One of my favourite chapters. I'll just leave it at that ;)

Chapter Nine: The Morning Mishap

The remnants of a dream slowly faded from A'isha's mind, like morning fog lifting off a lake. As reality infiltrated the blurred edges of sleep, the discomforting chill of a metal handcuff reminded her of her strange situation: cuffed to her captor in some excessively extravagant hotel suite. The sheets ruffled as she shifted in the dim light, her eyes falling on her bedmate.

Outlined in the faint light filtering through the heavy drapes, Marik was a silhouette in charcoal. A barrier of pillows still marked the territory between them, a makeshift buffer in their bizarre circumstances. But despite the silence, the room was filled with energy, all radiating from him. He was awake, and the thought made her gut twist in strange ways.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he drawled, breaking the tranquil silence. His voice had a touch of mischief that was palpable even in the dim light. "You serenaded me all night with your snoring. Truly, I'm touched."

A hot spike of indignation shot through her. "I don't snore," she defended, her voice still heavy with sleep. She was sure she didn't, or at least, she'd never been told so.

"Oh, but you do. Like a chainsaw in a library." His laughter was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. Despite herself, her lips twitched into a traitorous smile. Somehow, his terrible humour was growing on her.

Ducking her head into her pillow, she attempted to hide her amusement. "Since you're still here, you must've lied about being a light sleeper. Or maybe, you're so beguiled by my chainsaw serenade, you couldn't bear to leave."

His laughter echoed in the room again, deeper this time. "I can't deny the thrill of our verbal fencing, A'isha."

Their exchange seemed to alter the ambience, as if someone had turned down the gravity and they were floating in a softer space. And his voice, edged with morning's roughness, tugged at something deep within her.

As if drawn by that same invisible force, Marik moved, the whisper of the sheets against his skin sounding like the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind. His body inched over the cold, impersonal barrier of pillows to invade her territory, replacing the chill of the sheets with his warmth. The scent of him – earthy with a faint citrus note – swirled around her, as soothing as a rain-soaked forest after a storm. His face, tantalisingly close, hung over hers, the soft lavender of his eyes pulling her into their depths.

A cascade of light hair fell over his forehead, tickling her cheek, and his soft fingertips traced a delicate path along her collarbone, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. "Tread carefully, A'isha." The soft growl of his voice was a dare wrapped in a warning. "Keep looking at me like that and I might think you're enjoying my company."

Heat pricked her cheeks, but she held his gaze. "And if I am?"

Marik's gaze deepened, darkened, and a thrumming sensation started low in her belly. His lips hovered a mere breath from hers, as his hands threaded through her hair, cradling the back of her head. "Then by all means, A'isha," he breathed, his words brushing her lips, "enjoy me." He leaned in, as if he too was prepared to blur the lines between them. But as their lips verged on meeting, reality shattered the moment like a rogue wave.

A'isha's eyes flew open, her body jolting awake from the disturbingly vivid dream of almost kissing Marik. Her pulse raced. She gasped for air, her breaths coming out in short, raspy bursts as she fought the rush of terror and a sudden, unexpectedly thrilling heat.

The terror won. She lunged off the bed in a frantic quest for escape, but a sharp tug on her wrist, an unkind reminder of the steel shackle binding her to the real-world version of the guy she'd almost dream-kissed, halted her mid-flight. The momentum yanked Marik from his sleep and into wakefulness, sending them tumbling from the bed in a tangle of limbs and twisted bodies. They crash-landed onto the floor, him landing atop her.

Then, she felt it. The all-too-obvious morning evidence of his manhood pressed firmly against her stomach. Apparently, certain parts of him hadn't received the memo about his kidnapper status. And in the whirlwind of her own mortification, all she could do was gawk. If there was an option for the floor to swallow her whole, she'd take it in a heartbeat.

Marik, busy rubbing the sleep from his eyes, looked as shell-shocked as she felt. But of course, he bounced back in an irritatingly fast and puzzling way. "Good morning, A'isha," he drawled, his rough, sleep-ridden voice sounding dangerously close to his dream self's. "Enjoying the view?" His grin was slow, cocky, and entirely infuriating, while she was certain her face was a fire hazard.

