| 8 | Conflicted

For the first couple of days after I nearly collapsed at the dinner table, I was confined to bed rest. Within those two days, I was isolated, kept in a room very similar to the cell that I was starved, beaten, and dehydrated in.

The only difference is, I was actually fed, tended to medically, and given the opportunity to clean myself up.

Now, here I am, sitting in the same seat I had been sitting in when I learned that I had poisoned myself and nearly died.

Considering my first welcoming wasn’t very welcoming at all, Efrem decided we’d try again. So here I am, an abundance of food laid out in front of me that doesn’t go untouched for very long as the moment Efrem pours me a glass of water, I dig in.

There is just too much to choose from that I take a piece of bread into one hand while I take scoops of rice into my mouth with the other. It’s overwhelming, but in the best way possible.

Food really can make you so happy.

An audible moan escapes me as I swallow hard. I bring the piece of bread to my lips, taking a large bite. My eyes had fallen shut, but they snap open as I reach for the glass of water, only to lock with Efrem’s green ones. He holds a hard stare on me as he chews slowly, deliberately.

I take a generous sip, the cool liquid washing down the remaining pieces of bread. All the while, my gaze doesn’t leave Efrem’s. For a moment, he seems almost mesmerized.

It bothers me.

The hell is he looking at?

I set the glass down and place the bread beside the small plate next to the larger one. They separate all their foods here, placing them on different plates. I don't understand why—it’s all going to the same place.

And so I wonder. I wonder about the plates. I wonder about him. I wonder about a lot of things. But the one thing I wonder about is why the hell he keeps staring at me. Even during my recovery, he barely said two words. Instead, he just... stared.

All he ever does is stare and I’m sick of it.

“What?” I finally snap, but he doesn’t flinch.

He studies me a moment longer before a smirk breaks on his lips. “I assume you’re feeling better?”

I know he’s referring to the way he didn’t have to command me to eat this time, unlike the first time he brought me to the table. But I don’t bother answering either way. I won’t. I haven’t forgotten he’s one of them: a Ringleader. His kindness conflicts with everything I’ve been taught about people like him.

Why? I don’t understand…

“My apologies,” Efrem says finally, clearing his throat. He dabs at his mouth with a white cloth, over his perfect plump lips. “I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Efrem Mustafin.”

“I know who you are,” I respond, hating the way apprehension taints my voice.

“Oh?” he muses, arching a brow.

His tone pokes at my temper, and I sass back, “I got the memo.”

“I see…” he hums lightly. There is a curious look in his eyes, a calculating gleam.

I’ve had days to think about him, days to look at him. Yet I can’t seem to figure him out. He’s the pinnacle of enigmatic, his face always impassive, making it impossible to tell what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s intimating to say the least. And, admittedly, attractive.

Those eyes could…kill.

“What is your name?” His husky voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

I’ve played this game before. I know where this is going.

“Didn’t you hear the Arbiter?” My voice shakes slightly.

He doesn’t seem amused by my sarcasm. “Your real name,” he presses.

I part my lips, my name kissing the tip of my tongue. But I hesitate, remembering a valuable lesson I was taught not long ago. “Alaki Bea X,” I say, the name rolling off my tongue with an awfully bitter taste.

“Your parents gave you the last name X?” He asks with sincerity.

Is he serious..?

I don't know if I'm being stupid for behaving this way, but I can't help but think that maybe I'm better off like this. Stupidity may land me in worse places, but ultimately, I know I won't be alive for much longer. With the little time I have left, I’d like to retain as much of myself as possible.

If I’m going to die, I want to still be me… whoever me is.

“No,” I say. “Your world did. Just as it has named me inhumane, property, mutt, mongrel—”

“Yes,” he cuts me off. “However, I did not give you those names.”

I clench my jaw tightly, anger making my blood boil. “But you gave people the right to call me that!”

“I did?” He retorts, unfazed. “What is your name?”

“I already told you!” I snarl. “What? Are you going to punish me for being taught what my name is?”

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, he doesn’t seem threatened in the slightest. However, the man standing like a shadow in the room does. He steps forward with purpose in his stride, but Efrem stops him, calmly calling his attention, “Alek.”

My eyes fall on Alek, eyeing me with disdain. His strong chest ripples through his black t-shirt, his muscular arms stiffening. His vibrant green eyes almost match Efrem’s—just like every other Mustafin.

