn't stop until she found it.
In a quiet maze of towering bookshelves, A'isha turned over escape plans. What about something dramatic - like knocking over a shelf and sprinting for the exit with Amara in tow? Ugh, no. Marik would see the moment she made her move and just stop her in her tracks with his mind-control powers. Plus, there was Odion, a tank who was easily capable of overpowering them with brute force. She had to be subtle, sneaky, unassuming.
A'isha stole a glance at Marik, right beside her, his tan finger running over book spines as if seeking a hidden treasure. "You've always wished for more time to read, haven't you?" Yet another factoid he'd no doubt plucked from her cousin's head.
His finger paused on a spine, coaxing the book from its snug place. "The Princess Bride," he announced, eyes gleaming with amusement as he held it out to her. "Buttercup gets kidnapped. Something you can relate to, I imagine."
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Hilarious." But after a moment of hesitation, she snatched it from him anyway. Maybe this Buttercup had a few escape tricks she could learn from.
Navigating the supermarket aisles, A'isha and Amara loaded their cart with an array of snacks – chocolate for the sweet, crisps for the salty, and sour candy just because. Then, in a tone too casual, Marik suggested they stock up on feminine products.
A'isha returned his nonchalance with a saccharine smile. "We don't plan on staying that long."
But Amara was already by the tampon shelf. "Never say no to free tampons, Ish." After tossing several boxes in the cart, she skipped one shelf down and grabbed a garishly bright yellow box. "And condoms are hella expensive!"
"What, no!" A'isha and Marik chorused, their hands colliding as they lunged for the box. She withdrew, ceding to Marik just this once.
"You do NOT need condoms, Amara," she said sternly, while Marik meticulously realigned the box on the shelf.
"Especially from a brand called Trojan," he added, a touch of mirth in his tone. "Why would they name a condom brand after the world's most notorious penetration?"
A'isha totally didn't snort. Or cover up said non-existent snort with a throat-clear. No, not at all. Because Marik was her captor, and his reference to the Trojan horse hadn't been remotely funny. Not in the least.
In an upscale clothing store, A'isha meandered through the urban forest of racks, her fingertips skimming the cool metal hangers as she darted wary glances between Odion and the gleaming glass exit. Their walking credit card had wandered off, an unexplained absence that left her under Odion's watch. Although he maintained a comfortable distance, especially when compared to Marik, his gaze still clung to her like an invisible cloak, weighing heavy on her back.
In her own little universe, Amara hovered by the fitting rooms, locked in an intense debate with herself over two identical red lace tops. An oddly domestic sight given their dire predicament.
A'isha steered her course toward her cousin, passing Odion, who'd positioned himself near the heart of the store. "Mar, you do realise the only people who will see these fancy clothes are criminals, right?"
Amara's attention snapped up to her, a frown etching itself onto her face as though she was somehow losing her self-inflicted debate. "We'll be back home sooner or later, and when we are"—she theatrically held one of the tops to her chest, her frown flipping upside down—"the devil won't be the only one wearing Prada!"
A'isha's lips quirked up. Amara could be a right brat, but lately, she'd been their small oasis of levity in a desert of dread. It provided some reassurance that the girl wouldn't devolve into a carbon copy of "Aunt" Elissa.
"Scarlet or carmine?" Amara asked, thrusting the red lace twins forward.
"They look exactly the same."
Amara gasped. "Are you colour blind?"
Smiling wryly, A'isha pointed at one. "Carmine."
Amara looked at her as though she'd just spoken in an alien tongue. "Ish, that's the scarlet one!" Before A'isha could delve into the tags to fact-check, Amara disappeared back into the fitting room with a cheery, "Never mind! I'll just try on both."
Exhaling a sigh, A'isha resumed her not-so-aimless pacing through the store. Usually, she'd be itching to see the end of a multi-hour shopping trip, but today, she recognised the value of being in public and off the ship. The longer they were out, the wider the window of escape became. She just needed a plan subtle enough not to alert Odion.
Wandering past another rack, she snuck her umpteenth peek at the exit when she bumped into something - a mannequin. It wobbled on its base, but she steadied it just in time. Her gaze then landed on the dress it showcased, a sleeveless V-neck of midnight blue. It was as if the night sky had been stitched into a dress, flowing down from a thick, golden fabric belt at the waist, falling just above the knees. She traced the hem of the skirt, noting the contrast between the buttery smooth under-layer and the rougher, more textured overlay.
"We just got it in today." The voice belonged to a well-dressed shop assistant, who was artfully folding a silk scarf, her manicure immaculate. "It's pretty, right?"