As far as wake-up calls went, this was a solid F-. A'isha found herself wishing, amidst the surge of panic, embarrassment, and the unanticipated awareness of her captor draped over her, that she could rewind, go back to sleep, and pretend this disaster never happened. Making out with Marik's dream self suddenly seemed better than whatever this nightmare was.

Rather than roll off of her like any normal person would, Marik hoisted himself up onto his elbows and looked at her like she was some rare scientific discovery. "What you're feeling"—he indicated his lower region—"is a routine phenomenon among us gentlemen. It's referred to scientifically as 'nocturnal penile tumescence'. A mouthful, right?" Oh great, now he was making blow job jokes. "In layman's terms, it's just morning wood. You see, during REM sleep, the parasympathetic activity skyrockets and…"

As his impromptu lecture droned on, A'isha felt like she'd somehow fallen through a rabbit hole into a B-grade Anatomy 101 class. She was pinned under him on the floor, bodies awkwardly interlocked, and he was giving her a crash course on morning wood while sporting one of his own.

Honestly, a part of her was grudgingly impressed by his ability to spew out scientific information in such a... compromising position. The rest of her was imagining taking a pillow and smothering him with it. "Yes, thank you, Professor Morning-Wood," she interrupted, "because obviously, in this awkward, and frankly mortifying position, all I was craving was a pop-up biology lecture. Why don't we host a symposium on human anatomy while we're at it?"

An amused smirk crawled onto his face, and the handcuffs clattered as he finally evacuated the comfort of her body. Praise be for that.

He rose from the floor with the poise of a prima ballerina, the budding light of dawn creeping through the heavy drapes to bounce off his back. Wait. His back. It wasn't bare. No, it was a canvas for a tattoo of symbols—hieroglyphs—that spread across his shoulders, ending just above his waistline. Hold up—

Her breath caught in her throat.

That… wasn't ink…

Marik whipped around with an uncharacteristic lack of smoothness. It was like watching a gazelle suddenly develop two left feet. Or a master pianist hitting the wrong note. For a split second, his devil-may-care demeanour seemed to crack, but then he thrust out a cuffed wrist, silently offering his hand to help her up, and it was like the moment had never happened.

His grip was steady, warm. With unexpected strength, he pulled her to her feet—and then some, leading to an unexpected encounter with his chest. His firm, lightly sculpted chest. Beneath her touch, she could feel the rapid drumming of his heart, a silent confession belying his outwardly cool demeanour. Was he… nervous? Her eyes climbed up to his, and she caught a glimpse of something genuine, something she'd seen in her dream: softness, sincerity, a pull—

Suddenly, as if they'd both brushed against a livewire, they jerked apart. A'isha's heart hammered like it was trying to escape her chest, and she scrambled for some modicum of dignity. As for Marik, he was just short of cartoonish with his bug-eyed surprise. But oh, the universe loved a gag; no sooner had they scampered apart than the chain of their cuffs snapped taut. A'isha's cuff bit into her wrist, making her gasp, while Marik winced, his own limb yanked in an unfriendly hello.

So there they stood, like the world's most dysfunctional tug-of-war team. Bound, not by fate, but by cold, unamused steel. It was like a cruel parody of a buddy-cop film. A chuckle started to tumble from Marik's lips – the "did that really just happen" kind. A'isha caught the twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and it was enough for her to let out a strained laugh, the kind of giggle that was born in the womb of awkward situations and raised in the school of "you have to laugh or you'll cry".

Clearing his throat, Marik nodded toward the bed-turned-warzone. "We should handle that," he proposed, sounding less like he was fanning the flames of her embarrassment and more like he was trying to put them out for once. Both of them, it seemed, were off their game this morning.

She cast an incredulous glance at the bed. "Won't room service be changing the sheets anyway?"

Marik's lips puckered like he'd just swallowed the world's sourest lemon. He shot the bed a pained glance as if its state of disarray might just break his heart. "Humour me," he managed. So, first, he'd turned her house into a photo frame alignment clinic. Then, his cruise ship was practically ready for a spread in 'Immaculate Living' magazine. Now, she was beginning to wonder if he literally had a(nother) problem.

When she nodded, he inched forward like he was approaching a landmine, clearly not in the mood for a sequel of the recent bed-top chaos. "Close your eyes. I'll remove the cuffs." He didn't bother with the courtesy of a 'please', but strangely, it sounded more like a request than a command.

