Chapter 6 An Impossible Request

• I inhale deeply as my eyelids flutter open.
• There’s an odd numbness lingering in my chest as my empty eyes gaze at the coffered ceiling with gold lining. Despite the unfamiliarity, my absent mind ignores the lingering discomfort in my shoulder as my sight shifts to the illuminating, flat, round bulbs in the center of the odd geometric pattern of the decorative panel.
• I wasn’t ready. Although, I suppose, I probably never would have been.
• Levi…
• I didn’t get to say goodbye the first time he left, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe the reason he avoided saying goodbye at all is because he knew how I’d react. If 24-year-old me couldn’t hold it together, what hope was there for 18-year-old me to not have utterly collapsed under the heartbreak of knowingly parting ways with the only family I had left—the only family I have left.
• I suppose I only wish he’d stayed with me until I fell asleep.
• Would it have made it all better?
• The breath that parts my lips makes my chest slowly fall, my head tilting as I flicker my gaze to the beige walls that compliment the golden lining of the baseboard molding, meeting the ends of the bottom of the walls. The light casting from the windows with parted elegant shading drapes makes my eyes narrow ever-so-slightly as they adjust to the bright light beaming into the room.
• From the comfort of the circular king-sized bed with warm pastel yellow bed sheets, I turn my head once more, my gaze tracing my healthy arm up as it rests extended above my head. It isn’t until my eyes land on the silver cuff locked around my wrist that I realize that the plan isn’t to keep me to the bed until I’m ready to get up—it’s to keep me to the bed until he is ready to let me off of it.
• Marcel…
• My blood boils at the mere thought of him.
• I hate him.
• I hate his family.
• Mostly, I hate how little regard he has for the lives that he and his father have been responsible for shattering.
• I feel my heart pounding in my chest at the inexplicable and utter despise that I feel for him.
• I…loathe him.
• For the first time in my life, I catch myself wishing death upon someone—death upon him. Then, I realize that there are worse things than death, and maybe death is more mercy than he deserves.
• I’m careful, turning on my side as I throw my legs over the edge of the bed. With my hand cuffed to the headboard, I sit up slowly, and a brief dizzy spell overcomes me, my vision going hazy for what feels like seconds. A faint pounding lingers in my head as I lean forward, my sight fixed on the white nail polish on my toes. It isn’t until I avert my gaze to my lap that I realize that I’m no longer wearing the hospital gown I’d been taken from the hospital in. Instead, an awfully familiar pair of black leggings hug my meaty thighs, and an oversized white t-shirt with a black butterfly and skull silhouette dresses my torso comfortably.
• These are mine. These are all mine.
• My eyes snap up, landing on a pair of white sneakers positioned beside the elegant dresser at the far end of the room. I recognize them in a heartbeat, being the pair of sneakers I’d been wearing when I got home the night that I was shot.
• Did he have all of my clothes packed up and brought here..?
• …
• What. The. Fuck.
• I clench my jaw as I notice the familiar pink suitcase resting beside the champagne colored suede armchair across the foot of the bed, positioned against the empty wall.
• A part of me can’t help but feel disappointed, because I should’ve known better.
• I should’ve known that he wasn’t going to give me the courtesy of allowing me to pack up my own apartment. I should’ve known that I wouldn’t get a say in the things that I may or may not get to keep.
• After all, I didn’t get a say on whether or not I’d get to keep my freedom—even if it were just a fraction of it.
• Then, there are my lingering thoughts: why keep me prisoner in what I can only assume is his house? With his kind of power, his kind of influence, he didn’t have to take me and cuff me to a bed. I would’ve done whatever he wanted from the comfort of my apartment.
• It all comes down to those two things: power and control.
• He’s done what he’s done because he can and no one can stop him.
• The sound of the door suddenly opening pulls me out of my thoughts, my head lifting as my eyes snap to the doorway a few feet away from where I sit. It comes as a surprise when my heart remains at a perfectly steady rhythm despite staring at the face of the man who put a bullet through my shoulder.
