Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller
Chapter 35
The theater listedon the ticket for Ariana’s recital is a half-hour drive across town, and I hop in the rental SUV the second I walk out of the Riccis’ house and head there immediately.
It’s an ornate building with massive Greco-Roman columns framing the front, and stained glass skylights obscuring the night sky. After handing an usher my ticket, I’m sent in the direction of the appropriate auditorium, but spend a few extra minutes pacing outside, just in case Elena hasn’t gone in yet.
Fifteen minutes pass, and she doesn’t show up, so I go inside and find my seat.
We’re in a private box, apparently, only accessible through a separate set of stairs, guarded by an usher with braces, who smiles brightly at me when I flash my barcode.
“Mr. Anderson, seat 11B.” She glances around, then hands my ticket back. “Will the rest of your party be joining soon?”
“My party?”
Pulling out a clipboard, she flips through a small stack of papers, nodding as she apparently finds the information she’s looking for. “Yes, we have a private box reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, and the adjoining box, number twelve, booked for a Mr. and Mrs. Ricci, and two guests.”
Shaking my head, I stuff my ticket into my suit pocket, sidestepping her. “I have no clue if they’re coming or not. Can you make sure Mrs. Anderson and I aren’t disturbed?”
The kid frowns, her blush visible even in the dim lighting. “Sir, I must inform you that explicit relations are strictly prohibited on the premises, resulting in fines of up to one-thousand dollars.”
Tapping my foot impatiently, I reach into my pants for my wallet, pulling a wad of cash from the flap. “Consider this a down payment.”
I don’t wait for her to accept it, shoving it into her fist and pushing past, stepping over the velvet rope barring the staircase. Bounding up the flight, I try to calm my racing heart, preparing myself for the possibility that she isn’t up here.
Still, when I shove aside the curtain to our box, my heart beats so fast it feels like it might explode; her silhouette is lit up by the stage below as she leans forward in her chair, slumped over the balcony railing. I step down into the box, quietly approaching, my hand reaching out to grasp her shoulder, when she speaks.
“Don’t.”
It’s one word, long enough to drive through my chest and pierce the organ beating just for her. She doesn’t even glance over her shoulder or move a muscle, her body so in tune with mine at this point it seems to just know when I’m around.
Or maybe she knew I’d come. Maybe that’s what she wanted all along.
My hand falls to my side, that familiar fucking ache pulsing in the pit of my stomach.
“Elena, I—”
“If you came here to apologize, you can save it.”
Her attitude catches me slightly off guard, considering the last time I saw her, she’d looked as miserable as I felt. Crushed, like the revelation of my past bore any consequence on our future.
Devastated, like I’d chosen secrets over her.
Taking the seat next to hers, I stretch my legs out, pushing my feet against the balcony’s footboard, and fold my hands in my lap. If she’s not giving me the silent treatment, perhaps she’s had time to sit and reflect on what she’s learned tonight, and she’s decided to move on.
“I didn’t come to apologize,” I say softly, leaning up to whisper in her ear. “Although I am sorry. But really, I came to make sure you were all right.”
She doesn’t say anything for a while, silently staring out as stagehands begin setting up props, rushing from one end of the stage to the other, racing against the clock to be ready in time for the show.
Sighing, Elena shakes her head. “I’m not. Not even a little bit, Kal. And I really don’t want to talk about any of it with you.”
Squeezing the seat rests, I lean my head back, trying not to let my frustration show. “You’re my wife, little one. We have to talk about it.”
Turning her head to the side, the wall sconce provides just enough light for me to see her beautiful face cast in shadows. Her golden eyes almost glow in the lighting, or maybe I’m imagining it, creating passion and fight where I’m afraid there is none.
“How legitimate is our marriage, really? And don’t give me that bullshit line about it being as real as mine with Mateo’s would’ve been. I didn’t marry Mateo. I’m not wearing his ring. I married you, and I’m wearing yours, so tell me, Kallum...”
Her voice breaks on the last syllable, making the ache in my chest expand until it’s ready to destroy me, and she quickly straightens her chin, glancing back down at the stage.
