Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

Chapter 18

When I was a kid,my mother tried to treat one of my black eyes with a warm compress, swearing that the heat would cause the blood to separate and expand, and that I’d be able to go to school the next day without feeling embarrassed about getting into another fight.

It didn’t work; instead, the heat caused my skin to swell, blurring my vision in that eye for two whole days. I wore a patch to school, shame flaring in my cheeks as the other girls whispered and pointed, like black eyes in a private, Catholic all-girls school weren’t a common occurrence.

All of us had more pent-up rage than our tiny bodies could handle, a result of the life we’d been born into that had us repress everything, and it often manifested at recess in the form of flying fists and discarded boots.

My parents never asked what happened when I came home with a new cut or bruise, but there was always a little glint in Papá’s eyes that filled my chest with a gooey warmth. One that silently said he was proud of me for fighting, even if he didn’t know the circumstances.

It didn’t matter, because as a Ricci, fighting is in my blood. It’s expected.

Encouraged, within reason.

So when I pry my eyes open and am met by the harsh, disgruntled glare of my husband, I’m momentarily taken aback. Mainly because I don’t know why he’s glaring at me.

Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I look around the room, recognizing the black furniture and drapes covering the windows of our bedroom. If not for the dim glow of the bedside lamp, we’d be entrenched in complete darkness.

“Hi,” I croak, the one word like fire scraping up my esophagus.

“Drink,” Kal deadpans, holding out a Styrofoam cup with a straw. So straight and to the point, completely devoid of any emotion as he meets my gaze.

Not even a hint of relief.

Talk about bad bedside manners. I always heard that Dr. Anderson was efficient, yet ice cold when dealing with patients, but until now I’ve never seen it in action.

It’s... powerful, his tone leaving no room for argument. A stark contrast from the calm, yet passionate man I’ve come to know, though I suppose there’s very little room for passion in a medical setting.

I take the drink, sipping gingerly, trying to keep my cool even as the liquid sears the inside of my raw throat.

Closing my lips around the straw, I study him as his gaze drops to my chin. He’s wearing the suit I last saw him in, though it’s now rumpled and sporting various degrees of stains, and his hair is completely disheveled, sticking up at odd angles as though he’s continually running his hands through it.

I wonder if he feels bad about leaving you.

Probably not, I muse silently, switching focus to the aches decorating my body.

My eye has a pulse, I realize, timing each painful throb with the beat of my heart, and every one of my muscles feels ragged and torn, like I’ve just run a marathon without proper training beforehand.

Setting the cup on the bedside table, I stretch my arms above my head, wincing as a sharp sensation lances through me, making my body convulse. Dropping them, I reach up and run a hand through my hair, pausing when I meet tough resistance.

“What...” I start, pulling it past my chin to inspect the issue. A clear substance mats the strands together, and I wrinkle my nose, trying to place the scent.

“You don’t want to know,” Kal grits out, clasping his hands together.

Gaping, I raise my eyebrows. “What happened?”

“Some men found you in that bus station,” he says, voice low and dangerous as it lashes against my skin. “I don’t know who they are, or if they’re affiliated with something larger, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. The damage is done.”

Nausea rocks through me, bubbling up at the back of my throat. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to recall the events beyond when I slipped into unconsciousness, but everything comes up hazy. A blurred film with no sound, only the sensation of being trapped.

A feeling I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape, only to continually find myself wrapped in its arms.

“What did they do to me?”

His jaw tics, a muscle thumping against his skin. “I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so we could find out.”

Tears burn my eyes again, and I drop my hair, ready to brush them from my cheeks when they spill over.

But they never do. I can feel them welling, scorching my eyes with their presence, but none fall. Shame rolls through me like an angry tidal wave, making me tremble violently, and I curl my hands into fists, trying to stave off the fear and confusion.

A memory pushes through to the forefront of my brain; me fighting off the bartender Kal asked to look after me, him shoving his elbow into my face and then stabbing me with a needle.

As I relive that moment, everything else comes rushing back.

I remember running.

Voices.

Kal’s insistence on me coming back to him.

And then... nothing.

“I don’t remember anything past our phone call,” I tell him, blinking away the other memories.

His glare hardens, eyes darkening until they’re pitch black. Almost evil. “You passed out before we could hang up. The GHB dose Vincent gave you wasn’t strong enough for an immediate effect to take, but I could tell it was hitting you the longer we spoke.”