With a sigh of resignation, she complied, sealing her eyes shut so as not to catch a forbidden peek at the mystical, three-digit code that unlocked the handcuffs. And thus, Operation Make-The-Bed-Like-We're-Normal-People began.

Dawn's timid fingers reached through the curtains as the comic absurdity of her predicament struck her—just moments ago, he was lounging atop her with a morning salute. Now, he'd morphed into a bed-making perfectionist. His attention was startling: sheets inspected like a military barracks, a blanket you could bounce a quarter off, pillows aligned like they'd been measured with a protractor. Although he kept correcting anything she did, his fixation didn't seem rooted in frustration over her subpar bed-making skills, but rather a deep absorption in achieving domestic perfection. (Note to self: When Mr Control Freak says "we should handle that", what he really means is "I will handle that" and she totally should've seen that coming.)

As he painstakingly arranged the last pillow on the bed, he decided to break the quiet. "Fancy a mocchacino?" His voice was light, an unexpected contrast to the high voltage that had passed between them earlier.

She hesitated, weighing her options. The idea of collapsing back into the now impeccably-made bed was tempting, if only to see Marik implode. But she knew her own mind; there was no way she'd manage to snooze after such a circus act of a wake-up call.

"Does this place have tea?" His eyebrow shot up, speaking louder than words. "Yes, yes, judge away."

His laugh, surprisingly genuine, filled the room. "Tea it is, then."

With the soft click of the en-suite door sealing A'isha away, Marik found himself musing that she was likely exhaling a sigh of relief that could rival the breadth of the Mediterranean. A smirk danced on his lips. The morning had commenced with an amusing twist—that is, of course, A'isha performing an unexpected gravity-defying leap from the bed and ending up in an embarrassed heap beneath him, confronted with the unapologetic realities of male biology. The sight of her so flustered had definitely been a delightful treat.

Now, what had spurred her unplanned aerial act? Perhaps a fleeting amnesia of her predicament, sparking panic at his proximity?

As for A'isha's unexpected acquiescence to sharing the bed and wearing the handcuffs, frankly, he had anticipated more resistance. Could that be a sign of burgeoning trust? The possibility only intensified his determination to proceed with caution, knowing each action could either fortify or fracture the delicate trust developing between them.

Before an ornate mirror, hanging on the door's reverse, Marik commenced his morning sartorial ritual. He slipped into a black short-sleeved dress shirt, its gold patterns winking in the morning light, paired with form-fitting beige trousers and leather shoes boasting a polish that would make even a drill sergeant feel under-dressed. His nimble fingers fastened a gold choker and dangling earrings, before tucking the Millennium Rod under his belt. The ensemble was an orchestration of personal indulgence and an ode to the room's Art Nouveau elegance. Quite the magnum opus, if he might opine—and oh, he did.

He expertly traced the distinctive kohl pattern around his eyes, a tradition reserved for the firstborn males of the Ishtar clan post their initiation at the tender age of ten. For his forebears, the kohl symbolised reverence for ancient customs. For Marik, the dark lines served as a constant reminder of his purpose—to liberate the Ishtar clan from three millennia of servitude to the Nameless Pharaoh. The kohl, in its own way, honed his resolve daily.

Battling his unruly hair, a consequence of last night's shower, he found his thoughts once again hijacked by A'isha. The recent sight of her, vulnerable beneath him, swarmed his mind. The morning light had softened her usually fierce features; her cheeks had blushed against her golden skin, and her almond eyes, deep blue as the night, had shimmered with an uncharacteristic innocence. Those full lips, so very smooth and soft in appearance, had parted slightly in silent surprise, while her dark hair had fanned out, brushing his arms. Though her toned dancer's form had been concealed by her oversized shirt and loose sweatpants, he had felt the strength of her body and the light sensation of her full breasts grazing his chest with her every flustered breath. Even now, his breath quickened at the vivid image.