Swallowing audibly, despite the soft chatter floating up from the floor seats, she reaches out, wrapping her fingers around the railing, and tries again. “How much of it was real, and how much did you do to get back at my mother?”
The urge to lie braises the tip of my tongue, my defenses slamming down into place the second she accuses me of a revenge plot. “It had nothing to do with her.”
“She acted like you were in love,” Elena hisses, twisting her body to throw the accusation in my face. Like boiling hot water, it washes over me, agonizing welts cropping up along my body, making me jerk in surprise. “God, no wonder she tried to keep me away from you. She already knew what you were like, how all of this would end. I could’ve saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d just listened.”
“You and I are nothing like your mother and me.” I take her chin between two fingers, keeping her in place while I lean in and force her to look at me. “What I feel for you isn’t even in the same fucking universe.”
Trying to pull away, she huffs when I refuse to let go. “Then why couldn’t you tell me?”
Pinching my eyes closed, I let my head fall forward, shame flowing like a river through me. It empties in my blood, making me feel more like a goddamn monster than any crime I’ve committed ever has.
Off to the side, we hear footsteps as the house lights dim even more, and a voice asks the people in the box next to us if they need any refreshments before the show.
“Ice?” a familiar voice asks, the immediate recoil of my soul at the sound making me regret not just putting a bullet in her at the house.
I hope her face is purple and swollen. A nice little homage to the way I arrived at that hospital all those years ago.
I’m a little surprised they still showed up, and so soon after me. Perhaps they’d been hoping to corner me, and instead found themselves escorted to their seat.
Elena jerks her chin from my grip, and I let her go, blood rushing between my ears as my body tries to block out the sudden onslaught of noise. The director trots on stage, asking everyone to be polite and courteous.
A sniffle here. The unmistakable crinkling of a chip bag being dug into. Another sniffle. Someone’s baby crying slightly farther away, all completely audible through the musical score.
Tensing up, I lean back in my seat, attempting to focus on anything but the noise around me.
The auditorium darkens until our box is almost pitch black, the stage erupting in flashes of color as the lights crew introduces the first scene. I don’t know shit about ballet, so for the first few minutes of the show, I sit watching the dancers as they flit about in time with the music.
But somehow, even as the orchestra crescendos, I still hear the little noises from before. They worm their way into my brain, little parasites looking for bits of sanity to feast on.
I hear the ticking of my old Rolex watch and that fucking pendulum statue. The slurping sounds Rafael made the day I went to his office and convinced him to give me Elena.
Like floodwaters after a hurricane, every single sound that’s ever seemed to trigger me comes rushing to the forefront, ghosts haunting me after a brief blip of peace.
My eyes shift to Elena, who’s watching me instead of the show; I can just barely make out the soft slope of her nose, the shine in her golden eyes, the outline of those plump, pink lips. Slowly lifting my hand, I press my palm into her cheek, and suddenly, the noise stops.
Everything just... settles.
My response to the stimuli doesn’t, but as the absence of misplaced noise washes over me, eventually the racing of my heart and the tightness in my chest lessen, too.
“Are you okay?” she leans in to whisper, splitting my heart right down the middle.
“That’s my line,” I return, smoothing my thumb over her cheekbone.
She scoffs. “It looked like you checked out there for a second. Sorry for caring.”
When she moves to pull away, I shake my head, framing her face with both hands. “Don’t apologize for that.”
Her eyes turn glassy, tears shining in the spotlight reflecting downstairs. Dropping her gaze, she sighs. “I can’t do this right now.”
Gripping my wrists in her hands, she pries me off her, shoving my hands back so they’re in my lap. The rejection stings, like stepping on a bee in your bare feet, the sensation spreading through my nervous system. We sit quietly for the next several acts, our stony silence worse than any other possible sound I’ve heard.
An intermission finally takes place, the lights in the auditorium brightening just so the patrons can see their hands in front of their faces.
After jostling in my seat for several minutes, trying to get the anxiety coursing through my veins to dissipate, I exhale, pushing up on my armrests, and get to my feet. Elena turns her head, looking at me, and laughs to herself, although the expression looks completely devoid of humor.