“He roofied me?”

“Yes.” Leaning back in the armchair, Kal grips his knees, squeezing tight; it makes the bandage strapped across his fingers pop off, revealing bloody, broken knuckles.

The color almost matches the shade of the stains on his shirt.

I stare at the mangled flesh, warmth flaring in my stomach and catching in my throat. Pushing to his feet, Kal walks over to the bed, perching on the edge of the mattress, and grips my chin with his good hand.

“Did you kill him?” I ask, leaning into his touch, even though it hurts. With him, pain is a given.

“No,” he says softly, turning my head slowly, eyes roving over every inch, assessing for damage. I frown, opening my mouth to protest, and he shakes his head, turning me forward so I’m forced to meet his gaze. “Don’t you want to watch?”

* * *

I knew it.

Kal breaks the lock on the outbuilding with a pair of bolt cutters, pushing open the barn-style door with one hand, gesturing for me to step inside with the other. My bare feet meet loose dirt, and a harsh chill in the air has me wrapping my arms around myself, despite the thick robe Marcelline gave me when I left the bedroom.

After a quick, slightly invasive exam ensuring I hadn’t been sexually assaulted, we headed downstairs. Marcelline handed me some painkillers, and we left through the back door. The second we rounded the mansion and the little shack came into view, vindication washed over me.

“You know,” I say as we walk inside now, trying to speak over the nerves pounding between my ears. “This place is not at all discreet. I pegged it my first day here.”

Kal glances down at me, switching on a light that illuminates a short hallway. “I’m not trying to keep it a secret.”

“You’re not?”

“From the people on the island? Hardly.”

“Because you own half of it?” We reach the end of the hall, pausing outside a closed door.

“I don’t own half the island,” he says, brushing a piece of lint from my robe. “I’m an investor in a lot of their most profitable businesses, and inherited several commercial properties. On top of that, I’ve logged an unholy amount of volunteer hours at the only clinic around, and am a very consistent donor to their research programs and other things they need funding for.”

“So... you own the people.” Which, I suppose, would explain why no one interfered at the bar earlier. Who wants to get involved with the devil’s business?

“You’d be surprised what people are willing to overlook when their needs are met, and then some.”

With that, he pushes open the door, revealing a large room with cement walls lined with cabinets, and Vincent on display in the middle of the room, stripped and strapped to a gurney, gagged with a dirty rag.

Unease ripples along my skin in the form of goose bumps, as I take in the dime-sized wounds decorating his stomach, and the blood-soaked gauze wrapped around his left hand. A little cart with wheels sits next to the gurney, a variety of tools sitting on top, next to a tray collecting fingernails.

Not just the clippings, either.

Kal walks to a bucket sink across the room, rinsing his hands beneath the spray. He glances at me as he dries off, an unreadable expression on his face.

I swallow the knot in my throat, moving inside, letting the door swing shut behind me.

Vincent moans, eyes widening when he sees me, and begins thrashing on the table. He strains against his bindings, shaking with such force that the gurney rolls back and forth.

“What’re you going to do to him?” I ask, watching as he approaches the gurney, picking a vial and needle up off the side table.

He squints, turning the vial over and sticking the needle in the top, extracting the liquid inside. Replacing the glass bottle, he looks up at me, maintaining eye contact as he plunges the needle into Vincent’s neck, pushing down on the applicator.

Vincent’s screams grow in volume and intensity, as if they’re being forcibly removed from deep inside his chest.

My heartbeat kicks up the longer I watch him writhe in agony, wondering how strong of a dose Kal just gave him. If he’ll pass out before he gets to the good stuff.

“We don’t have long,” Kal says, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. He picks up a circular saw from the floor, plugging it into an outlet nearby.

My lips part. “You’re using that?”

Glancing at the saw, he nods once. “I don’t half-ass these things, Elena. Men who cross me don’t get mercy.”

It’s not as quick as I’m expecting, but the second he brings the blade down to Vincent’s chest, I’m stuck staring, enraptured by the way skin and bone split open for him, bowing to Kal’s precision and force.

Like souls bending for their reaper.

Heat stirs in my core as I watch him work, filling me with unease that has less to do with the gore in front of me and more to do with the fact that I’m apparently not at all disgusted by it.