He paused, his fingers stilling amidst his hair. At the recollection of A'isha's startled reaction, he was hit by a jolt of realisation. His discourse on male biology, that clinical and detailed spiel, had been... nervous chatter. A diversion. Marik Ishtar, infamous leader of the Rare Hunters, had been momentarily disarmed by a pair of wide, innocent eyes and a flush that painted her cheeks like a Saharan sunset. How absurd. But then again, he thought with a smirk, he should be thankful for his brain's impulse to ramble about the most unsexy topic it could conjure. It had certainly served as an unexpected barrier, ensuring a quick recovery of his composure.

Amidst his tangled emotions, one clear thread emerged: A'isha Dahar was physically attractive. His acknowledgement of this was, of course, caused by the capricious whims of teenage hormones wreaking havoc on him. And he hadn't missed that her palms were sweaty as he'd helped her up this morning; thank you, Amara's mind, for that oh-so-amusing tell that A'isha too found him aesthetically pleasing.

If a situation were to arise where A'isha expressed a desire to voluntarily engage in more carnal pursuits with him, Marik would carefully weigh the pros and cons. The possibility of her feeling coerced by their power dynamic was distasteful, so ensuring that the reins of physical intimacy rested firmly in her hands would be imperative. His nose crinkled. Best not to get ahead of himself, that was decidedly un-Marik. And gods help him if A'isha ever glimpsed his internal monologue; she'd likely follow through on her threat to castrate him.

Setting aside the undeniable mutual attraction between them, Marik couldn't shake off the feeling that something else was off-kilter. Her physical attraction for him should have him basking in triumph, but instead, there was a subtle unrest beneath the surface. It was as if he teetered on the precipice of unfamiliar emotions, ones he couldn't quite grasp yet sensed their disruptive potential. After all, how could he effectively plan his next move if he couldn't see each piece on the board?

With a frown, his thoughts meandered to the ancient carvings begrudgingly holding residence upon his back. His jaw set firm as the memory of the ritual—the torment, the icy slab, his anguished cries beneath the searing blade—inundated his consciousness. A'isha had seen the scars. He was certain. And was that glint in her eye a manifestation of concern or, even more disdainfully, pity? The latter was more bitter to him than the dregs of cold instant coffee; though, he supposed it might just be a weapon he could wield.

Striding into the avant-garde kitchen, Marik activated the coffee machine. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was a comforting old friend, its warmth soothing his senses. His fingers danced over his smartphone, summoning his "Morning" playlist—a series of classical masterpieces. The cascading piano notes twirled through the air as he expelled a breath he didn't realise he was holding. The music was his refuge; silence, his nemesis. It was an unwelcome ghost from his past, a reminder of a time when the weight of centuries pressed down on him.

Opening the pantry, Marik was confronted with an absurdly vast selection of teas, and an epiphany struck him. How could he, Marik, the maestro of detail, forget to ask A'isha her tea preference? He would blame sleep deprivation, for his nights usually resembled a ship battling Poseidon's wrath, but the presence of another had proved an unanticipated anchoring. It must have been A'isha's presence; the hotel bed, while decent, was no match for his own. In her company, he'd enjoyed a placid slumber, despite the handcuffs that had served as a stark reminder of that stone slab, stained with his blood. Could it have been human connection that calmed the storm? He banished the thought. A strong coffee or two would set his faculties straight.

From the pantry, he grabbed a container housing a legion of tea options and made his way through the bedroom to the en-suite door. Three rhythmic knocks. Control, charm, intelligence—that was Marik. But standing there, with a cornucopia of teas as a peace offering and a plan somewhat muddled by an unexpected tug in his chest, he couldn't help but feel like A'isha wasn't the only vulnerable one in the suite.

"What kind of tea would you like?" he inquired through the door, grateful for years of practice that made regathering his composure a simple act. "The hotel has a variety that borders on comical."

A brief silence. If they weren't ensconced in a fifth-floor suite, he might've feared she'd performed some daring escape through the window.

"What're my options?" she asked at last, an unmistakable wariness woven through her words. Not unexpected, considering the morning's unforeseen calamity.

He indulged in the eloquence of the teas' names, the flavours seeming to become part of a poetic ode. After his recital, she chose peppermint. Marik's lips curved into a smile. Fresh and invigorating. It somehow suited her.

Returning to the kitchen, he prepared her tea and made himself a cup of extra strong coffee. His digits rapped a rhythm on the cool marble countertop as his thoughts raged like a sandstorm. Focus. His plans were clear. Gain her trust. Build rapport. Allowing his emotions to be swayed by A'isha, who was not a part of his grand plan but merely a by-product of it, was a weakness he would not allow.

