Chapter Eight: The Liberty Hotel

Tossed in the back seat of the sleek car, A'isha felt her dignity dwindle to the level of a misbehaving toddler; a fitting analogy with the kiddy locks engaged. Up front, Marik lounged in the passenger seat like he owned the universe, while their driver, a man of few words, was apparently on a mission to grow the world's most impressive moustache. All the while, Christmas carols played softly on the radio, a bittersweet reminder that the jolly holiday was next week and she was still kidnapped

Since conversation was off the table, she entertained herself by shooting imaginary laser beams from her eyes at the back of Marik's smug head. Despite her best efforts, he hadn't combusted, but his amused glances in his side mirror suggested he appreciated her silent, seething animosity.

As the car halted outside an unsurprisingly fancy hotel, Marik stepped out and swung open her door, smirking under an amber streetlight strung with twinkling, multicoloured lights. "Right this way, signorina."

Refusing to thank him, she maintained her glare while exiting onto the cobblestones, but inside her stomach was a whirlpool of emotions stirred by anxiety and the frigid temperature. Although less brisk than the airstrip, the city's winter nip was still palpable, especially after leaving their toasty ride.

Catania was an array of sounds—car engines, pedestrian chatter, and soft accordion tunes that kissed the breeze. The scent of baking dough from a nearby pizzeria invaded her senses, catapulting her into the nostalgia of happier times. This was once a city she'd explored all-smiles and excitement. Now, it was just a really swanky prison with excellent cuisine.

She looked up at the hotel. With Italian elegance and Art Nouveau flair, it stood grand like a palace, complete with a well-manicured courtyard bathed in the soft golden glow of intricate, iron lampposts, adorned with holly and red bows. Glancing at the hotel's signage, she shot Marik a glare. "The Liberty Hotel? You must think you're hilarious."

He shrugged nonchalantly, but she was sure his mouth twitched up at the corners. "An ironic twist of fate."

"It's like a cat named Freedom being stuck in a tree," she muttered, burying her hands in the pockets of her thin jacket. It didn't offer as much warmth as Marik's puffer would have, but it wasn't marinated in Eau de Douchebag.

Marik leaned in, his hot breath on her skin stark against the biting air. "My offer still stands."

"Well, your offer can sit," she shot back. "I don't want your stupid jacket."

A porter appeared, all smiles and sir-sir-sir. Was this just another day at the hotel, or was His Royal Lowness getting some special VIP kidnapper treatment? She tensed as Marik placed a hand to the small of her back, steering her toward the hotel's flashy, double-doored entrance. "Right this way, my love." Ugh! She could feel her fancy dinner threatening an encore.

Stepping inside The 'Liberty' Hotel was like stepping into a time where luxury was the norm. Giant chandeliers cast a million rainbows on the intricate mosaic floor, and a majestic Christmas tree towered in one corner, twinkling with fairy lights and tinsel, while a colossal golden desk sat regally at the reception, flaunting its grandeur unapologetically. Had they accidentally stepped into a James Bond movie? Did they have martinis (shaken, not stirred) waiting in their room?

Her mind drifted back to her last visit to Catania with Dani's family. They'd bunked in a humble establishment, where scratchy towels were softened by shared laughter. In contrast, this place felt like an ice sculpture—breathtaking, but cold and sterile. A pang of longing clutched her heart. Though she stood by her decision to break up with Dani, she found herself missing those scratchy towels and his easy smiles, a stark contrast to the jerk beside her.

After a brief exchange between Marik and a receptionist, who looked as if she'd won the lottery by merely breathing the same air as him, they were shown an elevator that stood apart from the rest, as if it were too good for common company. It was signified by a golden plaque that read 'La Suite Regale'.

When Marik gallantly indicated for her to enter first with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, A'isha just rolled her eyes and stepped inside. As he joined her, she cast a lingering look at the lobby, waving a mental goodbye to her last connection with the outside world before the elevator doors slid shut. The secret note tucked away in her sock was her beacon, her reminder: reach out to Ahad and escape. But that was a worry for tomorrow. Tonight, it stayed its secret self, a hidden promise of a possible freedom.

The private elevator's doors glided open, revealing a suite even more obnoxious than the rest of this place. Marik stepped out first, his nonchalance to the surroundings as irritating as gum stuck under a shoe. A'isha followed, her mask of indifference hiding her dismay at the sight.

The living room was an Art Nouveau-induced seizure with a grand piano that practically sneered, "Beethoven or bust." An overwrought white sofa crouched in judgement, while hotel freebies posed on a floral coffee table. The balcony feigned a getaway spot, but unless she was Spider-Woman, the fifth floor was a no-go. The kitchen boasted appliances that were almost repulsed by the idea of being used, and countertops tried to justify their existence with gold accents. The dining table was a relic, dressed in linens whiter than innocence, and silver cutlery that would tempt a man less desperate than Jean Valjean to make a break for it. One glance at the adjoining bathroom revealed shining fixtures.

