Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles)

by Shaw, Syndra K.

  "But will not be our life, my Grace. The Mikalo ... is this Mikalo Number one?"

  Another smile from me followed by a brief nod. And then a light laugh.

  "Yes, Mikalo Number One."

  "This Mikalo Number One will be the Mikalo you met and liked and fell in love with."

  He stood and then, sitting next to me, slid close, his arm me as he hugged me.

  "This Mikalo Number Two, he also will be a lot like the Mikalo, the Number One, who loves to kiss you, who loves the smell of your hair, who aches to kiss the little dip in your brows when you worry, and cannot keep his hands off your beautiful body."

  His lips were near my cheek now, his breath warm against my skin.

  "This Mikalo, both of these Mikalos, are the Mikalo who would never imagine a life without you. And that is why this Mikalo ... or any Mikalo you wish ... is going to make you his wife.

  "This is good, yes?" he then asked, resting his forehead against my hair.

  "It's good," I said.

  "Very good?"

  I smiled.

  "Okay, very good."

  "How good?" he said, teasing me.

  I turned my face toward him. My lips found his, the briefest of kisses running through me like a shock, my fingers, my toes, every inch of my skin suddenly alive with my love for him.

  "The best, Mikalo Number One," I said, my lips close to his. "The best."

  He stood, pulling me with him.

  "Come," he then said, taking my hand as we walked through the dark cabin toward the back.

  Chapter Ten

  Toward the back behind a slender door that opened with the touch of a small button, the wood sliding with the quietest of whispers, waited a room.

  A relatively small space, the same shades of honey and caramel found in the cabin, slender strips of chrome and silver running along the walls and skirting the edge of the carpeted floor. And around a small corner waited a surprisingly generous bathroom with a shower bracketed by soft white robes hanging from chrome hooks.

  There was a bed in this room at the back, of course. One big enough for two, night stands on either side, the generously sized mattress covered in sleek cotton and a soft duvet, a plush mountain of pillows capping off the top.

  The earth thousands of miles below us, this jet barreling through the night sky toward Greece, and this is what I see when I walk through the door.

  Sumptuous, quietly luxurious perfection.

  He had guided me, Mikalo, my hand in his as we entered.

  He had turned and locked the door, Mikalo, his eyes on mine as he pulled me close.

  And now he laid beneath me, naked, his skin soft in the glow of the sconces on the wall, as I lowered myself, his hardness filling me, stealing my breath, his hands on my breasts, his fingers slowly, gently pinching my nipples before falling to grip my hips, holding me steady as he moved his hips, pushing deeper.

  I looked down, watching him.

  His eyes now closed, his lips parted. The muscles of his chest and shoulders, his biceps, flexing as he guided me, his stomach clenching and unclenching as his hips continued to move.

  I stroked his face, my hand reaching out to caress his cheek, my fingers tracing his jaw and his soft lips before losing themselves in the dark locks of his thick hair.

  Turning his head, he responded, pressing his cheek into my palm, the tip of my thumb stealing between his lips and into his mouth where he sucked me deep, his teeth grazing the flesh.

  I gasped.

  I wanted to kiss him.

  Now.

  And so I did. Dipping low, I pressed myself to him, skin on skin as my lips met his.

  He answered with a kiss of his own. Long, deep, ravenous. His mouth sucking my tongue deep as he quietly arched his back and then, uncoiling, raised his hips, pressing himself into me even deeper.

  I arched my back as well. Grinded myself into him. Opened myself, desperate and hungry and greedy for his length to fill me, the familiar thump-thump-thump starting somewhere quiet and hidden.

  Looking down at him, his eyes squeezed shut, his lips parted, his skin shining now with a thin film of sweat, I toyed with the thought of having him on top of me. Of laying beneath him, trapped, as he pummeled me, in and out, in and out, the blessed chaos of certain relief inching near with every thrust.

  But no. I wanted to ride him. To watch him. To see him squirm and suffer. To see his brow knit when I pulled him back from the edge. To see the head tip back and the teeth clench as his frustration grew.

