Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles)

by Shaw, Syndra K.

  Mikalo's Fate

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Mikalo's Fate

  Mikalo's Fate

  A novel

  Syndra K. Shaw

  Copyright 2013 Syndra K. Shaw

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photograph by OLJ Studio

  via shutterstock

  Cover design by Renae Porter

  Social Butterfly Creative

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To everyone who so generously supported me,

  walked with me,

  and shared the journey with me,

  Thank you.

  Chapter One

  I'm in love.

  Even here in the dark, his body close to mine, the heaviness of his arm a comfort as it wrapped around my chest and held me tight, the back of my neck warm from his quiet breath, I couldn't help but smile.

  Ronan Grace Delis.

  In a week's time, I'd be Ronan Grace Delis.

  I'd be his wife. My Mikalo finally officially mine.

  Yes, I'm in love.

  In his sleep, he sighed, pressing against me as he dreamed.

  It had been weeks since he had kneeled before me in the kitchen. Weeks since he had slipped the ring on my finger and, his eyes wet with tears, asked me to be his. To love him and spend the rest of my days with him. Weeks since, my heart full and happy, I had been unable to speak. Unable to utter that simple syllable. Unable to find that "yes" in my throat, my voice.

  And so I had nodded. And that nod had become my answer.

  With that my Mikalo, my Greek god in grey wool, had become mine.

  In a few days we'd fly to Greece, the advanced age of his beloved Nona preventing her from coming to New York. It just made sense, the few friends I had easily able to travel. And, let's face it, the sprawling mess of Mikalo's family was much easier to corral in Greece than in the States.

  As for my family ...

  I sighed, exhaling the thought of them away.

  He and I had talked about this yesterday. And the day before that.

  "And so she is not one you'd want to come?" he had asked, repeating himself, the absence of my mother obsessing him.

  "No," I had insisted.

  "Why?"

  "Because," I had said, snapping like a petulant child.

  And he had knitted his brow, struggling to understand something he knew so little about.

  But how could I explain the complicated relationship I had with that woman people knew as my Mother? How could I explain how she had left my father, destroying him in the process, trading a man who loved her and a child who idolized her for a wealthy Texan whose only interest in her was that she was still young and still pretty and always eager?

  And how to explain how, after that, she had forgotten us, choosing to recreate herself as someone new. Someone without a daughter. Without a family, a past. Without responsibility. How my last sight of her was her pulling out of the driveway, driving down the street, and turning left.

  How could I explain any of that without feeling the familiar rage and crippling sense of abandonment?

  I couldn't.

  And Mikalo wouldn't understand. Or maybe he would. I don't know.

  All I did know was I wanted to leave her behind. Leave her in the past, fully aware that, with my marrying Mikalo, she would be more than happy to reclaim me as her own, my achievements ignored, but my marriage to a man of generous means embraced, celebrated, and, no doubt, bragged about to anyone and everyone who'd listen.

  It was best to just move on without her. I had no need for her and, as I'd seen over the last who knew how many years, she had no need for me.

  "And your father?" he had asked, my silence about my mother deafening.

  With this, the tears had fallen.

  "He died," I had finally said.

  And Mikalo, my Mikalo, had gathered me in his arms, tucking my head under his chin as he squeezed, holding me close.

  This I did share, telling him how my dad's heart was broken, but omitting the specifics of my mother's cruelty. How he had lost it all. A promising career, his pride, his sense of self, all of it extinguished by my mother's, his wife's, absence, how she had so cruelly abandoned him, the pain soon drowned in drink, his body eventually surrendering.

  What I didn't share, what I couldn't revisit, was how this was how I spent my teenage years. That was a memory I needed to leave behind, I thought as I stared at the shadows on the ceiling, scooting back into the warmth that was Mikalo. When other girls were dancing and flirting and ... well, whatever in the hell teenage girls did, I was eating cereal for dinner, being careful to measure the amount of milk so there'd be enough for the morning, and then wandering from bar to bar to find my dad, walking him home, my arm around his waist, clutching him close so he wouldn't stumble into traffic.

  I had lost one parent. I wasn't losing another.

  No, my mother was not welcome at my wedding.

  "You are not dreaming," Mikalo now said, his voice almost a whisper, the words caressing the back of my neck.

  "I'm awake," I said.

  He shifted, pulling me into him, and then sighed.

  "I am still in sleep," he mumbled.

  "It's early."

  "Mmmm ..."

