Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

Chapter 3

My dick stiffensbehind my slacks as Elena licks her plump lips, her soft eyes glued to the corpse in front of us. I try to focus and fix my sight on anything else, but I can’t stop remembering how it felt to have them wrapped around me, sucking like her life depended on it.

“You’re back,” she whispers.

She blinks, over and over, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

“Is he...”

“Dead?” I ask, hitting the record button on my phone to stop the video. Shoving it into my coat pocket, I nod, finally breaking away from her mouth to note Mateo’s sightless gaze. “Quite, I assure you.”

Silent for several beats, I can see the gentle rise and fall of her chest, breasts straining against the white lace material of her dress. She’s more covered up than I’ve ever seen her, the dress little more than a sheath that clings to her like a second skin, but somehow she’s never looked more sinful.

Perhaps it’s the context; her, in a wedding gown, standing over her fiancé’s dead body. And yet, her only real reaction was to me, as if his death bears no consequence to her.

Bending down, she presses two fingers to Mateo’s jugular, and my shoulders tense, the thought of her DNA anywhere near him making me nervous. Not because I care if she’s implicated—it won’t matter in a few hours, anyway—but because I simply don’t want her touching him.

The tiara ensnared in her hair shifts as she moves, and mascara smudges beneath her eyelids, making her look sullen and defeated, though I know her to be anything but.

I kept watch over her after she turned eighteen, fulfilling a favor owed to her father, before allowing my depravity to take hold, giving in when she asked me to ruin her.

Therefore, I know everything there is to know about the woman before me: her favorite poems—Shelley’s The Masque of Anarchy and Browning’s My Last Duchess—as well as what she prefers for breakfast—whole wheat toast with peanut butter and fresh fruit—and that she loves learning.

If she’d had her way, she’d be studying literature and not just how to teach it.

I know about the little pomegranate tattooed beneath her breast, and have traced the line work myself with the tip of my tongue. She even tastes like the fruit, explosive and utterly bewitching; the kind of succulence you want to sink your teeth into.

And fuck, did I.

Her blood is just as sweet.

I know she’s drawn to darkness, having watched her bask in the low hum of the stars as moonlight spilled across her pale skin more times than I care to admit.

As I study her now in her state of disarray, I know she’s not upset about the death of her fiancé.

It’s a mirage, as much as their marriage would have been. A sham for the press, making her father look good while destroying the tattered remains of the soul I broke weeks ago.

Elena sniffles, and for a moment I think she’s about to burst into tears; I lean on the balls of my feet, ready to sweep her away from the scene before she becomes hysterical, but then she glides her hands down the front of Mateo’s chest, slipping one beneath the flap of his tuxedo jacket.

And I realize, as she peels that piece back, revealing the blood-soaked dress shirt beneath, that she wasn’t sniffling—she was smelling him.

A shock of arousal jolts down my spine, hitting me like a bolt of lightning, singeing my bones. Perhaps she’s not all prey, after all.

Perhaps my little Persephone is actually fit for her fate.

She stares at the wound, the curved handle of my knife still protruding from the area, and gives the smallest shake of her head. “Insurance.”

“What?”

Replacing the jacket over the area, she gives a little shrug. “Insurance, right? The stab wound? In case whatever else you did to him didn’t work.”

My mouth parts to refute her claim, the need to distance myself from the crime second nature at this point, but I don’t. There’s no reason, if she already knows this was my doing.

Part of me—the sick, disturbed part I stuff down into the recesses of my brain—wants her to know, anyway.

Wants her to see what I’m capable of, and what happens to those who defy me.

Mateo’s decision to go through with this wedding, even when I told him to find a way out of it weeks ago, was the ultimate act. And since I couldn’t let him ruin my entire plan, I needed to remove him from the equation.

I’m not typically so crass and careless with my hits; I like to spend my time learning a person’s nuances, what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night. But his existence became a threat, and so he needed to be eliminated.

My only regret is not allowing her to be part of the initial poisoning.

