Page 31 of Captured Onyx

Chapter 15

Malia

My heart is pounding so hard that I sit with my hand pressed against my chest, as if I was trying to stop it from running away. I'm sitting on the edge of a thick mattress on a bed that is much nicer and cleaner than the one I woke up in. The entire room is an upgrade to that terrible hole I was in before, but it's still far from what I would describe as nice. At least it’s not damp and the air doesn't smell like mold, the wallpaper is not peeling off the walls, and the sheets on the bed appear to be somewhat fresh.

There's even a window that provides a view of the backyard where he took me for shooting practice earlier. We're on the second floor of the house, so I get a better view from up here. But it doesn't tell me anything I didn't already suspect from what he was willing to share with me. Vast valleys spotted with trees and a lonely road winding through the landscape, but not a single house in sight. I have no idea where we are, but it's obvious that there's nothing and no one nearby who could help me, even if I screamed my lungs out.

All I can tell is that the window must be facing west because I can still see a faint bright line on the far horizon, a subtle remnant of the setting sun.

He locked the door after telling me to take a seat on the bed. It's the only piece of furniture in this room, so it's not like I was provided with any other choice. But that doesn't make it any less awkward. It's just him and me, behind a closed, locked door.

The two of us—on a bed.

My cheeks flush with another wave of shameful heat, and I hope to God he doesn't notice when he approaches me. The light is dull in this room, provided by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, just like in every room in this house, it seems. It's neither completely dark nor bright enough to gain more than a surface level idea of everything around us. Maybe it's better that way. Maybe it's better that I don't get too close of a look at these shabby walls, the creaking, dirty floor, and the moth-eaten fabrics on the bed.

It sure as hell gives me some kind of comfort in knowing that the exact color of my cheeks remains obscured in this lighting.

Nate is standing next to the bed with his back half turned to me and his gaze fixed on the view outside the window.

"You wanted to talk," he begins without looking at me. "Here's your chance. We all need to get some rest, so don't waste time."

I furrow my eyebrows, aware that he is paying no attention to my expression. It's so hard to make sense of him. He seems to go back and forth between being an absolute ass to granting me with the only source of comfort I have around here. What happened out there when he was teaching me how to shoot handguns? Was that all an act to cozy up to me, just to guarantee my obedience? Is that how he operates?

I feel so stupid. I really shouldn't have read too much into it, or actually anything into it.

"You said you guys... the Covey, have a deal with this Scivola family in Rhode Island," I begin, pushing aside my hurt feelings to force myself to remain focused. "And that this mission is to provide them with a bride for one of their sons, Lailah."

He nods, crossing his arms in front of his chest before releasing an impatient groan.

"The Covey is well organized and somewhat established in this neck of the woods, but we lack one major thing to position the New England Mafia ahead of the competition," he says. His gaze is still averted out the window toward the horizon.

"And that is?" I prompt.

"Family ties," he responds. "Blood is thicker than water, and that's something we have no control over. These families protect each other with unequalled ferocity."

A jolting shock runs down my spine. I feel like I’ve been doused in an ice cold shower of water.

Am I understanding this right? Is he saying that...

"So you want Lailah... you want me, to have a child with this mafia guy?" I burst out, my heart beating anxiously. "You want to use me to breed a blood relation with the Scivolas so you can—"

His laughter interrupts my horrified ramblings. It's a profound laughter, originating from deep within his chest and causing his entire body to shudder with amusement. He's shaking his head still looking out the window, but then he turns around to throw a thoroughly entertained grin at me.

"That's actually quite genius," he says, still chortling. "And yes, that would have been one way to go. But believe me, our Lailah would never have signed up for that. So neither will you."

I let out a heavy sigh of relief, which evokes even more laughter on his part.

"Don't ridicule me!" My voice is surprisingly shrill, and he's not the only one startled by it. I sound like an angry little girl who is pissed off at someone for stealing her candy.

This always happens when I get angry. It's no wonder that no one ever took me seriously. My small frame, my mouse-like face, the pouty lips, and a high-pitched voice that shrills even higher when I'm furious–people always tend to overlook and belittle me because of how easily I become angered.

"I'm not ridiculing you," he argues, now turning around to face me directly. The look on his face is stoic, expressing a concern that surprises me. I inhale sharply when he joins me on the bed, sitting so close that our knees touch.

And for whatever reason, I don't retreat. The warmth of his body is comforting, just as it was outside while we were shooting.

"Look, Onyx–"

"Why do you insist on calling me that?" I interrupt him in a whisper. "My name is Malia."

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