“When you’re ready to come talk, you come find me.”
I start to turn around, moving toward the stairs, and she hisses, “Stop trying to make it look like I did something wrong here, Kal. You lied, you fucked up. Not the other way around. If I don’t want to talk about it, then I sure as fuck don’t have to.”
My mouth opens to refute her words, but I clamp it shut as I realize...
She’s right.
Nodding, I acquiesce, holding my palms up in surrender. “You’re right, I—”
“And if I did want to talk about it, what would I even say?” She shoves to her feet, the theater seat bouncing closed as her weight leaves it. Pulling at the hem of her short, lacy black dress, she walks over to me, gaze red hot even in the dull lighting.
I don’t have to see her eyes to know they’re burning; I can feel them, licking down my chest, setting my soul ablaze, dousing me in kerosene as she steps back to admire the flames.
I would happily spend the rest of my life on fire if it meant getting to keep her.
“Would you want me to tell you how it wrecked me, hearing that you had a relationship with my mother?” Elena asks, her voice just a smidge louder than necessary, and I can’t help wondering if it’s because she knows who’s in the box beside us. If she wants them to hear. “Is that something that would make you happy, Kal? Knowing you finally ruined me?”
The last syllable cracks, right as she stops in front of me, her toes pressing against the tip of my black Oxfords. Every muscle in my chest constricts, making breathing goddamn impossible while she’s standing here, baring her soul, accusing me of being the reason it’s bloody and bruised and broken beyond repair.
My hands twitch at my sides as she steps into me, pushing me flush with the wall, jabbing her index finger into the middle of my chest. I want to haul her into my arms, rain apologies down with my mouth and hope somehow they make up for things.
I try to reach for her, but she juts her chin sharply, hands circling my wrists, pinning them back. I could easily overpower her, but the longer I stare at her, the longer I stand here absorbing the misery rolling off her in waves, the more I realize I don’t want to.
This is what I asked for.
“Answer the question,” she snaps, moving so her hips brush mine, the hem of her dress shifting slightly up with the motion.
Gritting my teeth, unsure if she’s trying to be seductive on purpose or if she just can’t fucking help herself, I exhale harshly through my nose. “No, Elena, that doesn’t make me feel good.”
Releasing one of my hands, she scores her fingernails down the front of my pants; I hiss when she drags them across my dick, which stiffens under her touch.
“Careful, little one. I’m starting to get the wrong idea here.”
She tilts her face up, the heat from before still glowing in those golden eyes, rage and lust mixing together and warring for dominance. Without saying another word, she cups me through my pants, squeezing hard, and my free hand naturally flies up, fisting in the back of her hair.
Yanking her head back, I curl my body so I’m looming over her, waiting for a grin to grace her pretty features.
It never does, and after a moment, I see this for what it is.
She’s not interested in having a conversation; the hurt and anger are still too fresh, flashing on repeat in her mind like an out-of-control fireworks display, exploding until nothing’s left but the charred remains.
Still, her body doesn’t seem to be on the same page as her brain, reaching out to me like it just can’t help itself.
And if that’s how I have to get her to come back to me, so fucking be it.
Backing up until her legs connect with the drink holder on one theater seat, I grip the roots of her hair so tight, it pulls a startled gasp from her lips. Her hand comes up, latching on to my forearm like she’s about to try and tear me away, but instead, she clamps down, clawing at me through my suit.
“Are we done talking?” she rasps, reaching behind with her other hand to steady herself on the seat.
“That depends; are you going to say anything I don’t already know?” Her nostrils flare, and I chuckle darkly, bending to skim my nose over hers. “When I said I wanted to talk, I didn’t mean I wanted you to goad me into a reaction. But if you’re not ready for more, I’ll give. Whatever you need from me right now, little one, I’ll hand it over.”
Her eyes stay on mine, but her breathing scatters, making my dick throb against her stomach. Trailing my other hand slowly up her side, memorizing the gentle curve of her hip, the swell of her breast, I stop at her throat, curling my fingers around it.
