Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller
Chapter 7
Elena doesn’t leavethe bedroom until the second we land. I sit in the cabin with my legs crossed, nursing the scotch Marcelline handed me, waiting for her to enter and give me a piece of her mind, but the moment never comes.
A dull twinge radiates in my gut, thorns spiraling outward and clawing at the organ beating inside my chest. Something adjacent to guilt, brushing the corner of the feeling without letting it fully set in.
I haven’t felt bad about my actions in years, due in part to the fact that I engage in a lot of charity work at free clinics in order to absolve myself.
Not that it helps me sleep any better at night, but at least it keeps my mother from rolling over in her grave.
Yet now, considering the way I dragged Elena into my mess, and the way I’m leaving her half satisfied, shame worms its way into my brain, cloaking me in its vile shadows.
Downing the rest of my drink, I focus on the burn of the alcohol as it glides down my throat, dwarfing the sensation before it has time to grow roots.
The bedroom door slides open as soon as the pilot tells us we’ve reached Aplana International, and Elena slinks out, wearing black leggings and a thin white blouse.
Her leggings cover the K carved into the inside of her thigh, and my cock twitches at the memory of putting it there.
How she preened as the blade drew against her sensitive flesh, back bowing, pussy cresting around another orgasm. The way her blood tasted as it dripped down her pale skin, and how I lapped at its coppery essence like a man dying of thirst.
And I was.
Dying to drink her, to consume the young virgin the way she had me since the night she asked me to be her first.
I figured that night that it would be the only one we had. I hadn’t realized at the time that our quarters would eventually be so… intimate.
I’ve already broken my own unspoken rule to take things slow by driving my fingers into her tight, needy heat, helpless against the way she looked at me while I ate that fucking apple.
I bit into the soft fruit with more gravitas than necessary, trying to convey what I’d instead love to do with her pussy.
Feast on it, conquer it, ruin it.
She looked like she would die if I didn’t.
It’d taken all my willpower not to drop my slacks, rip my dick from behind the zipper, and thrust into her right then, but these things have to be timed correctly in order to work.
Consummation has to wait.
Marcelline comes over and pops the jet door open, exiting without a word, probably desperate to get back to her regular duties.
Slumping down in the leather seat across from me, Elena leans her head back, staring up at the spotless wood paneling on the ceiling. I flip idly through the Better Homes & Gardens magazine in my lap, waiting for her to say something.
Pinching her eyes shut, she sighs. “You own a private jet.”
Glancing at the dated, yet lavish interior of the lounge area, I nod. “I do.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Figures.”
I bought the jet—a vintage 1987 McDonnell Douglas MD-87—at an auction a few years back, but since I rarely visit the island, I haven’t had much of a chance to use it.
Mostly, it sits in the private hangar I rent while I take public transportation from one jobsite to the next. Other than short flights from the usual crew and tune-ups, this is the plane’s first actual voyage.
Seems fitting, I suppose, using it as a way to transition my old life into the new.
Cocking an eyebrow, I fold my magazine shut and set it on the conference table between us. “Do you have a problem with private jets, Elena?”
“Aside from the fact that they’re toxic to the environment? Not particularly. I just wouldn’t expect someone like you to own one.”
“What, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?”
One golden eye pops open, sizing me up slowly, before snapping shut again. “Seems like something that would put you on the map, and isn’t that what all of my father’s men typically try to avoid?”
“I’m not some sort of vagabond. I do have material possessions. A house, even, as I’ve said before.”
“Does anyone else know about it?”
My eyebrows knit together above the bridge of my nose as I study her still form. There’s something off kilter about her, something broken and timid that wasn’t there just moments ago. Her hands clutch the armrests, knuckles bleaching as she tightens her grip, carefully drawing in deep, shuddering breaths.
I recognize fear without even having to witness it. The pheromones released when a person feels threatened are minimal, but when you spend enough time studying them, noticing the slight change in scent and behavior becomes second nature.
It’s musty and damp. Soaked in sweat, it bleeds from our pores, affecting the chemical makeup of our brains. Makes us do and say crazy, unpredictable things.
And right now, Elena is afraid.
“Elena,” I say slowly, carefully pronouncing each syllable. “Are you all right?”
She remains perfectly still. “I don’t like planes.”
“You don’t?”
Shaking her head, she lets out a breathy laugh. “I know Riccis are supposed to be fearless. At least, that’s how Papá tried to raise us, why he put us in self-defense classes when my sisters and I were kids. You should’ve seen the way his eyes lit up the first time I put those skills to use.”
I think of the bruised knuckles and bloody lips she seemed to sport each time I came into town over the years, how the broken flesh seemed a permanent fixture. For such a warm, intelligent girl, her apparent appetite for violence never made much sense.
Though, I suppose, when you grow up in a world rife with it, you’ll do anything for a modicum of attention.
“Anyway,” she continues. “There’s nothing my fists can do to protect me from free-falling out of the sky, so I usually try to avoid air travel.”
I’m sure it helps that Rafael rarely lets his family leave Boston.
“You know, statistically speaking, you’re far more likely to die in a fiery automobile accident than you are in a plane crash.”
“Tell that to Buddy Holly, JFK Jr., and Ritchie Valens.”
“To be fair, two of those were the same crash.” I point a finger in her direction. “So, that’s not really an honest comparison. And you’re far too young to have been traumatized by them, anyway.”
Elena hums quietly, sitting up and peeling her eyes open. They sweep over me, as if cataloging every visible inch of flawed flesh she can. Tilting her head to one side, she purses her lips.
