Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller
Chapter 22
“I’m telling you,the woman is losing her mind.”
Rolling my eyes, I scan the tilled soil outside, huffing when, once again, I see no significant growth in the garden I planted last month. Stems are beginning to sprout, peeking up above the soil, but no flowers have flourished. Not even the daylilies, despite supposedly having a short blooming period.
Part of me is starting to wonder if maybe the air of death that surrounds the house is keeping the flowers underground, where they’re safe.
If letting Kal help weed and prepare the soil didn’t suck the life from the area.
I glare at the window planter above the kitchen sink, where the mint Marcelline started sprawls out of its container, thriving in the sunlight provided.
Through the speaker on my phone, my sister Ariana rambles on about how badly Mamá misses me.
“I mean, she sits on your balcony every single night, staring out like you’re dead or something.”
Sadness weasels its way into my soul, the idea of being the source of my parents’ heartache not something I like to entertain. Even if their own motives aren’t necessarily always the most selfless, my lot in life has been to not add to the unhappiness rife in our world.
It’s something I plagued myself with, even as a child, going to great lengths to be what my parents wanted. The perfect little mafia princess, docile and submissive, willing to do anything to make them proud.
Anything for a chance at seeing the glimmer of pride in my father’s dark eyes, or for my mother not to look at me like a younger, worse version of herself she could live through.
Still, I am where I am, who I am, because of them and their choices. The least my mother can do is cut me a little slack, and yet she’s still trying to make me feel guilty, still trying to control me, when we aren’t even sharing the same land.
“In the States, most people who grow up and get married move out of their parents’ houses,” I tell Ariana, picking at a dead piece of mint, tossing it into the garbage disposal. “In fact, it’s a little embarrassing I didn’t leave sooner.”
“Not that you’d have been allowed to go anywhere,” she says, and when I pick up the phone, reloading the video chat, I’m met by her big brown eyes as she leans into the camera, applying a thin layer of makeup to her water line. “You’re lucky Kal got you out when he did.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That sounds ominous. What are you not telling me?”
She grins her little lopsided grin, twirling a strand of her chestnut-colored hair around a manicured finger. “Nothing, really. Just... things changed a bit when you left.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Everyone got really tight-lipped; Papá hardly comes out of the study, and when he does, there’s this weird look in his eyes, like...”
She trails off, and I grip the edge of the marble counter, waiting for her to continue. “Like what?”
“Like he’s a dead man walking.” Ariana glances at something past the camera, widening her eyes slightly in an annoyed gesture she’s done since we were kids. “Anyway... how’s married life? Figure out where you’re at yet? I know Mamá is still hell-bent on finding you.”
Feeling uneasy about the way the last subject cut off so quickly, I decide to ignore it and move on with her; my sisters aren’t the kind of people to keep quiet about anything, least of all something that would put them in danger.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I head down the hall to the library, tucking myself inside while Kal’s at yet another meeting.
Over the last few weeks, we’ve certainly gotten a bit closer—physically, at least. The man is a statue made of stone, and each time he fucks me, a little piece of the exterior chisels away. But the fragments are so small, it never feels as if I’m actually making any progress.
He’s wound tighter than the crank on an old grandfather clock, and every time we fuck, it’s evident he’s trying to funnel his frustrations directly into the act.
Not that I’m not enjoying the ride; my body is constantly sore in places I didn’t even know existed, my mind swept away each night on a tidal wave of ecstasy. It’s just that the ride is more like a roller coaster, and the theme park attendant isn’t letting me off.
And the problem is, I want him to open up to me. Since the night of my attack, I’ve given up on the quest to keep my attraction a secret, and instead embrace it every chance I get.
Sometimes that’s by milling about in his office, perching on the edge of his desk while he goes over real estate contracts and malpractice suits—not his, somehow; instead, he likes to keep up to date on big ones rocking the medical world, ‘just in case’—and slowly parting my legs until he sees what I’m offering, and abandons his work to do me instead.