I keep waiting for the shock to settle in, for numbness to flood my body as my brain tries to block out the trauma, but it never happens. A small fire burns in my chest as Kal opens Vincent’s, and I clench my thighs together in an attempt at relief.

Maybe it’s because I grew up a mafia princess; I’m definitely no stranger to death.

Or maybe it’s that the violence comes as a tribute to me, being wielded on my behalf in a way no one has ever done for me before.

When you grow up in the world of la famiglia, you’re taught to take the abuse. Fight back when you can, but on the whole, and especially where men are involved, you’re expected to put up with it.

That’s why I was still going to marry Mateo de Luca.

Why I thought I could handle him.

When Kal finishes several minutes later, brushing his forearm over his face and smearing blood over his cheek, I’m met by an intoxicating, complicated wave of arousal.

Cleaning up quickly, he ushers me from the building back into the main house; I don’t even protest, too lost to the storm raging inside me, threatening to drown everything in its downpour.

Guiding me into the en suite bathroom through our bedroom, he positions me in front of the glass shower, reaching inside the stall to turn on the faucet. His hands are caked in Vincent’s blood, his clothes ruined, but he doesn’t seem to give that a second thought when he reaches for me.

The air grows thick from steam and lust, pressing down heavily the longer we stand in silence.

Pushing the robe from my shoulders, he keeps his eyes trained on mine as he proceeds, like he’s afraid that looking away might shatter the ethereal moment ebbing between us.

Slipping his fingers beneath the hem of my dress, the same red number I’ve had on since yesterday, he starts a slow ascent up my thighs, pausing for a breath when he reaches my hips.

His throat bobs at the same time cool air brushes my lace panties, goose bumps popping up on my thighs. Skimming a thumb over the scar on the inside of the left one, he frowns when I wince, biting the tip of my tongue as pain radiates from the site.

My heart thumps erratically, knocking against my ribs like a caged monster desperate to be set free. Self-consciousness rears its ugly head, making me wonder if he can hear it, too; how embarrassing it’d be for my husband to know how he affects me.

Kal continues pulling my dress up, exposing my stomach and pausing once again when he gets to my breasts. There’s a dangerous heat in his gaze that has my insides melting, molding, burning for his touch on my skin.

He shifts, moving up farther still, thumbs grazing my nipples, making them pucker as a blush crawls over my chest. In one swift motion, he rips the clothing over my head, tossing it to the floor, then takes a step back, nodding at the shower.

“Do you need help?” he asks, tearing his eyes from mine, leaving me charred.

Licking my lips, I shake my head and turn away, stepping beneath the hot spray, letting it wash the grime and dirt off me. I take the bar of soap from one of the built-in shelves and lather myself up, scrubbing any evidence of the last twenty-four hours from where it lurks beneath my skin.

Facing the wall as I run my hands over my body, checking for extra damage, I hear the door creak open. See Kal reach past me for the bottle of pomegranate shampoo I brought from home, watch him pour generously into his palm and then wring his hands together.

Seconds later, I feel them embed in my wet hair, working the shampoo into my scalp, massaging and kneading. As I find a cut on the inside of my thigh, my knees buckle and my hand slips from between my legs, brushing my lace-covered clit as I try to catch my balance.

Tension coils in my belly as the sudden touch mingles with the smoothness of his ministrations, and I bite back a moan just before it escapes my lips.

Frissons of heat crackle and sizzle beneath my skin, making my blood boil in a way that leaves me wanting more.

With him, I always want more.

He moves me so my head is directly under the water, rinsing with careful fingers.

“You did good, little one,” he murmurs, his voice so soft, I’m not even sure he actually says anything at first.

My hands come up, bracing against the black tile wall. “What?”

“Fending off Vincent. Not everyone in your shoes may have fared so well. You did good.”

My throat constricts with the warmth in his words, tightening as they caress their way over my skin like honey. Labored breaths stumble their way from my chest, and it feels like I’m hyperventilating as I chase that sensation, needing it to incinerate the foul memories.

Turning slowly, I deliberately hold my breath, not sure how he’ll react to the change in position. He’s close, just outside the spray, leaning in halfway to help.

Furrowing his brows as I tilt my chin up, he opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to catch on his tongue when my hands flatten against the hard planes of his chest, sliding up around the collar of his shirt.

Exhaling long and slow, I shift forward, launching myself into his arms and yanking him down as, for the third time in our short marriage, I kiss him.