“You killed Mateo,” she says slowly.
“Had to. He posed several problems for me, and there was a good chance he was involved in the security breach at your home.”
“Is that what you base your line of work on?” Her eyebrows rise. “A chance?”
Inhaling deeply, I fold my hands over my lap and pin her with a dark look. “No, little one. In fact, every single decision I’ve made in my adult life has been carefully coordinated after exhaustive consideration. I don’t take risks unless I’m sure of the outcome.”
“And this marriage is, what? A royal flush?”
Instead of answering immediately, I lean back in my seat and reach into the sideboard to my right, riffling around until I feel the aged spine of a book I once kept on my person at all times.
I used to write down verses from the book and then tear them from my journal, leaving them on her balcony the few times a year I visited Boston.
Of course, I hadn’t known it was her balcony; I’d thought it was her mother’s. In fact, it wasn’t until she was eighteen and approached me at a cocktail fundraiser that I learned she’d been the one collecting the notes and sometimes leaving her own in return.
That night, she asked me to take her. To give her the gift of choice, the same way I’d given her hope to withstand her father’s world.
She said she’d recognized my handwriting and wanted to make our connection more concrete.
I’d refused, misquoting Paradise Lost and spent the next month trying to erase the image of a young Elena Ricci sprawled out like a feast beneath me.
She was of age, and willing, and frankly I’d never noticed her presence before that night, but she was also the child of the two people who’d irrevocably changed my life.
Then Rafael asked me to watch her, and poetry became the only way I could communicate with her.
The only way I wanted to.
Pulling the tattered book out now, I flip to a dog-eared page, my finger immediately finding the line, even though I know most of Blake’s poems by heart.
“'Til the villain left the paths of ease to walk in perilous paths, and drive the just man into barren climes.”
I hold her electric stare when I recite the line, and she frowns. “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.”
“The marriage of opposites. Good and evil. Theoretically speaking, we aren’t a sure thing,” I say, snapping the book closed and sliding it across the table in her direction. “But given the situation, we don’t have room to fail. I’m imprisoned in this union as much as you are; therefore, for better or for worse, your sentence is a permanent one, wife.”
She grunts, tapping her fingers on her knee, seemingly lost in thought. “What are the chances of you killing me, too?”
“Zero.”
One eyebrow arches. “You sound awfully certain for someone who just killed my fiancé and whisked me away from my family. How do I know you’re not about to take me out to the middle of nowhere and murder me?”
Her tone prods at some barely hidden annoyance bubbling inside of me, and I bristle, reaching up to undo the top button on my suit jacket. She tracks the movement with blazing eyes, that sharp little tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.
My dick pulses greedily behind my zipper, aching to be set free. I reach down, keeping my gaze locked with hers, and palm my erection, the heat of it scorching the base of my hand as I shift in my seat.
I shouldn’t toy with her—I’m barely staving off the temptation as it is. But for some unknown fucking reason, I just can’t help myself.
“You’re of no use to me dead, little one,” I say, squeezing slightly—not enough to make much of a difference, but enough that I feel a bead of precum ooze from the tip, soaking into the fabric of my boxers.
“But you’re not going to sleep with me?”
Horny little bitch. I watch as she flushes, nibbling on her bottom lip, and wonder if I know what I’ve gotten myself into here. “Not yet.”
“Then… what’s the point? What are you waiting for?” she asks, squirming in her seat. Pressing her thighs together, she wiggles around, likely trying to ward off the need swirling between her legs. “Are you not… interested in me that way anymore?”
Pink stains her cheekbones, embarrassment flushing a path down her neck, making her look innocent and fragile.
It’s not that I’m not interested, it’s that I’m too interested.
Once we start, I know we won’t be able to stop.
“Don’t worry, my little Persephone,” I say, releasing myself and sucking in a deep breath, before getting to my feet. “You’ll get fucked. Just not immediately.”
My cock doesn’t deflate until she averts her stare, her blush darkening.
Brushing my hands over the front of my suit, I extend one out to her, waiting patiently for her to take it. If she really does hate airplanes, I can’t imagine dismounting will be particularly easy; it’s a wonder she made it out of the bedroom at all, since the shift in altitude fucks with even the most experienced flyer.
She looks at my hand, then back up at me.
I tower over her when she’s standing at full height, my frame slightly larger than average, but looming over her while she’s eye level with my cock sends an entirely new sensation pounding through me, heightening the lust I’m trying to ignore.
“I didn’t want to marry you,” she says, her voice soft and unlike I’ve ever heard it before.
A lump forms in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. Such a familiar fucking sentiment. “So you keep saying.”
“What do you expect me to do here?” she asks, pushing up out of her seat; she wobbles, off balance for a half second, before gathering herself and crossing her arms over her chest.
I’m hit with the tangy, sweet pomegranate scent of her shampoo, and I’m half tempted to draw her into my arms and show her what I should expect of her, as my new wife.
All the ways I’d worship her tight, perfect body if given the chance. How I’d drag her to the depths of Hell but convince her she’d gone to Heaven, using my tongue to write wordless poetry on her sensitive, swollen flesh.
All the ways I’d treat her right, if I could.
If there wasn’t too much for me to lose.
If I thought I could actually love her, and not just use her as a pawn in my twisted games.
Instead, I settle for what’s safe, because right now that’s more important.
“We can discuss logistics later,” I say, turning to the side and gesturing toward the exit, hoping she doesn’t notice the way my nostrils flare just at her proximity.
She gets too close, and suddenly I feel like I’ve ingested the sweetest, deadliest poison.
“First, I want to show you something.”