Sometimes it’s by prodding him with a million questions, starting with unimportant ones until he’s irritated enough to answer what I really want to know.
Like how he never met his father, and that it wasn’t until after his mother died that he found out he had siblings.
Or how he grew up impoverished, and it was my father’s help that dug him out of it.
Whatever the case, I’m working at thawing his icy heart, and each day my affection for him grows tenfold. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except that it’s such a stark contrast to how I felt at the start of our union, and it lines up too perfectly with what Mamá said would eventually happen.
‘You’ll learn to love him,’ she’d said, and although the context—and husband—were entirely different, I can’t help the flare of rebellion that comes at having her be right about this.
I don’t tell Ariana any of this, of course. As far as she knows, my relationship with Kal is real and has depth, despite whatever vitriol my parents are trying to spew against us. I assure her they’re being dramatic each time she brings up the fact that the entirety of Boston seems to think I was kidnapped, and since she knows how they are about narratives, she usually agrees and moves on.
And technically, I was kidnapped. They’re not wrong about that much.
But they don’t have the full story, either.
“Every time you call, all we do is talk about me,” I say now, trying to redirect the conversation so my anxious thoughts cease. “I’m tired of me. What’s new with you and Stella?”
“Nothing’s ever new with that one,” Ari says, snorting. “I have a recital in a few weeks, though.”
My heart drops to my stomach. “Shit, you do, don’t you?”
“Yep.” She pops her lips on the last “p,” making me feel like an asshole. “The Nutcracker, for our school’s Christmas in Spring. Weird time to celebrate Christmas, if you ask me, but I guess it’s easier to theme that way.”
Guilt pinches in my chest, making me recall all the other recitals I’ve been to. How I haven’t missed one since she got her first leotard. “I’ll be there.”
Ariana blinks once. Twice. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
I don’t know where that attitude is coming from, and can’t help wondering what’s going on back home that I’m not being told about. And even though I make the same vow again, meaning it wholeheartedly, it isn’t until later that I realize how difficult coming through might actually be.
Marcelline has a driver take me to the Flaming Chariot a little while after my phone call with Ariana ends, us hanging up as soon as Mamá enters the room and bursts into tears at the sight of my face.
When I climb out of the town car, nodding to the driver that he can leave without me, I stand on the curb of the bar for a moment, holding my purse tight to my side as the memory of the last time I was here resurfaces.
The needle puncturing my skin, the way Vincent looked at me like I was somehow beneath him, the assault that came after.
My throat swells, blocking air as I relive the memories. Goose bumps rise on my arms, sending a shiver grating down my spine.
A normal person would probably have been disturbed by Kal’s form of solving the problem, but in truth, I haven’t lost even a wink of sleep over it. That could have something to do with the fact that we’ve been partaking in rigorous activities every day ever since, and maybe I’m too exhausted to really think about it, but still.
I like the finality of how he took care of it.
Until now, I’ve pushed it to the recesses of my brain, but being back at the bar, staring down the face of my nightmares, I’m overcome with the urge to run.
Soft laughter off to my side draws my attention temporarily from the building, and I turn my head slowly, apprehension threading through each of my muscles, drawing them tight. A girl with black hair split into two French braids stands a few feet away, mimicking my exact stance, arms crossed over her chest as she stares at the bar.
Scrunching my nose, I look away from her, trying to calm the nerves rushing through my veins like a raging rapid.
How long after a traumatic event do you have to wait before you can face your demons?
“Sixteen.”
Eyes widening, I glance back over at the girl standing beside me. She tugs on the hem of a sheer black blouse, shaking her head, and I panic for the briefest second wondering if I’ve spoken out loud.
Casting me a sidelong look, she drops her hands. “I’ve come by this place sixteen times in the last couple of weeks, but I can never bring myself to actually go in.”