Letting out a long breath, Elena tilts her chin up, turning to face me. Unlike most people I meet, Elena’s never had a problem with eye contact. She matches my gaze head on, like she knows it’s exactly what I want and can’t help but give it to me.

I can only hope she’s as pliant in a few moments.

She stares up at me like she sees beneath the cold, rotten exterior to the molten interior; I shift forward, my body an object caught in her magnetic field, losing myself in her warmth.

Golden irises glisten like melted luxury, and my hand lifts of its own accord, reaching for the ends of her chocolate-colored hair.

“Why?” she asks, the single syllable devoid of even a fraction of emotion.

It gives me pause, my fingers brushing against her as they fall back to my side. “Why not?”

“That’s a very selfish way to look at it.”

My eyebrows arch in surprise. “Whatever gave you the impression I was anything but?”

She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest, tucking her hands beneath her armpits. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”

Behind us, the door to Mateo’s bedroom opens slowly, my employee’s strawberry blonde head poking in. Marcelline glances around with her wide blue eyes, then slips inside with a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder, closing it shut as she walks over.

Elena’s gaze latches onto my housekeeper’s form as she hands me the bag, blazing with unrestrained rage even though Marcelline won’t look past my clavicle. She watches Marcelline’s pale fingers brush mine, anger radiating off her supple body in waves, deliciously intoxicating.

Jealousy isn’t a quality I typically look for in a woman, but the existence of it within the spring goddess before me is like fresh soil, ready for me to dig in and plant my roots.

It’s the foundation for corruption, that green emotion, and I plan to use it to build us from its rubble.

“Marcelline,” I say slowly, as my housekeeper backs away.

She pauses, furrowing her brows, likely wondering if I’m about to give her another task beyond her pay grade. I make a mental note to offer her a bonus and vacation, knowing I’ve already involved her too much.

But loyalty, I’ve learned, is a small price to pay for some people.

It’s how I got into this mess in the first place.

Unzipping the bag, I reach inside and begin pulling out cleanup equipment, setting up at Mateo’s bedside. I pull the knife from his chest first, extracting it slowly so as not to splatter the blood still hemorrhaging from his chest. It empties in a last pump, spilling from the wound onto the marble floor, and I curse myself for not putting a plastic tarp down beforehand.

With a handkerchief, I clean the blade, then gesture toward Elena flippantly. “Have you met my future wife?” I ask Marcelline, reveling in the sharp silence that follows.

It’s the kind I go out of my way to create, that cuts through the air like a whip.

Bending down, I wipe up the blood with a hospital-grade cleaning solution and disposable towels, then toss them into the wastebasket. With one finger, I flip Mateo’s eyelids closed, then pull his comforter up to his chin, tucking it in at his sides.

If you didn’t know any better, and with the smell of the cleaning solution overpowering the stench in the room, you’d never realize he’s dead.

“I’m sorry.” Elena’s the first to recover from my assertion. “Your what?”

As if on cue, the bedroom door opens once again, Rafael entering with a bald priest in tow. He holds a Bible close to his chest and beams at Elena when he sees her, sweeping his gaze over her dress.

I glance at Marcelline. “Any chance we have something else she can wear?”

Frowning, she shakes her head. “No, sir.”

Sighing, I drag a hand through my hair and push to my feet, discarding my leather gloves. I don’t necessarily want Elena wearing a dress meant for someone else, but I suppose there isn’t much choice.

Shirking off my coat, I toss it onto the bed beside Mateo’s body, smoothing over the lapels of my suit jacket. The Father speaks in Italian, the smile on his ruddy face indicating he has no idea what’s going on.

Probably thinks this is the ceremony he was hired to officiate in the first place.

Elena eyes her father, then the religious one beside him, before her wary eyes land on me. They narrow into little slits, her nostrils flaring, as if she’s trying to force my combustion.

“What’s going on?” she asks, hands curling into fists at her sides.

No one answers immediately, presumably waiting for my explanation. Seeming to sense that I’m about to move, Elena flinches the second my feet start in her direction, launching herself toward the door; I lunge for her at the same time, anticipating her attempt to escape, catching her around the waist with both arms.