“You want me to fuck you until you can’t remember how shitty I made you feel? Want me to shove my cock into you, make you come over and over, until you’re begging me to stop?” I glance out at the still-packed auditorium, hear the low chatter from her family’s box, wondering how much of this they can hear.
A wicked grin splices across my face, the malice in it palpable, and I dip down, grazing my mouth over her ear. “Want me to fuck you right here, right now? Where anyone in the city might hear, or even see, the way you come apart for me?”
Throat bobbing beneath my grip, she licks her lips, the gold in her eyes illuminating like a bitch in heat.
It’s a single nod that comes next, barely perceptible with me holding her neck in place, but I catch it all the same. My heart pushes past my rib cage, lurching into my esophagus, cutting off my air supply as I imagine what I’m about to do to her.
Raking my gaze down her body, I swallow, my cock weeping precum just at the thought of people bearing witness to the reclaiming of my wife.
Letting go of her hair, I snake my hand down the front of her dress, hiking the skirt to her hips in one sharp tug; she gasps as the cool air brushes against her bare pussy, making her shiver.
Ghosting my knuckles over her seam, I peer down at her face, watching carefully for the slightest change in demeanor. Her lips part as my thumb comes up, swiping across her clit, the moan that falls from her mouth the sweetest fucking sin I’ve ever experienced.
I catch it with mine, covering her lips in the same second I increase the pressure on her clit, matching each stroke of my tongue to the long, languid swirls of my thumb. She pulses beneath me, her body coming alive like an instrument being fine-tuned by its master, and I groan into her, wanting nothing more than to crawl inside her skin and never come back out.
Pushing myself deeper into the kiss, until all I can fucking taste is this one singular moment in time, I release her throat, using that hand to pull the bodice of her dress down over her breasts. One strap rips free, making her hiss into me, but I ignore it, pinching a nipple between my fingers, then rolling it under my thumb.
Her hips swivel the faster I move against her, desperate for the slice of euphoria only I get to give her. Sliding her arms up my chest, she claws at my neck, tiny slivers of pain making me jerk forward in rapture, as I almost topple over into the theater chair.
“Fuck,” I curse, dragging my mouth from hers.
Taking a step back, I drop to my knees, the state of the dirty floor not even a concern as I become eye level with her glistening pussy. I dive forward, needing to taste her at least once before anything goes further, sucking one lip into my mouth before pulling back.
“Think you can balance yourself on the chair?” I ask. My voice is so husky, so fucking needy, that it’s almost unrecognizable. She shifts, resting her elbows behind her and sliding her ass onto the armrest, leaning back to give me a better view. “Spread your legs, little one. I want to see just how fucking angry you are.”
Silently, she obeys, tilting her hips up as her knees fall open. My breath hitches, the scent of her arousal drilling itself into my brain, something I never want to forget as long as I live. I lean in, scaling my nose up the inside of her thigh, inhaling as I try to imprint the entire scene into my memory.
“Do you think anyone can see?” she asks softly, and I glance up as my tongue finds her scar—my scar—and flicks out over the mangled skin.
Scoring my teeth over her flesh, I revel in the way she convulses, wishing I could bottle her mannerisms and noises and drink them down. Make them a part of me.
“Do you want them to see?” I ask, my breath coasting across her pussy, my mouth mere millimeters away.
She stares down her body at me, twisting and untwisting her lips, before giving the slightest nod. Goose bumps flourish on her skin like tiny blossoms, a spring bloom just for me, sending all my blood south.
“Of course, you do.” I inch closer, flicking the tip of my tongue against her silken flesh, savoring the taste. “My wife wants to show everyone what a little cock whore she is, doesn’t she?”
“I want her to know,” she says in a low voice, tangling her fingers in my hair. “I want her to know it’s nothing like what you had with her. That she can’t make you come like I do.”
“Fuck,” I moan, her jealousy a live wire to my cock, making my vision blur. Bringing my thumbs up to spread her, I lick up and down the length of her, sucking and nibbling, avoiding her favorite spot until the very last second. “Horny little bitch. You want to make Mommy jealous?”
“Please,” she whimpers, bucking her hips, asking for more.