Stepping out of the en-suite, A'isha tried to shake off the mental replay of Marik turning into a human blanket and educating her on his morning arousal. The embarrassment was like an unwelcome perfume sample spritzed at her by an overly zealous department store employee.

And then, a saving grace. Vivaldi's Four Seasons danced into the bedroom, its strains pirouetting through the air. Her brows shot up. Classical music? Really? Marik seemed like the kind of guy whose playlist would be named "Doomsday" or "Bow Before Me." But Four Seasons? This was like catching a bear in a pair of ballet slippers.

As she cautiously made her way to the open living area (thanks, Vivaldi, Winter makes a really dramatic entrance), she felt like she was trespassing in an art museum where even exhaling was frowned upon. The combined living, kitchen and dining room was as opulent as when she'd arrived, bathed in dawn's golden light, and she couldn't help but feel dwarfed by the sheer scale and magnificence of the room. How could Marik feel so comfortable in a place that felt more like a gallery than a living space? It was all so regal, she half-expected the furniture to come to life just to critique her outfit (a tank top, jeans, sneakers, and a jacket tied around her waist; hardly worthy of all this luxury).

Then there was Marik, presiding over the dining table as if a Renaissance painter had brought him to life but he'd decided to jump out for a coffee break. His hair, previously hosting a mini-tornado, was now obediently styled, and those eyes were again enveloped by infuriatingly perfect eyeliner.

He glanced up from his coffee, a smirk on his lips. "You're late to the symphony."

She snorted. "You must've sent the invite to my home address. I haven't been there since Saturday."

Marik laughed, the sound like a rare piece of art you're not sure if you love or hate. She decided on hate. "Touché," he said, and pointed at a china teapot and an empty teacup. "I didn't pour it. I wanted to let it steep to bring out the flavour for you."

Was that a hint of consideration? A'isha quickly doused that notion with a bucketful of skepticism. Carefully sliding the teapot and cup toward her, she poured her drink with the precision of a bomb technician. Both pieces looked like they might have once belonged to Marie Antoinette, and A'isha half-expected a ghostly "off with her head" if she made a misstep.

"After we enjoy a café breakfast," Marik began, all business-like, "we'll return here for your daily call with Amara. Then, I have some sightseeing planned for us."

She almost dropped the fancy teapot. While it made sense, given his insistence on building trust and rapport, the thought of acting like a tourist with her captor was ridiculous. "Sightseeing? How nice," she said, flashing him a mocking smile. "Should we wear matching outfits and take selfies?"

He shrugged. "If you'd like, but no pressure." That had to be sarcasm, but his poker face almost fooled her. Seriously, how did he do that?

Retreating to the safest distance the table allowed (she wished it was another country), A'isha settled down at its opposite head. Then it hit her; she was stuck with a head-on view of Mr Sculpted-from-Marble-And-Arrogance. It was like being on a diet and sitting in front of a chocolate cheesecake. Because, alas, she had to acknowledge, albeit begrudgingly, that Marik wasn't exactly… an eyesore. A gold star for him. But then there was his personality—and oh, he had plenty, but none of it was endearing. His criminal ways and overinflated ego obliterated any chances of a redeeming quality. There was no emotional allure, just an inconvenient acceptance that he was, objectively, attractive.

Focus. She sipped her tea, letting it fortify her determination. Eyes on the prize: freedom, not pretty boys.

As the last notes of Vivaldi's concerto danced away, Claire De Lune tiptoed in. She watched Marik bask in the melody; sinking into his seat, his eyes eased shut as if in appreciation.

A flicker of curiosity ignited in the darkest corners of her mind, stoked by the rare glimpses of vulnerability she'd seen in him—this morning's back-baring incident, the awkward parting after their too-close-for-comfort encounter, and even the distant look in his eyes as he'd cuffed them last night. Was there more to him than his cocky control freak ways? A shred of humanity beneath the narcissism and remorselessness? And could she exploit it? A sprinkle of empathy, a dash of fake interest. It'd be a strategic play, a necessity, requiring some serious teeth-gritting. But if it could pave the way to hers and Amara's freedom, it'd be worth it.