Relief washes over me, and I let out a quick breath, scanning her more thoroughly; she’s dressed in all black, her jeans rolled to the ankle, a resin sunflower pendant draped around her neck, providing the only source of color.
Even her eyes, warm but dark and guarded, reflect the morbidity of her outfit choice, and I can practically hear Ariana’s judgment of the bland fashion.
‘People who wear black all the time are not normal,’ my sister would say. ‘Either they worship Satan or hate themselves. There are too many colors available on this green earth to sit and choose one that lacks any at all.’
And Mamá always wonders why she can’t keep a decent boyfriend.
Pairing the outfit with the girl’s pale skin and slender frame, she could easily pass for a vampire. Maybe that’s why she can’t go in.
“Are you afraid of what’s inside?” I ask finally, once the silence between us turns awkward.
She purses her lips. “Something like that.”
More silence passes between us, and I tuck my hair behind my ears, shrugging. “We could go in together. I know the owner, I don’t think he’d let anything happen while he’s inside.”
Not again, anyway.
Kal doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to make the same mistake twice.
The girl tilts her head to the side, giving me a once-over; I shuffle my feet together, uncomfortable with her perusal, currently regretting my decision not to wear underwear beneath this navy shift dress. I can feel everything, including the weight of her stare.
“You know Kal?”
I hold my left hand up, wiggling the diamond there so it glitters in the sunlight, letting the slight pang of jealousy that she knows his name slice through my chest.
Better I embrace it, I suppose, than suppress it.
Puffing her cheeks, she lets out a low whistle, rocking back on her heels. “Oh, so you know him, know him. You must be Elena.”
Pushing her hand between us, she gives a half smile, waiting. I blink at her palm, taking it tentatively, pumping twice like Papá taught me.
When I don’t say anything further, she lets go and presses her lips together. “I’m Violet, by the way.”
“Ah,” I say, roving my eyes over her features again, trying to figure out if I’ve met her somehow and forgotten. In truth, I haven’t done much exploring of Aplana since I’ve been here, except for visiting the farmer’s market a couple of times with Kal and picking up muffins from a bakery on the north end with Marcelline.
Since my last foray out in public didn’t end so well, I’ve sort of holed up at home, resigning myself to a hermit’s life the way I probably would’ve ended up doing as Mrs. De Luca, anyway. At least as Kal’s bride, I’m not being forced to attend or host social events; in fact, most of the time he almost discourages social interaction entirely, content to lock himself in the Asphodel and fuck his time away.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” she says, letting out another little laugh, though this time there’s a hint of irritation lacing it.
“I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I’m new to the island, and—”
Holding up a palm, she shakes her head, and I notice a green tint spread over her thumb; it’s etched into her fingerprints, almost like the color belongs beneath her skin.
“Honestly, it’s fine. I don’t tell anyone about him, why should he tell them about me?”
My eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, jealousy burning the back of my throat, even though I’m not exactly sure why. “How do you know him?”
She looks at me silently for several minutes; so long, the jealousy drifts elsewhere, lighting my nerve endings on fire, and part of me wants to give in and lash out accordingly, but I tamp down the reaction, channeling the more evolved thoughts of Kal having a past that doesn’t involve me.
Much of it happened before anything could’ve transpired between us, anyway, regardless of the longevity of my own feelings. They certainly have never been reciprocated, and now that they’re more complicated than ever, I can’t tell where he stands on the issues at all.
Probably at the same place on the map that he’s always been at, using me just like he said in the very beginning.
But if this is what getting used by Hades feels like, I’ll prolong my stay in the Underworld.
Violet licks her lips, playing with the end of one braid as a couple passes by holding hands and talking about visiting the beach. She gets a strange look in those dark eyes, something forlorn and familiar, so I ask my question again, trying to bring her back to the matter at hand.
“How do you know Kal?”
Shifting her eyes toward me, she smiles sadly. “I don’t.”