Sliding my arms beneath her thighs, I lift her slightly, digging my fingers into the meat of her ass before diving in for my feast.
Her head falls back immediately, fingers scraping across my scalp as they twist and pull, trying to edge me even closer. My tongue alternates between light circles and sharp figure eights, flicking and licking and massaging until her thighs are shaking.
They clench, covering my ears so all I can hear is my own blood rushing between them, my heart pounding in my throat, and I redouble my efforts, sealing my mouth over her lips and sucking hard.
“Oh, shit,” her muffled voice moans, so loud that I’m sure everyone around us can hear it.
“Look at me,” I command, my mouth vibrating against her skin. I slide my hand down, pushing two fingers into her sopping sex, curling up until her back bows. “You don’t ever look anywhere else when you come on my tongue, little one. Eyes on me, and my name on those pretty lips.”
She resists, biting her lip as I dive back in, adding a third finger, driving in until she’s tensing, her inner walls fluttering around me.
I feel her pulse in my chest, the quiver of her muscles in my bones, but she looks away, and all I can see is the hurt that remains.
“Wait,” I say, feeling her orgasm sticking as it crests, like she wants to let go but is still having a hard time getting out of her head. Reaching into my suit with my free hand, I quickly pull out my pocket knife.
The same pocket knife I used on her months ago, branding her skin with my first initial, like I knew even then what importance she’d come to hold for me.
I flick it open, watching her for signs of distress or reluctance, but just like last time, when I gently press the blade into her thigh, all it does is renew the fire in her eyes.
Still stroking with my other hand, I point the tip of the knife into her skin, pausing for the briefest second, waiting.
She clamps down around me tighter, the slightest shift of her hips telling me all I need to know.
Slowly, I nick her, my mouth watering as blood beads beneath the blade. Increasing the pressure just slightly, I drag it up, across, then up again, finishing with a flourish.
She hisses at the pain, white-knuckling my hair as I toss the knife aside and lave my tongue over the wound, lapping at the coppery essence before it can make much of a mess.
Her answering moan almost causes my dick to unload before I’ve even gotten it out, and then she’s tugging, pulling me into a standing position.
My fingers slide from her with a wet pop, and she brings them to her mouth, slipping them between her lips, cleaning herself off me.
“Goddamn, you are a little cum slut, aren’t you?”
“Only for you,” she breathes, wrapping her hand around my neck and yanking my face to hers.
“You’re goddamn right,” I say into her mouth. “Only for me. Never for anyone else. I swear I’ll end any man who even breathes near you if I think I need to.”
Her blood and arousal conjoin on my tongue, the mix sending ripples of pleasure along my spine.
“Need to fill you up,” I grunt, plundering her lips with mine, trying to soak up as much of her as I possibly fucking can.
She reaches between us, helping free me from the confines of my pants with frantic fingers. My cock bobs free, red and fucking enraged, and she slips her fingers through the cut on her thigh, using her blood to coat my dick, before positioning it at her entrance.
“Fuck,” I choke out, the sight of her smeared around my shaft reminding me so much of the night I took her virginity. When I gave into an obsession for the first fucking time, let it consume me, damn any and all consequences.
As one of my hands comes up, cupping her breast roughly, the other guiding me into her wet heat, I’m met with a wave of déjà vu, flashes of white splashing across my vision as I bottom out inside her.
I swear to God, up until this very moment, I’ve never believed in soul mates. Never thought myself worthy of having one, figuring that whoever would be unlucky enough to get stuck as mine would probably just avoid me altogether.
But as I pick up my pace, the smell of blood and hot, heady sex drifting around us, I can feel the pairs of eyes from across the auditorium glued to our passion, and see the smile that curves over her lips when we hear “What is that moaning?” from the box to our right, I swear, she’s it.
My soul mate. My fucking queen.
My little Persephone.
Pressing down on her sternum to keep her from flopping around, I piston in and out of her, letting my grunts and sighs and groans match hers as they collect like smoke, wafting around us. The chair squeaks as I fuck her, losing myself in the blissful feel of my bare cock inside her.
