Page 10 of Marked By Him

First things first, some water for my dry, achy throat. I reach for the glass of water I keep on my bedside table and guzzle that down. You’d think it was the first drop of water I’ve had in my whole life the way I empty the glass in a few eager gulps.

In the bathroom, I pad over to the toilet, sliding my pajama shorts down my hips. My thoughts feel sluggish as I pee and think about how I can make myself some toast and coffee for breakfast. Something to fill my stomach, which feels twisty and unsettled.

I reach for toilet paper and then freeze. The discomfort in my belly doubles, making me instantly nauseous.

There, on the inside of my left wrist, is a mark.

The same symbol that was in my dream. That gang leader, Jin, had cruelly etched it onto the inside of my wrist, taunting me about being marked.

Now it’s written. Let’s see if you can outrun it.

His cool, smooth, heartless voice slithers in my ear, forcing an instant shudder out of me.

It wasn’t part of my dream at all. It was completely real.

I had been so upset that the minute I realized I was being let go, I ran like hell. My trip home is all a blur. You could ask me about the subway ride or my walk up to the floor of my apartment, and I couldn’t tell you.

It’s just blank space in my mind. So is anything I did once inside my bedroom. It’s as if I was catatonic, operating like a zombie doing things like undressing and peeling back the covers of my bed.

For a long moment, I sit on the toilet and stare at the symbol inked on my skin. I speak, read, and write Hangugeo. I’m no expert, but I’m passable enough to get by.

Languages have always fascinated me, and as a military brat, I made a point of learning the languages of the countries where my father was stationed.

But staring at the symbol on the inside of my wrist, I don’t know what the hell it says. It seems to be some kind of symbol signifying the Baekho Pa, resembling a tiger’s head in ink.

I rush to the sink, flipping on the water and grabbing the bar of hand soap.

“C’mon, c’mon,” I mutter under my breath, scrubbing hard at the ink.

I put my strength into it. Suds bubble across my skin, the water turning frothy. Yet as I scrub and scrub, the ink remains fresh and unfaded, staring up at me like a dark reminder of last night. I snatch a washcloth off my towel rack and start using that to scrub away at the delicate skin.

Soon my brown complexion is reddening, so irritated it hurts the more I scrub.

And still the mark doesn’t budge.

The black ink—muk, as Jin had called it—is imprinted on me seemingly permanently.

“No,” I cry between a choked breath. I shake my head and press harder with the washcloth. “How is this possible? Is this some kind of tattoo? What the fuck did he put on me!?”

The longer I spend trying to scrape the black ink off, the more I’m immersed in the events that took place last night.

I close my eyes and see Jin standing over me. His gaze was cold and piercing, the color of midnight. The rest of his face was angular and hard, as if cut by steel. Several strands of his dark hair had fallen across his brow, making him look even more menacing.

He was tall and built well, made of wiry muscle underneath that leather and those tattoos, but he didn’t have the physique of a brute. He was more predator, more about agility and accuracy. I could tell not only by his build but by how he moved and carried himself.

He had snatched my wrist up so quickly, I couldn’t blink fast enough.

A breath sputters out of me as I remember the sting of the ink and the taunting lift of his lips. He had almost grinned.

It brought him pleasure to bring me pain. For him to humiliate me in front of his men then send me off crying and terrified into the night.

He knows my name and where I live. What I do here in Busan.

He’s part of the Baekho Pa.

If he wants to find me again, he can easily do it…

My phone rings and makes me jump.

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