• A small smile curls the corners of his lips ever-so-slightly, and a beaming glint reflects his golden-brown eyes as he emerges into the room. Unlike before, he’s alone, shutting the door behind him before taking a couple of steps closer toward me. He ceases his movements a couple of feet beyond my reach, and as he comes to a halt, he draws one of his hands into the pocket of his pants, the other hanging loosely beside him.
• From what looks like a brand new pair of black dress shoes to the black pants and suit jacket, I study him intently. The silver buckle of his belt reflects the light from the large windows across the room, behind me, and as my eyes trace up the fitted navy blue shirt that he wears, I notice that he yet again, doesn’t wear a tie. Instead, the top pair of buttons on his shirt are undone, allowing for the glistening silver chain on his neck to catch the eyes of anyone who so much as glances in his direction.
• Then, there’s his sharp jaw, coated with his perfectly trimmed beard, his seamlessly symmetrical nose, and his captivating irises emphasized by his batting, full eyelashes. As always, his silky black hair is neatly combed to the side, complimenting the masculine shape of his features.
• The devil was a beautiful angel too.
• “While you’re in here by yourself, you’ll stay cuffed to that bed until I’m sure that you’re not going to jump off the balcony,” Marcel suddenly says, his husky voice resonating as he nods toward the set of double doors that I hadn’t noticed between the large pair of windows.
• Does he think I’m stupid?
• “Why would I jump off of it?” Is the first thing that I can muster, my voice stronger than I expect.
• The small smile on his lips quickly turns into a smirk and he shrugs his shoulders, slightly arching a brow as he sarcastically states, “Beats me.”
• If only I could throw you over the balcony.
• He parts his lips to speak again, but before he can, I state matter-of-factly, “Assuming that I’m on the second floor, I’m approximately 15 feet from the ground. The probability of survival with injury resulting in life-long disability is exponentially higher than death, if I were to jump.”
• I pause for a moment, studying the intrigued look in his eyes before adding, “So, if you’re concerned that I’ll try to kill myself to escape you, I can assure you that me jumping from the balcony should be the very least of your concerns.”
• Just as I expected, he doesn’t have a snarky response.
• Instead, he surprises me.
• He moves to me without a word, my heart skipping a beat as he comes to stop just inches before me. The scent of his spicy cologne fills my senses and I lean away from him, my eyes following his hand as he draws it from his pocket with a key between his fingers. I watch as he draws in into the keyhole, unlocking my wrist from the cuff’s confinements in one swift motion.
• I quickly lower my hand to my lap, bringing the other to touch my now free wrist. With this, he draws the key back into his pocket, turning his head to lock his gaze with my own. It’s only for a brief moment that his eyes hold mine, shifting to my shoulder in the next. He reaches for it, my body involuntarily flinching as he hooks his index finger into the neck of my t-shirt, pulling it down to expose my bandages.
• A hum emits from the back of his throat, and when I think he’s done with his cryptic examination, he brings his unoccupied hand to my uninjured shoulder, pulling me forward and toward him. I turn my head to the side, looking at him as he leans forward slightly, shifting his finger to pull the back of my shirt out of the way, exposing the bandages over the exit wound.
• “Good,” he says with a sense of finality. “Bleeding stopped.”
• Bleeding would’ve never started if you hadn’t fucking shot me.
• In the next moment, his touch falls away from me and he takes a pair of steps back. With a gesture, he motions to the entire room, stating, “This is your bedroom for the foreseeable future. I had Frank and Rick pack up your apartment. All of your essentials are here, and everything else has been put in storage.”
• In storage? My essentials? How the fuck would you know what my essentials are?!
• He pauses for a moment, pointing at the suitcase as he adds, “That is all that’s left for you to unpack. All of your clothes and shoes have been organized in the closet.”
• He lowers his hand and draws it back into his pocket, and as he parts his lips to speak again, I interject, an obvious frustration lingering in my voice as I ask, “What do you want from me?”