And then there was the bedroom, their suitcases already nestled inside. It was there that her heart sank. A single, California king bed, swathed with plush pillows and decadent linens. One bed. Two of them. Wonderful.

Marik leaned behind her in the bedroom doorway, his demeanour infuriatingly relaxed. "Ah, you've noticed. Practical, isn't it?"

No! Not practical. The opposite of practical, in fact.

But as if to punctuate her inner crisis, he extracted a pair of handcuffs from his suitcase and dangled the metal restraints, their frosty sheen a macabre promise. "We'll sleep cuffed together," he declared, his tone so calm it made her skin crawl. "Can't have you running off to pen an exposé."

A'isha's insides were doing a ballet, except none of the dancers knew any ballet, so it was just chaos in tutus. Captive in a penthouse. Gold bars instead of iron ones. Chandeliers dangling like keys to freedom she couldn't grasp. Bird, meet cage.

She met his gaze head on. "I will not play a part in your dominatrix fantasy."

He just raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't a request."

"I don't care! I refuse. You're my captor. And you spew dirty comments like you're discussing the weather." She decided to throw his own words back at him. "Didn't you say consent always matters when it comes to intimacy? Well, this seems pretty intimate to me."

"We'll be sharing the bed, not christening it. This isn't up for debate."

His words clung to the air like overbearing perfume, either a challenge or a threat. She scrutinised his face to discern which; though his expression was inscrutable, his icy gaze seemed like a warning, so she decided to switch gears. "What about when we need to shower or use the bathroom? I absolutely draw the line at nudity." There was no way on God's green earth she was giving him a peep show, and she certainly had no desire to feast her eyes on him in his birthday suit.

"I've no intention of transforming our stay into some low-grade burlesque show," he said, his tone sharp. "Your privacy will be respected for such needs."

She let out a snort. "And how do you plan to pull that off when I'm basically tethered to you?"

"Dare I ask if you'd like to freshen up before bed?" Another of his classic non-answers.

She reined in a snide comeback. A shower would indeed offer a convenient escape from his suffocating presence, and, more importantly, a chance to remove her socks without his hawk eyes on her. The last thing she needed was her secret note slipping out and onto the floor when he was watching. She pointed at the en-suite door, the glossy fixtures within catching the soft glow of the bedroom's chandelier. "Is that my personal palace of solitude?"

With an amused snort, he tossed the handcuffs on the bed. "Indeed. Your palace awaits, your majesty."

Rolling her eyes at his comment, A'isha wrenched open her suitcase and extracted her sleepwear, which (wouldn't you know it) was identical to the oversized men's shirt and sweatpants that were her daywear. Who could've predicted? As she gathered her clothes and toiletries, she felt Marik scrutinising her get-up as though he were a fashion judge on some reality show.

"I hope your wardrobe ventures into realms beyond sleepwear couture," he eventually said, his aristocratic airs unabashedly on display. "Something more... presentable for our daylight engagements."

"Oh, don't worry." Her sarcasm was as strong as a double shot of espresso. "I picked a few outfits during our splendid shopping spree that won't tarnish your sterling reputation."

As he chuckled behind her, she retreated to the en-suite bathroom and locked the door. The opulence inside was nearly as suffocating as Marik himself. But it was only a room. And beyond the door was just a bed. As for Marik? Merely a man. No, more like an obnoxious mosquito. Still, she'd weathered nights in planes, in tents, and through Dani's cacophonous snoring. This was just another hurdle. Another peak to conquer. What could possibly go wrong?

In the muted glow of the bedroom, Marik stood before his open suitcase, an array of careful order that even a world champion Tetris player would have tipped their hat to. A grin, wry and mischievous, flitted onto his features as he contemplated the spectacular pandemonium he'd cause by appearing in their shared bed clad in nothing more than his boxer briefs—a fair compromise to his usual choice of sleepwear, which was nothing. The sight of him in naught but his underwear would no doubt draw a lively reaction from A'isha, though the fallout could be seismic. Nonetheless, the thrill of his daring flirted with the scales of judgement. And thus, he made up his mind—tonight would see the reign of the briefs.

Idly, his gaze traced the elaborate carvings etched into the walls, leading his thoughts down a well-worn path to the scars marring his back—the Pharaoh's Memories. Each groove a testament to the enslaving duty that his bloodline had been fettered with, an unwelcome legacy bestowed upon each first-born male by the Nameless Pharaoh. An icy shiver traced an ominous path down his spine, a ghostly echo over the etched map of pain and anger on his back.