Slamming her back into me, the gentle swell of her ass pressing obscenely against my cock, I wrangle us around so we’re directly in front of the priest, whose eyes are now wide and confused.

He hisses something to Rafael, who shakes his head and offers soft, soothing tones back. I dip my lips to Elena’s ear as she struggles against my hold, apparently unaware that it’s her fighting spirit that drew me to her in the first place.

The more she tries to get away, rubbing her ass against me, the harder I get.

“Careful, little one.”

Shifting forward, I slip one of my hands down over the expanse of her belly, pushing down with my fingertips. She sucks in a little breath, undoubtedly feeling the evidence of my reaction, and freezes immediately.

Our audience does nothing to suppress the arousal traveling south; if anything, it seems to heighten it, knowing she’s completely at my mercy. One wrong move and I’ll humiliate her in front of her father, more than I already have.

Gesturing to the priest with my free hand, I keep her anchored to me with the other.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, jerking her shoulder against my chin. “I am not marrying you.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

“Papá,” she breathes, glancing at him pleadingly. “You see what he did to Mateo, right? Why are you not stopping this?”

“Even if he wanted to, I assure you, there’s nothing he could do.” Shooting the priest a dirty look, I snap my fingers, telling him to get on with it.

“My father is the most powerful man in the city,” Elena says, speaking over the priest as he begins his speech.

I snort. “No, he isn’t.”

Rafe stiffens, but I ignore it. That can’t be news to him, anyway.

“We’re gathered here today to celebrate one of life’s greatest moments, the joining of two hearts in the presence of God. Here, in this… chamber, we witness the union of one Dr. Kallum Anderson and Miss Elena Ricci together in marriage.”

A pause. The priest hesitates.

“Oh my God,” Elena gasps, beginning to struggle again. “What the fuck? Stop it! Let go of me!”

Clamping one hand down over her mouth, I nod at the priest. “Continue, please.”

He licks his dry lips, then raises his Bible again, pressing on. “If anyone present has just cause as to why this couple should not be united, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Elena’s shrieks reverberate off my skull, the vibrations from her throat rippling through my forearm. I tighten my grip on her mouth, moving so my index finger slightly blocks her nostrils; she screams and screams, the sounds muffled and broken, until she realizes she’s not regaining oxygen.

Breaking off on a strangled cry, she halts, face reddening. I cock an eyebrow, craning my head to look into her eyes. They’re feral, flames dancing in the golden rings, and part of me wants to feel bad for forcing her into this.

From her world into mine, knowing she really doesn’t deserve it.

But she’s in danger, and my plan can’t happen any other way, so in truth, neither of us have a choice here, really.

“Kallum, do you vow to trust and honor Elena? To laugh and cry, love her faithfully, through sickness and in health, and whatever may come, ‘til death do you part?” the priest asks woodenly.

“I do,” I say, something pinching in my chest as I say it, the lie bitter on the back of my tongue. He repeats the same vow for her, and she shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes, mouth still covered. “When I remove my hand, I want you to say it. Say you do.”

Her eyes harden, the tears soaking up.

“I’m helping you. Say you do,” I murmur, just low enough for her to hear, “or I start picking off the people you love, one by one. Mateo was just the start, little one. Next is your father, if you don’t do what I say.”

She whimpers, the sound making my dick stiffen even more, and huffs a single breath. Slowly, I slide my hand to her chin, ready to pounce if she screams again.

But she seems to think better of it, instead focusing on my eyes, refusing to look away.

“Why?” she whispers, and I think about her asking the same about Mateo, how she didn’t seem to judge, just wanted to know my reasoning. As if every action, even the most despicable ones, can be explained away if you try hard enough.

I hook my thumb under her chin, tilting her head up, admission on the tip of my tongue. My secrets beg to be split wide open, to bleed out on the floor for her, but I know I can’t risk it.

Not yet, anyway. Not before she’s mine.

So, instead, I shake my head, offering her a little grin. “Why not?”