  His arm slowly moved from my chest, the palm briefly grazing my breasts, the hand sliding down my stomach, his fingers slipping lower to rest on my naked warmth.

  He kissed the back of my neck as his hands pushed their way past my legs, opening me to him, his fingertips gently, oh so gently, rubbing me into wetness.

  I sighed, closing my mind to the thoughts of my family as I opened myself to him.

  He responded, pushing deep, one finger becoming two, hi
s lips moving from my neck to my shoulder, his hardness pressing against me.

  My head turned, my tongue seeking his.

  We found each other, my legs now spread wide as I laid on my back.

  He moaned as I reached out, my fist discovered him, my fingers wrapping around his width. I gently pulled him near, silently imploring him inside.

  But he ignored me, his lips on mine, his fingers diving deep, retreating and rubbing gently only to dive deep once again.

  I took my mouth from his, burying my nose in his hair as he dipped low to suck my neck. My fist still stroked him, he still rubbed and teased, my hips now pushing myself into him, willing his fingers deeper.

  He took his lips from my neck.

  "Marry me, my Grace," he whispered.

  "Yes," I said, my breath against his lips.

  His fingers withdrew, rubbing, teasing, torturing.

  "Be my wife."

  "Yes," I repeated.

  His lips were on me again, his tongue pushing past my teeth as I lifted my hips, desperate for him inside me. My fist still stroked, my palm growing wet from his excitement.

  "Be mine forever," he then said, his breath growing ragged as his excitement grew, the realization that we had this, this intimacy, this togetherness, this heat, for the rest of our lives.

  "Oh yes," I said quickly, my lips reaching for his.

  "Yes?"

  "Yes," I repeated, my hips now with a mind of their own as his fingers plunged deep.

  "My love?" he asked.

  "Always."

  "My heart."

  "Forever."

  "My Grace ... " he began.

  My fist grew wet as he throbbed, his heat running down my arm and onto my leg as his excitement hit its peak, Mikalo burying his face in my throat, his gasps and groans and whimpers and sighs spilling onto my neck.

  His fingers continued their delicious assault, my own blessed chaos drawing near.

  "Mikalo ... " I whimpered.

  He lifted his face, pressing himself close, his eyes watching mine.

  "My love," he said.

  I gasped as the first wave hit, my hips off the bed as his fingers cruelly stopped, holding me at bay.

  "Yes," he whispered, the word hot against my lips as he moved closer, encouraging me, urging me on, relishing my orgasm as much as I was.

  His fingers moved again.

  The second wave arrived, stealing my breath.

  The fingers retreated to rub and tease, gently, lovingly.

  My hips returned to the bed.

  "Yes," he said again, his lips kissing me before his head returned to the pillow, the smell of our sex lingering in my nose as I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Deni loved diners.

  We had met for breakfast, of course. My best friend looking as blonde and splendid as always, the small diamonds twinkling at her ears quietly hinting at her wealth.

  But, still, here we sat in a diner not far from my hotel on an Upper East Side block filled with gorgeous places to eat.

  "I just love 'em," she was saying before sipping her orange juice.

  "They're democratic, diners," she continued. "No reservations or door men or, I don't know, VIP sections or anything. Anyone with a couple bucks and an appetite can walk in, slide into a booth, and be treated like a person.

  "A diner is a lot like me, really: you can gussy me up in god knows what, but, at the end of the day, I'm pretty basic. Linoleum floors, Formica counters, and always a full pot of coffee on the back burner. That's me."

  "How are things with --?"

  She raised a hand, silencing me. Her impending divorce was something we didn't talk about. And the guilt I was feeling about my upcoming wedding to Mikalo was eating at me. That I would be so happy and so in love when my dearest friend, my family, really, was struggling through the death of her marriage was one of life's many little "fuck you"s.

  Surprisingly, she spoke.

  "It's happening," she began, her eyes fixed on her plate. "No turning back. It's decided, there's no reconciliation, or even a desire for one, really. It's over. All that's left is deciding who gets how much of what."

  "Will you keep the apartment?"

  After a moment, she shrugged.

  "I don't know, to be honest with you," she finally said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm not sure I even really want it or need it or absolutely have to have it, you know? We could sell it, split the money, and I could buy a smaller place somewhere else."

  Oh my god, the thought of Deni not in New York filled me with panic. I know she's a big girl and can make her own decisions and live where she wants and that she didn't have to do something just to make me happy.

