Page 99 of Marked By Him

When I’m on my third reread of the first page, I start to question if I can be settled enough to sit and read at all.

My gaze keeps wandering to the window. The scenery drifts by in slow motion. The narrow coastline gives way to soft hills and lush forests. Clusters of battered houses cling to the ridgelines like moss. Laundry flaps from cords strung from balconies and across lawns.

Farther inland, the landscape evolves, sharpening to tall slopes, narrow roads, and bridges. We pass a river that catches in the afternoon light and makes the water look like a long silver ribbon. I lean closer to the window to watch a lone farmer bent over a plot of tilled earth, his hat pulled low as he works.

The countryside is vivid and scenic in that unfiltered way I’ve come to appreciate about Korea.

But it only makes my mind drift more to Jin, wondering if he’s already back into the swing of things with the Baekho Pa.

My attention eventually shifts to the rest of the train car. Everyone sits quietly, allowing for the click of the train wheels and hum of its engine to be the only sound. Both are rhythmic and soothing enough that if I were in a calmer mood, I’d probably nod off.

I recognize the mother and her sleepy baby two rows ahead of me. The baby dozes in her mother’s arms, drool shining on her chubby little chin. The older man with his suitcase tied up in what looks like nylon rope sits in the same row as I do, except on the opposite side of the compartment. He sips from a thermos and stares out the window.

My gaze drifts toward the back and instant unease unfurls inside my stomach.

There’s a man sitting a few rows behind me with tight, dark clothes that reveal a meaty neck and arms inked with tattoos. I can’t make out the designs from where I’m sitting, but I’ve seen those types of tattoos before—Jin and his men have similar ones.

Most men in the Korean mafia and gang world do.

Jin once told me it’s part of the culture; in most of these gangs they earn their tattoos over the years, wearing them like badges of honor.

His head is shaved close to the scalp and a tiny silver hoop earring glints from where it dangles on his ear.

He’s staring at me.

Not in casual, passing glances. Not like a man absentmindedly zoning out with his gaze set on something he doesn’t really register.

It’s a fixed stare. It’s intentional and heavy, and when my gaze meets his, he doesn’t look away. Hewantsme to know he’s watching me.

I blink and snap my head forward, looking away. My heart skips a couple beats as I wonder if I’m imagining it. I could’ve glanced back at the wrong time and he’s possibly one of those men that doesn’t understand prolonged eye contact from strangers can make some women uncomfortable.

But even as I come up with these excuses, tension coils inside my body. It’s the same kind of premonition I’d had that night Jin broke into my apartment. I’d simply sensed something was… off.

For a minute or two, I return to my book. The printed words all blur together as I fail to absorb any of them. Unable to resist, I chance a glance back.

He’s still staring. He hasn’t taken his gaze off me even for a second.

I clap shut the book and slowly rise to my feet.

I make my way to the front of the car, pausing at the sliding door to check over my shoulder. He’s risen to his feet. He starts toward me. I rush through the sliding door and wrench it back into place.

Quickly crossing through the gangway, I spot the train attendant at the luggage rack, making sure all the pieces fit snugly in the racks. He’s around his forties, hair graying at the temples, his uniform crisp.

“Sir,” I mutter in relief, stepping toward him. “Excuse me, sir? I think someone’s following me. That man back there—he’s been watching me and now he’s started following me.”

His eyes widen, brows creasing in concern. “Come with me, miss,” he says in Hangugeo. “There’s a first-class compartment farther ahead with plenty of empty seats. Fewer passengers today. You’ll have space to breathe and that man won’t be able to get in.”

I nod in gratitude and follow him into the next few compartments.

“Here we are,” he says, sliding the door open and gesturing me inside.

The first-class compartment is sleek and modern compared to the rest of the train. There are fewer seats, but they’re wider and made up of a leather I can tell must feel amazing to sit in. The windows are large, curtains tied neatly at the sides. Even the floors feel smoother and more polished.

It’s definitely an upgrade from economy class.

But it’s empty.Completelyempty.

The little hairs on the back of my neck rise. I whip around to face the attendant and notice a small detail I hadn’t before—the edges of a tattoo creeping from beneath the collar of his uniform. It’s a deep crimson spiral of some kind.

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