An image of his back swam into her mind, his skin etched with either devotion or madness. An entire anthology literally carved into flesh. It begged the question: What drove someone to turn their skin into a living manuscript? Then it struck her—how old was Marik? His face suggested a man just dipping his toes into his twenties, but could all that worldly authority and menace really belong to someone so young? Or had The R.H. simply invested in the finest age-defying serum ill-gotten wealth could buy? The thought of him being much older than her seventeen years, on top of being her captor and imposed fiancé, was just another punchline in this joke of a situation.

Marik sent her a smile, and she froze, half-convinced he was using his magic stick to hear her thoughts. God, she hoped not. But then, he sealed his eyes shut again and sighed like a love-struck poet over his coffee. Was this sacred ritual of coffee and classical music his everyday jam, and was she, oh the fortunate one, simply being bestowed the honour of experiencing the daily Marik show first hand?

Despite the way her gut clenched, A'isha decided to cautiously engage him in conversations, to unearth his past, his secrets, his motives. She'd still scout for the perfect spot to leave her secret note, but she wasn't about to put all her eggs in one basket. If there was a way out of her current predicament, maybe it was buried beneath the layers of the man who'd cast her into it. It would be an act of empathy, a dance where she had to lead without revealing her steps. But hey, she was an actress, a dancer. If anyone could pull it off, it was her. And she'd start now.

She set her cup down with a soft but definitive clink against the saucer. "I didn't expect Vivaldi or Debussy when I left the en-suite," she said, channelling the grace and poise of someone who could totally be at a royal tea party.

Marik's eyes opened in that languid, calm manner of his. "You're familiar with classical music?" Was that curiosity? With his perpetual zen demeanour, she'd need a psychic to confirm.

She shrugged. "Some."

With a flourish only a seasoned egotist could manage, his hand left his coffee cup to gesture at the grand piano. "Do you play?"

"Nope," she said, lightning fast. Sort of a lie (though technically she didn't play anymore), but no way was she about to entertain him with a recital. While she'd learnt a little piano back in the day, alas, her calling wasn't to be the next Liberace.

"A shame," Marik said, squeezing out what could almost pass for disappointment if she strained her ears. He let that hang in the air as if mourning the loss of a great piano virtuoso (it really wasn't). Then, he casually added, "I don't play either. I merely appreciate."

She focussed on that comment, her tone carefully neutral as she replied, "I can respect that. I enjoy hiking, but I'd never attempt Mount Everest. We all have our limits."

He took a sip of his coffee with the poise of a king on his throne. "Time is the most limiting factor of all," he said, with all the gravitas of a philosopher. "No one can master every art."

"So, what else do you appreciate?" She put on her best 'we're just two friends having a drink' voice, hoping he was too mesmerised by the coffee to notice her ninja information gathering skills. Probably wishful thinking, but she'd wish anyway.

"I've always been fond of literature." His voice had that low, controlled resonance, like a radio host speaking just above a whisper, captivating listeners with every word. "The ability to explore different worlds and times from the comfort of a reading chair… It's quite remarkable."

A'isha couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips. His response reminded her of her love of theatre, the written scripts that transported her to different roles and times. She crossed her arms and leaned forward like an eager detective in a noir film. "I'd ask for your favourites, but let's face it, I probably wouldn't know any of them—"

Mid-sentence, her elbow performed a betrayal of epic proportions. It nudged the teacup. The delicate porcelain took a spectacular dive, as if auditioning for a spot on the Olympic diving team. Only, instead of a splash, it was a crash; porcelain scattered the mosaic tiles like the aftermath of a Renaissance party gone wild.

She shot up from her chair, her mind a cyclone of horror and regret. "Shit!" Marie Antoinette's ghost was probably en route to Catania to deliver some prime haunting. She bent down to pick up the pieces, thinking of witty lines she could use to banter with an 18th-century French ghost— Wait, why was she worried about dead people? She had an alive person across from her who seemed very precious about his things. And she'd just broken something.

As she scrambled to save what was left of her dignity (and the teacup), a porcelain shard decided to play rogue and sliced her finger. "Ow!" she yelped, yanking her hand back.