• He doesn’t respond immediately, and while his heavy gaze searches me, I don’t dare look anywhere else. There’s a thoughtful look on his face, and while I once would’ve thought that it’s an innocent attempt to choose his words carefully to avoid misleading me, there’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder if he’s instead trying to come up with a way to give me response that doesn’t make whatever it is that he wants from me sound as bad as it actually is.
• When it seems as though he’s ready to give me an answer, I’m wrong again.
• He walks to the armchair positioned across the bed and wraps his hand around the top of the backrest. Meticulously, he drags it across the marble floor, positioning it directly in front of me before lowering himself to it. His fingers interlocked with one another, they rest between his legs parted at shoulder-width.
• “How familiar are you with the study of mechanics? Specific to engineering.”
• My eyes narrow on him briefly, my eyebrows furrowing at the impromptu question. I shake my head at the unreadable look on his face, shrugging as I say, “I don’t know. The basics? Maybe.”
• He nods thoughtfully, and while a part of me contemplates telling him to fuck off with whatever it is that he’s thinking, I’m equally as curious. I can’t stop myself, prying, “Why?”
• Again, he doesn’t respond immediately. It’s innate for me to assume the worst, and all the while, I continue to study him in hopes that I can somehow break through the stoic look on his face to figure out the real reason behind what I’m quickly realizing are well-calculated moves.
• He might be smarter than I thought.
• “You’re going to build me a bomb.”
• What?
• I can’t stop myself, laughing in amusement despite how utterly serious he continues to look at me. The sternness in his hard features don’t break, my hand coming up to my mouth as I try to contain what’s unnecessary and uncontrollable laughter. I throw my head back, my eyes at the brink of tearing up as my brain fights to try to make me understand that what I think has to be a joke really isn’t one.
• “You’re…You’re joking, right?” I ask as the lingering chuckles quickly dwindle. After a long moment’s silence with the unbreakable intensity of his authority, I scoff softly, shaking my head as I stammer anxiously, “I-I’m a physicist—a mathematician. I’m–I’m not an engineer. I-I-I can’t build you a bomb.”
• With my mind racing at a million miles per second, I hardly register the smirk that works its way back onto his lips as I ramble, “The closest I’ve come to so much as touching the subject of explosives is–is…theory. I-I’ve studied the–the theoretical and scientific principles underlying the behavior of explosives. Thermodynamics! I-I-I don’t know how to build a bomb.”
• Deafening silence falls between us once more and I wait, hoping for what I know is never going to happen: him realizing that his inquiry is not only unrealistic but dangerous in more ways than one.
• “You’re smart.” He’s relentless, his tone dark as he insists, “I’m sure you can figure it out.”
• As he rises from the chair, straightening on his feet, it’s evident that he’s not giving me a choice. Yet still, as he drags the chair back to its place, I mutter, “And what if I say no?”
• He chuckles darkly, moving to stand before me once again, “Then you’ll be of no use to me and I’ll have no choice but to rid of you and your brother.”
• I furrow my eyebrows, my voice just above a whisper as the thought of him taking my brother’s life tugs at my heart. “What does my brother have to do with me not building you a bomb?”
• He sighs softly, his voice tinged with disappointment as he says, “You still don’t get it, do you? Given the incident with my money, your brother is now worthless without you. You are his lifeline.”
• A shaky breath parts my lips, my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach as my eyes hold his. “But he didn’t take your money…” my voice trails off.
• Briefly, his gaze breaks my own, and it’s in that moment that I realize that if he doesn’t already know that Levi really didn’t take his money, at the very least, he’s not sure whether or not he did anymore.
• “You have until your brother shows up with whatever money he can come up with to give me an answer,” he tells me as though he believes, without a shadow of a doubt, that my brother will appear short-handed.
• “Until then, here is where you’ll eat and sleep,” he says as he turns on his heels. He moves to the door, coming to stop just before it as he talks over his shoulder, telling me, “This door locks from the outside, but don’t think I won’t cuff you to the bed again if you decide to try to run.”
• Without another word, he takes the handle and pulls the door open, taking his leave and leaving me to pray that I won’t have to make the impossible choice.