So, this one is Alek Mustafin.

“Have I bruised you with my own hands?” Efrem’s question not only forces my gaze back to him, but it also takes me aback.

And suddenly, I feel guilty.

He’s been nothing but kind to me. Am I really righteous to lash out at him? Has my disrespect been warranted?

Be smart.

My resolve fractured, I finally forfeit. “Alaki Bea Miller.”

I expect satisfaction in his eyes, but instead I see curiosity slowly shifting to awe. Again, it confuses me.

“I was unaware that your last name still existed,” he admits. “I’ve only ever heard it in literature.”

He’s never heard it before because only the superiors' names were deemed worthy. Diallo, Talos, Santos, Wen, and Mustafin are the only surnames that exist now.

“A lot of last names that are not the Ring’s names still exist,” I say, thinking back to those who live in the tunnels.

He tilts his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Interesting…”

As he takes a sip from his glass, as I study him, his movements, the intensity in his gaze, I suddenly remember where I’ve seen him before.

“I know you…” I mutter. “I saw you at the drugstore. You’re that guy I bumped into.”

For a moment, his expression hardens, but then quickly smooths out. “Are you going to apologize for it?” he asks nonchalantly.

I narrow my eyes on him, confronting him. “You saw me too. Why didn’t you say anything?”

He chooses not to answer, rising from his seat instead. This is where he withdraws. Somehow, this is where he draws the line. And the way he ignores my questions while demanding answers from me is infuriating.

He is so...

“Hey,” I call out, pushing out of my chair, but he’s already moving, leaving. “I’m talking to you!”

Still, he ignores me. He doesn’t so much as give me a second glance and merely stops to turn to the shadow man standing in the room. “Alek, kindly escort Miss Alaki to her cell.”

So it was a cell. I am a prisoner.

My blood runs hot, but I bite back. I don’t know how far I can push before he starts treating me like that man, Corvin, did when I was first captured.

Is this my life now?

I feel like I’m some kind of pet and the feeling only grows as the man, Alek, takes me by my arm and guides me out of the room. I chance one last glance at Efrem as he walks away before I’m being hauled down a long corridor.

Maybe I should try to run now.

But one look at Alek is all it takes, and the thought vanishes.

He looks tough—far stronger than me. I’d never stand a chance, I know that. If he’s here, working for the face of the Mustafin Ring, it’s for a reason.

We make a sharp turn, passing another Mustafin guard. As we walk through a set of doors, I feel the guard’s hard stare but ignore it, more concerned with the idea of being locked away indefinitely.

We enter the room with the familiar glass door cell that almost feels nostalgic. Alek taps on a monitor, and a portion of the glass slides open.

True to Efrem's command, Alek kindly urges me to step inside without force, though it doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice anyway. My heart skips a beat as I comply. The sound of the door closing behind me makes me flinch.

I’m alone, again.

The fluorescent lights dim, leaving me in a dark, cold room. Guided by the faint glow, I make my way to the bed against the far wall, crawling to the center where I sit cross-legged in silence.

For a while, I stare blankly into the open space.

“How did I get here..?” I ask myself softly.

I wonder about Briannah and whether the medicine ever made it back to her. I think of that boy, Marcus, and I wish him well. I hope he doesn’t feel responsible or sorrow for what they believe was my death. And if he does, I’m at peace knowing that old Morris will comfort him.

I ponder what will happen to me here, though deep down, I know death is coming soon. It’s knocking at my door. But I don’t want to die at their hands. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of taking my life simply because they can.

I know that this, where I am, isn’t in vain: I helped save my dear friend Briannah. If this is the consequence, then I’m glad.

Now, I am in...a place of comfort, my stomach isn’t empty, and I’m not in physical pain.

Maybe this should be it. I should have control on the final moments.

With a shaky breath, I run my tongue across my lips, stopping at the center. The light pressure of my teeth inflict doesn’t seem too painful as I lock my jaw.

Jeremy always said, “When you learn to bite your tongue, you can die.”

Ironic.

A light, humorless chuckle escapes me. And in the next moment, my heart tugs. The bridge of my nose stings, my eyes welling up.

I don’t wanna die…

Suddenly, my eyes snap up, capturing the gaze of a tall man standing on the other side of the glass. He stares at me with disbelief, his brows furrowed.

Isaak?