Enter Marik, stage left. Had he teleported? One second he was across the table, the next he was at her side, still looking like he'd just stepped out of a men's fashion magazine. His sudden closeness was like the heat from a bonfire.

She tried to focus on anything but how close he was. Like the finger. Yes, let's focus on the bleeding finger. Oh, how it stung.

"Let me see," he said, extending a hand. His words were a temporary truce, a tenuous bridge over the chasm between captor and captive.

She gave in, surrendering her finger with all the grace of a reluctant kitten being picked up.

His touch was weirdly gentle, his fingers steady as he inspected the cut, but she noticed his nose crinkle a little at the sight. Was that frustration? Or maybe disgust? "It's not deep," he said, commandeering a napkin from the table and handing it to her. "Here. Press on it."

As she heeded his advice, she watched him stride to the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, before a first aid kit appeared in his grasp with the same ease as a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Her mouth began the motions to claim her independence in wound management, but then a bulb flashed on in her brain. Playing damsel and letting him don the cape of a knight, albeit a very shady one, might just loosen a few bricks in the wall between them. Strategy, A'isha.

As he busied himself with her cut, it felt like watching a lion zero in on a questionable piece of meat. His eyes flicked to the plaster in his hand, then to her finger, and for a microsecond, she swore she saw something in those eyes—a flicker of discomfort. Even dread? But then it was gone, like a mirage in a desert.

She cleared her throat. "I guess 'crime boss' and 'part-time nurse' go on the same resumé these days."

The corners of his mouth tugged upward. "Diversification is essential in a volatile economy," he said, concentration etched on his face.

And then, oh boy, he leaned in closer. His breath caressed her cheek, and her brain, the traitor, decided to start a comprehensive analysis of his face. The jaw that looked like it was carved from marble. The fullness of his lips, slightly parted in quiet focus. As he dabbed the cut, his thumb grazed her palm, featherlight. His scent, a heady blend of earth and untamed forest, engulfed her senses, bringing her back to that near-kiss nightmare, and with the might of a champion arm wrestler, she mentally shoved the uninvited reminder of that dream into the dark, cobwebby recesses of her brain.

Keep it together, A'isha!

Marik's hands moved with the precision and care of a world-class surgeon. Honestly, he could probably disarm a bomb with his pinky while casually quoting Shakespeare in several languages.

But then, he went rigid, his breath hitching. Her eyes darted to the blood dribbling from her cut, then back to Marik. No way. Could it be? Was Mr Crime Boss unnerved by blood?

She couldn't resist. "If you were a superhero, you'd be Irony Man. Leader of the Rare Hunters, but with a dash of hemophobia."

His eyes locked onto hers like they were engaged in a high-stakes duel. "Do you always deflect with humour?"

"Do you always deflect with deflection?" she shot back, their voices hushed, the air thick between them.

A pause. It might've been a second or an eternity.

Marik patted down the plaster, his fingers staying in place just a hair longer than necessary. "There," he finally said, creating some much-needed space between them.

A'isha nodded, her throat suddenly dry and her voice on a brief vacation. Eventually, she choked out a "thanks".

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, then glanced at the scattered porcelain shards. "I'll alert reception of the teacup mishap on our way down," he said, switching off the classical music on his phone. She'd forgotten it was even playing amid her tragic clumsiness. "Housekeeping will deal with the mess. We can still catch breakfast at a café."

She hesitated. "It doesn't feel right, leaving this for someone else to clean up."

He looked at her, amused. "I'm paying for this room with enough money to buy a small island; they practically expect to bend over backward for us. We could ask them to build a porcelain memorial in honour of the fallen teacup and they would."

A tempting thought, admittedly, but she let it go. This was Marik's circus, and for now, she was just one of the acrobats.

They made their way to the elevator, Marik slinging a jacket over his arm and leading with the obnoxious swagger of a guy who knows he owns every step he takes. She followed, her gaze flitting toward the balcony as she did. A sunny winter's day awaited them, Catania's quaint streets and rooftops stretching out to the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.

Today, she had just one objective: plant her secret note without Marik noticing. She'd pull it off. She had to.

At the start of the chapter, were you yoyoing between 'this is a dream' and 'or is it'? Hehehe! And yes, I was cackling as I wrote the morning wood part. 'Cause I'm a grown ass woman.