Page 12 of His Black Onyx

I jerk back when he takes a sudden step forward. He joins me on the bed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. I want to move away from him, but the ropes keep me in place, cutting into my ankles and wrists.

He throws the packaged sandwich and the bottle of water between my legs, just close enough so I can reach for them. It leaves me stunned in surprise, unsure what to do. For a few moments we freeze in silence, my eyes darting back and forth between the treats in my lap and him, quietly asking for confirmation.

"I know that your name is not Lailah," he says, not deigning me with an answer to whether I can retrieve the temptation he laid out in front of my eyes. "But I need it to be. For a while at least."

"Why?" I ask, shyly bending forward, trying to appear nonchalant as I reach for the water bottle. He doesn't say a word but watches as I awkwardly fiddle with the screw cap. Who knew opening a simple bottle of water would be so hard when your hands are bound at the wrists?

He watches me struggle with the bottle for a while, and then he lets out an exasperated exhale and reaches over to help me open it. For a moment, I fear that he intends to hold the bottle up to my lips and feed me like a baby, but he doesn’t humiliate me in this way. Instead, he hands me the bottle.

"Thank you."

Never before has water tasted this divine to me. I close my eyes as the cool liquid coats my throat, soothing an ache that's been tormenting me for too long.

He doesn't speak, despite my question still lingering between us. I throw him a cautious look from the side after finishing half of the water bottle in one big swig, arching an eyebrow in expectation. Still, he remains quiet.

"Who is Lailah?" I ask again. "And why do you need me to... pretend to be her?"

His expression hardens, seemingly aging him by years for a second.

"And what is Onyx?" I add. "You said I'm your Onyx. What does that mean?"

He finally speaks.

"Onyx is our mission."

Holding my breath, I wait for him to expand on his meager statement, but he doesn't make the slightest inclination to follow up with anything. His face looks as strained as it has ever since I first saw him. I'm so intimidated by him, by his undeniable handsomeness, by his overpowering physical strength, and the unyielding way he addresses me.

But—and that's the twisted part—I'm also troubled by deep empathy for him. Despite what he did to me, despite what he's still doing to me, I don't see evil in him. He needs me, that's the only thing I know for sure. He needs me—and he doesn't enjoy what he has to do to me.

There's not just simple corruption within him. I don't see it.

Or maybe I don't want to see it. Maybe I'm merely blinded by his handsome appearance.

A beast remains a beast, no matter how beautiful it is.

"Please," I say in a voice so low that it's barely audible. "Please tell me what this is about."

He looks at me, moving slowly as he nudges the sandwich closer to my hands.

"Eat," he says. "You'll need your strength."

I swallow dryly, the thought of food making my heart jump with anticipation, but I don't let it show as I reach for the sandwich. The tone of his voice is unsettling, and soon I realize that my heart is not only racing at the prospect of finally having something to eat. It's because of something else, because of the ominous atmosphere that surrounds him. It's not easy for him to talk, because this tale is not a happy one.

My pulse speeds up because I'm scared.

I'm terrified of what he's about to tell me.

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