The thought of A'isha catching a glimpse of his past, manifested in these marks, unsettled and excited him in equal measure. So did sharing such close quarters, for that matter.

Yet, the idea of ceding his comfortable sprawl across the bed, his beloved nocturnal kingdom, did not sit well with him. And the handcuffs, while a necessary evil, unfortunately reversed the semblance of trust he'd cultivated with his stubborn captive.

Armed with his chosen bedtime attire and toiletries, Marik ensured his suitcase was locked before barricading the bedroom door with an ornate shelf. The potential cacophony if A'isha attempted to leave the bedroom after her shower would serve as an efficient alarm and an indication of her nerve.

Next, he ventured into the main bathroom, a vision of gold and white, the elegant fixtures polished to perfection. As he methodically removed the kohl from his eyes—a routine as familiar as his own reflection—he felt at harmony with the artful blend of history and opulence around him. A far cry from the bleak, lifeless tomb that had been his prison throughout his childhood.

After swapping his usual leisurely shower for a brisker rinse in sync with A'isha's pace, he diligently blow-dried his hair. Tending to his impeccable mane was no small feat, and dealing with it now rather than during his typical morning routine felt like a trade-off for convenience. He could only hope his hair would cooperate in the morning.

As Marik set the hairdryer aside, a flicker of apprehension seized him. Despite his usual self-assurance in his physique, the prospect of revealing himself to his captive presented a fresh perspective. Would his daring choice in nightwear unravel the delicate strands of trust he'd begun to weave between them? Or would she, like many women whose advances he'd rebuffed, find herself distracted by his appearance?

Drawing a steadying breath, he steeled himself for the cascade of moments about to unfold, and embraced the night clad in the audacity of his briefs.

Upon exiting the en-suite, A'isha was met with a sight that would have devout nuns gasping for air. Marik, her captor and resident pain-in-the-ass, was sprawled across the hotel bed as if posing for some kind of illicit Calvin Klein photoshoot, his tight black boxer briefs leaving very, very little to the imagination. For an alarming instant, her brain flat-lined.

Unwillingly, she scanned the length of his body: toned legs, carved abs, icy-blond hair that cascaded down to his collarbone, artfully framing those chiselled cheekbones and utterly, illegally kissable lips. The much-needed intrusion of reality bulldozed her out of her reverie. No, she absolutely couldn't—wouldn't—be attracted to this… this criminal! But damn it, as a woman, she had to admit— Nothing! She had to admit nothing. Because there was nothing to admit.

"No need to stare, A'isha," Marik spoke up, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "There's more than enough to go around."

"And I have more than enough self-respect to pass!" But as if to defy her words, her eyes dared to flick downward—then widened. That jab she'd made on the jet about his lack of endowment? Retraction needed, stat— No! Bad eyes. Very bad eyes. There were more alluring traffic cones in the world. Absolutely.

"Well well," he teased, winking at her. "I think I feel a spark. Could this be the beginning of a beautiful attraction?"

Her face heated up. Not a blush. Marik must've cranked up the heat. With the thermostat! Yeah, the thermostat. "Oh, there's a spark, alright. It's the short circuit in your deluded brain thinking I'd ever be attracted to you." Of course, he just laughed, unfazed by the fact his assets were on full display.

With a huff, she packed her dirty laundry in her suitcase and tucked away her sneakers, the secret note concealed within one. All the while, she couldn't help but steal glances at the bed—at Marik. She was about to share a bed with her captor. Her near-naked captor. Complete with handcuffs.

Approaching the bed with the same caution she would exercise around a sleeping tiger, she noticed that Marik didn't rush her. He just watched, now beneath the sheets, with a painfully knowing smirk.

Up close, A'isha had a clearer view of his face. Marik's eyes, which often bore into her with such intensity, seemed to lack their usual sharpness. That's when she realised – he wasn't wearing his signature eyeliner. Even in the dim light, there was something softer about him without it. His eyes seemed more human, vulnerable even. The revelation was as unexpected as desert rain.

Setting that observation aside, she turned to more important matters—like building a pillow barrier down the middle of the bed. It ate into a quarter of the bed space, but it was a small price to pay for a shred of privacy. "This is The Great Wall of A'isha," she announced, indicating it with a wave of her hands. "If you pass it, I will castrate you. Got it?"

Marik let out an amused snort. "Understood. No breaching The Great Wall of A'isha."

"Good," she said.

"Good," he parroted.

"I'm glad we covered that."

He cocked a brow. "Ish, are you stalling?"