"It is, yeah," A'isha agreed, a tight knot forming in her chest. She had a stranger's undivided attention. And Marik was out of sight. A golden opportunity to send a covert distress signal. She just had to be smart about it. "Hey, I actually have a dinner coming up. Do you think this dress would fit in at a high-end restaurant? Or is it too… leggy?"
The shop assistant - her name tag read 'Rosa' - tapped her tan chin, looking between A'isha and the dress as though visually fitting her into it. "Considering your height, it may sit a few inches above the knee, but if you pair it with tights, sophisticated shoes, and a chic jacket, you'd certainly pull off a classy look."
Remembering a display of jackets in a far corner, A'isha sensed a chance to put more distance between her and Odion, who still observed her from his central perch. "Any recommendations for a jacket?"
"Absolutely! Follow me."
As Rosa led her to the promised land of jackets, Odion's eyes tracked their movement, but he didn't follow. Yes! A little luck for once.
Leaning in closer, she seized her chance. "Rosa," she began, keeping her voice level, "my name is A'isha and this is going to sound crazy, but my cousin and I have been kidnapped. I could really use your help"—Marik reappeared at the store's entrance, his gaze zeroing in on her, and she forced a cheery smile—"with picking out a nice jacket for my dress!"
Rosa's expression shifted from focused professionalism to utter shock. A fish out of water, she gaped at her, opening and closing her mouth without a sound. To nudge her along, A'isha cast a discreet sidelong glance at Marik's approaching figure, before imploring Rosa with a pleading expression. Hopefully, she'd understand that this wasn't some silly prank. Please, let her believe.
"Right. Um, well…" A'isha could see the cogs turning, Rosa's portrayal of professionalism resurfacing, and she dared to let herself hope. "Our sister store has this really nice jacket. It's a fancy gold colour. Really dressy." She set down the silk scarf with visibly shaky hands and moved toward the counter. "I'll call them and see if they can help you."
A'isha's heart fluttered with cautious optimism. "That's a great idea, Rosa! Thank you so much."
But as Marik drew closer, the looming cloud of his presence cast a long, dark shadow over her moment of victory. A'isha quickly veiled her emotions; he couldn't be given a chance to observe any anomalies.
"I've picked a dress for our dinner," she told him, her tone acidic, just like their usual dynamic. She glanced at Rosa, who was halfway to the counter. "Rosa's calling their sister store to see about a matching jacket."
"Is that so?" Marik's voice was light, breezy even, but his eyes told a different story - they were sharp, keenly observant. "Perfect."
As Rosa's hand reached for the phone, she froze, and the creeping sense of dread that was always at the periphery of A'isha's consciousness rushed forward. Rosa returned to them, her forehead aglow with a golden eye - Marik's supernatural calling card. "Actually, I just remembered… the internet's down and our phone system doesn't work without it," she recited, her voice hollow. "Besides, it looks like your ever-dashing fiancée has already hand-picked a dress for you"—she nodded to a paper bag in Marik's hand—"and you wouldn't want to be rude, now, would you?"
Rosa's words lingered in the air, a cold, brutal reminder of the reality A'isha and Amara had found themselves in. As Marik placed a hand on A'isha's shoulder, leading her away, she peered back at Rosa. The poor woman appeared dazed, the golden eye now gone from her forehead as she absently looked around the store and rubbed the nape of her neck.
A seething rage bubbled within A'isha. She'd been so close, so near to freedom, only for it to be snatched away yet again. Tears of frustration welled up as she recoiled from Marik's hand on her shoulder. "You're sick! A human stain." She spun away from him, set on the refuge of the fitting rooms—
A sudden grip on her wrist stalled her retreat. Marik's voice, now laced with a frigid hardness, starkly contrasted the store's bustling hum. "Get that dress on the counter within ten seconds or leave it behind."
As disgust surged through her, she yanked her wrist free. "Fuck the dress. And fuck you too."
Ignoring his ultimatum, she marched toward the fitting rooms, because he'd stop her if she ran. She wanted to be alone, and the fitting room would at least offer some semblance of privacy with a curtain between them, plus it beat the tiny cabin bathroom on the ship. Furiously, she smudged the welling tears from her eyes. She'd be damned to let them fall in public.
Nearing the fitting rooms, and hearing his stupid shadowing steps behind her, she again looked at Rosa, now dazedly folding clothes. A chilling reminder of Marik's power lingered with her, urging A'isha not to lower her guard. One way or another, she would escape him and save her cousin.
A'isha is clever, but alas, Marik remains one step ahead. But hey, we can't make things easy for her, can we now?