  But I loved her in New York. The city, my home, wouldn't be the same without her.

  "Of course I'd stay in New York," she then said.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  She smiled.

  "As if I'd ever leave," she said with a wink.

  "I'd be lost without you, babe," I said, my eyes growing wet with tears.

  "Well, you're the one going off to Greece to get married!"

  I laughed.

  "And you're the one standing by my side when I say 'I do', so ..."

  "Can't wait," she said and then dug into her hash browns.

  "So," she continued between bites, "how you feeling about meeting Mikalo's family? His grandmother --"

  "His Nona," I interrupted, using Mikalo's favorite name for her.

  "Right, his Nona is infamous in European social circles."

  "How so?" I asked, sincerely intrigued.

  "Bit of a wild woman in her younger years. Was in desperate love with one, had a forced marriage to another one only to have him die under mysterious circumstances. She got his money, and I mean all his money, making her one of the wealthiest south of Paris, married a second very soon after. Now she's like some Dowager Empress ruling everyone and everything with an iron fist. That Mikalo was allowed to all but move to the States shows just how much he has her twisted around his finger."

  "I don't know, D. Mikalo has already warned me that his family didn't sound very happy about us. So I'm not exactly expecting to be greeted with open arms."

  "And if you're not?"

  I gave a small shrug.

  "We still get married and I become the despised daughter-in-law. No big deal. I played that part before."

  "Right," Deni said. "But your first husband was a douchebag, so he doesn't really count, right?"

  I sighted, looking out the window at the crowds passing along Madison Avenue. As much as I'd like to, I'd never be able to escape the ghost of my first marriage.

  The fantasy cracking in two. The insults, the silence, the abuse. The quiet, unrelenting cruelty. His unexpected death as he swerved off the road and plummeted into a ravine, landing at the bottom in a fireball which lit the night sky.

  "You're getting a new beginning," Deni then interrupted, recognizing at once where my mind had drifted and knowing, as always, the perfect thing to say. "A new beginning with a great guy. Someone who loves you despite your many faults and my many complaints."

  She smiled.

  I laughed.

  "So true," I then said, pushing the dark storm clouds far, far away.

  "When do you leave?" she asked.

  "In three days."

  "You ready for this?"

  I sipped my orange juice, considering the question.

  Of course I was ready. I loved Mikalo. I mean, I truly, sincerely loved the guy. Would give my life for him. We fit. We clicked. There was an indefinable something between us I no longer questioned or worried about or even really thought of anymore. It just was and we just were.

  Of course it wasn't perfect. And I had no doubt we'd hit rough spots in the years to come. Heck, we'd probably hit rough spots over the next three weeks!

  But there wasn't anything that could make me lose what I felt for him. It was a
part of me now. He was a part of me, like my blood, my breath, my heart.

  "Yes," I finally said, answering Deni's question. "Yes, I am."

  Chapter Three

  "I'm sorry," he said again.

  "No, no, it's okay," I repeated, my elbows propped on the desk as I watched Bill seated across from me, his hands apologetically clasped in his lap like a schoolboy who was caught eyeing the cookie jar. "Things happen, things come up, it's not the end of the world. Really."

  "I really, really wanted to be there. Really," he said. "But with this new account and the mountain of work plus, as you know, Mara Byzan skipping out and --"

  "You think I don't know exactly what you're talking about?" I interrupted with a laugh. "Please, no explanation necessary. It's just sweet you were willing to make the trip. Really, it was."

  "I was going to walk you down the aisle, Ronan," he said.

  I paused, not sure what to say.

  In truth, this was all news to me. Of course I wanted Bill at my wedding. But it hadn't even occurred to me that he'd spring a surprise by walking me down the aisle.

  It really would have been perfect.

  He continued.

  "Not like you asked me or I was invited to give you away or anything. But, yeah, I was going to put your arm in mine and walk you down the aisle.

  "It just kills me that there's no father or father figure or someone to take your arm and be with you."

  "I'll be fine."

  "I know you'll be fine," Bill continued. "Of course you'll be fine. This isn't about that. It's about tradition and feeling loved and knowing you're loved. It's my hand on your arm as you take these steps into a new life. Of being there and being with you and sharing it with you. That's what it's about.

  "Of course you'll be fine, Ronan," he continued. "The world could collapse in a heap of rubble and you'd be fine."

  I grinned, willing the lump in my throat to go away.

  He was right, of course. Life had kicked me more times than not and yet, still, I was standing.