"No! And don't call me that." As she bit the bullet and slid beneath the sheets, each shift of her body was a delicate dance routine. Her mind whirred with the unsettling vulnerability of being this close to Marik, a pseudo-marital scene unfolding that was wrong in so many ways.

He held the handcuffs aloft, their mocking shine accentuated by her bedside lamp's soft light. "Your wrist."

She yanked her wrists to her chest, eyeballing him. "What's to stop you from getting handsy in the middle of the night?"

All amusement vanished from his face. "I would never force myself on you, A'isha," he stated, each word slow and heavy. She almost believed him. Almost. But being cuffed to him wasn't a comforting thought regardless. She sighed, reminding herself that although he lobbed lewd comments and invaded her personal space, he hadn't actually overstepped boundaries of a more… touchy nature. Swallowing her fear, she slowly offered her wrist, cringing as she felt the cold kiss of metal click into place.

"FYI, I've had self-defence lessons." A single lesson with Uncle Ahad after her mugging, but that just meant it was still fresh. "I won't hesitate to use it on you."

"Oh, I believe you." As he secured his own cuff, A'isha noticed something she hadn't before. Marik's confident façade seemed to waver for a split second. His eyes, usually so full of arrogance, dimmed slightly as he looked at their bound wrists. It was as though, for just a moment, he was somewhere else entirely. But as quickly as it had come, the expression vanished, replaced once again by that cocky glint in his eyes.

A'isha inspected her bound wrist. There was barely a gap between her skin and the cold, unyielding metal. How was she supposed to channel her inner Houdini with no wriggle room?

"I'm a light sleeper too," Marik shared, clearly aware of her thought patterns. Then he nodded at her lamp, a silent request to switch it off. That's when a glass of water on her bedside table caught her eye, an unexpected touch of considerateness from her captor. Or was it like the puffer jacket, another attempt at fostering trust? Maybe even just him dodging her potential midnight disruptions for a drink? In any case, she vowed not to touch it.

Instead, she leaned over to switch off the lamp, the chain between their cuffs going taut. With the room cloaked in darkness, they positioned themselves as best as they could on their respective sides of the bed, the hushed sounds of the city filtering in through the curtains. And in the absence of sight, A'isha's other senses went into overdrive. She could hear Marik's steady breaths, feel each shift of the sheets, smell the hint of mint from his toothpaste. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she could make out his face. Well, the half not hidden behind her pillow wall. He'd rested his cuffed wrist atop one of the pillows between them, and it seemed he slept on his side, his eyes closed in serene repose, his damn lips seeming to smirk even in sleep. Ugh! Sharing a bed didn't bother him at all, did it?

Once he was still for some time, A'isha attempted a furtive Mission Impossible stunt with the handcuffs. Just a couple of stealthy tugs. She could almost hear the theme song playing in her head. But her fantasy was soon interrupted, "Persistent, aren't we?"

Ugh! Caught red-handed. "Shut up and sleep!"

His laughter rippled through the room like a splash in still water.

With a sigh of pure exasperation, she flopped onto her back, gingerly balancing her cuffed wrist at the pillow's edge, home to Marik's similarly cuffed hand. It was the only position that spared her wrist, unless she faced him directly, and she'd rather not wake up to that sight come morning.

As she stilled beneath the sheets, her thoughts began to swirl. Uncle Ahad would probably choke on his morning coffee if he could see her now, chained to his white whale, who also happened to moonlight as an underwear model. As for Amara? Oh, if her cousin were here, there'd be a full-on commentary of the situation. 'Jump him, Ish,' she mentally conjured up her cousin's bubbly voice. 'Crime boss or not, hooking up with a guy this hot is like stumbling across a unicorn that poops free VIP tickets to Harry Styles.' Oh, how she wished she could mute her inner-Amara voice.

"Sleep well, A'isha," Marik's words cut through her thoughts, sounding almost gentle. Just a side-effect of his fading consciousness, no doubt.

"Sleep abysmally, asshole."

He chuckled, the sound subdued and sleepy.

As her eyelids drooped, A'isha's thoughts fluttered around the faces of her loved ones. Uncle Ahad, Dani, all of her friends in Alexandria; probably fraught with worry over her whereabouts and well-being. And Amara, of course. Their first video chat tomorrow was like a lighthouse in this storm of chaos. Now, if only sleep would quit playing hard to get so she could fast forward to that moment.

Time trickled by, the harsh, cold reality of her situation gradually dissolving into the background. It was a bizarre calm, like being in a storm's eye, with the soft, rhythmic breaths from the figure next to her playing an unlikely lullaby. The rhythm wrapped around her thoughts, coaxing them to quiet, and eventually lulled her into a troubled, fretful sleep.

Did the Mission Impossible theme song play in anyone else's head after that one sentence? No? Just me?