“So... fucking... tight,” I grit, mesmerized by the way her tits bounce with each thrust.
“Harder,” she moans, just as the director takes the stage again, announcing the return of our dancers. The lights start to dim again, and I buck against her with enough force to uproot the seat from where it’s bolted in the floor. “Oh, God, yes. Right there.”
Wrapping my hand around her throat, I pull her up so she’s forced to make eye contact with me as I drive into her. “Do you feel that? How perfectly we fit together? That’s real, Elena. I can’t fucking fake it, and neither can you.”
She nods, frenzied, lifting to press her mouth against mine in a searing, soul-sucking kiss.
The intensity of it makes my stomach flip, and I frown, my rhythm stuttering. Yanking back, I squeeze the sides of her throat. “Don’t kiss me like this is goodbye.”
Staring into my eyes, she doesn’t respond, and that uneasy feeling collapses into something bitter, a chasm of despair I convinced myself wasn’t coming.
“Make me come,” she says woodenly, such a stark contrast from the writhing, moaning woman from seconds ago that I get whiplash.
My fingers tighten around her, irritation sparking something hot and furious inside me.
“Fine,” I say, renewing my thrusts until I can hear the wet slapping of our skin together above the din of the music below.
Even as it crescendos, swelling like the orgasm I can feel building inside of her, that’s what I hear. My skin prickles, knowing everyone else can probably hear it too—or, at least, her family in the box beside us.
“But don’t say I ruined you when we know damn well it’s the other way around.”
She grunts, threading her fingers through mine, increasing the pressure on her neck. “How did I ruin you?”
“You consumed me from the moment you approached me at that cocktail party years ago. I’ve not even thought about another woman since.” I’m close, so fucking close, my hips picking up speed as release barrels through me. “Now, be a good little bitch and come for your husband.”
I groan, watching her vision slacken, knowing she’s drifting out of consciousness. The way she so willingly grants me control over her life, over the very base act of breathing, damn near sends me over the edge as I watch her face redden and eyes go dark.
I release her the second her pussy clamps down around me, tightening almost to the point of pain, gulping down the strained gasp that falls from her lips.
The dancers take the stage at the same time her nails scrape against my chest, my name catching on her lips. “Kallum.”
“Yes,” I hiss, my balls drawing up, threatening to follow her lead as her juices flood my dick. “Ah, fuck, I’m coming. Gonna fill this perfect pussy right up, reward my wife for being such a good little slut.”
She squeals, a second wave racking through her, spasming violently around me. Then my vision’s blurring, my own release crashing over me in a tidal wave of ecstasy, unloading stream after stream of hot, sticky semen into her until it’s dripping out while I’m still inside.
Letting out a low groan as the music around us seems to explode in volume, I slump against her, trying to steady my eyesight.
“Get off me,” she snaps, pushing at my shoulders.
I brace my hands on the chair and move to stand on wobbly knees, glancing down at the cum-and-blood-stained beauty before me, admiring the new scar on her thigh and my fingerprints on her neck.
She’s my magnum opus. An oil painting I want hanging on my wall for the rest of eternity.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I mutter, not sure if she can hear me.
I reach to help clean her up, but she bats my hands away, righting her dress as much as possible. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Clenching my jaw, I take a step back, nodding, even though that same uneasy feeling flares up again in my stomach, a warning sign if ever there was one. I take my seat, tucking myself back into my pants, and wait while she disappears through the curtain.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
After a while, the unease morphs into something deeper, something sadder.
Something more permanent.
And when I leave the ballet early, sneaking into every single restroom available to the public, looking beneath every stall, I’m not surprised when all I find is her phone, abandoned on the back of a toilet.
A scrap piece of paper is tucked beneath the device, and my heart lodges deep in my throat, bringing with it a wave of nausea.
I loved thee, though I told thee not,
Right earlily and long,
Thou wert my joy in every spot,
My theme in every song.
I stand in that stall far longer than I should, reading and rereading John Clare’s words, unable to shake the irony of how we seem to have come full circle.
I wonder if it felt this crippling for her, when I was the one who left.