  I wanted to feel his hands on my hips guiding me, willing me to move faster. And I wanted simply to witness his surrender. That indescribable moment when he abandoned logic and reason and just gave in to his body, the room filling with his sighs and groans and moans and whimpers as he raised his hips and paused, the warmth spreading through me as he shivered and shook.

  Only beneath me, was I in control. Only beneath me, did he give himself fully to me. Only beneath me, was I able to watch my beloved, my Mikalo, my husband-to-be.

  My husband to be.

  I slowed my pace.

  He sighed.

  I lifted his hands from my hips, my fingers laced in his, and drew them to my breasts, his fingers on my nipples, slowly pinching them.

  My pace quickened. He pinched them harder. I grinded into him. His head went back, his mouth opening. I moved faster. His hands left my breasts, falling to the bed, his fists clenching the sheets.

  I stopped.

  He groaned.

  Rising, he tried to move me to my back, his desire to climb on top of me driving him.

  A finger to his lips, I stopped him with a hand on his chest, pushing him to the bed.

  He smiled and lifted his hips, diving in deep.

  I gasped, grinding down into him, meeting his thrust, opening myself to him.

  We paused, together, relishing this delicious blend of pleasure and pain. The sheen of sweat. The intoxicating smell of sex.

  Moving my hips, I picked up the pace. He responded, his movements matching mine. Our eyes locked, my hands on his chest, his on my hips, the wet sounds of skin slapping skin filling the room, I could feel that familiar thump-thump-thump growing.

  And then it hit.

  I arched my back. My mouth opened as I drew in a deep breath. He paused, feeling me pulse and throb against him.

  My thighs clenched, holding off the shaking, the spasms. I relaxed them, willing myself calm. And then I opened my eyes, glancing down at my beloved.

  He was watching me, his eyes hooded with his desire for me, his hardness still resting deep inside me, his need not yet satiated. A small grin graced his lips.

  "And now," I began, lifting myself from him and sliding alongside him, my nails gently raking up his firm stomach, "it's your turn."

  Chapter Eleven

  The sand beneath my feet was incredibly soft. The water was astonishingly blue. And the rocks in the distance, jagged and jutting from the side of the island, slapped by white capped waves, were simply beautiful.

  After two days navigating 'round the chaos of Athens or bumping into Mikalo in his shockingly small apartment, his family's island was damn near idyllic.

  That's right.

  His family's island.

  No, they didn't live in Athens. Only Mikalo, as independent as ever, had taken up residence in that crazy kaleidoscope of claustrophobic alleys, traffic-clogged streets, and bleached white buildings, the throngs elbowing their way below. Horns honking, trucks rumbling, shouts and cries and more shouts, the constant drumbeat of vibrant life, of arguments and pleas, of laughter and celebration, rising into the clear blue of a hot sky.

  I had expected a truly modern city of gleaming skyscrapers. But it was as if time had stood still, passing Athens by, most of the neighborhoods a hodgepodge of concrete walls and bits of tattered, faded curtains flapping out of small square windows, all of it built generations ago.

  Add the cacophony of Athens life to a nasty case of jet lag and it's safe to
say I was happy when yet another car picked us up and crawled through bumper-to-bumper traffic to a non-descript airport where a small, sleek plane waited to whisk us to ... well, somewhere.

  I wasn't sure.

  And then this.

  An hour over a sea so blue and so clear I could see the steep hills and sharp ridges and deep valleys on the sea floor below. An hour moving further away from the disappointing noise of the big city and into the eerie peace and quiet of a small island.

  An hour later I was gingerly navigating around rocks to the white of beautiful, soft sand.

  An hour later warm waves slapped my ankles as I looked into a blue sea.

  And, an hour later, the Delis family manse loomed in the distance behind me. A great orderly confusion of bone white concrete dominating the top of a low hill, a great octopus with smaller buildings, guest houses, bungalows, and separate wings spreading out from the massive two-story center.

  Somewhere up there, Mikalo's Nona rested. Somewhere up there, Mikalo's brother Silvestro and his wife Caugina plotted and planned, perhaps even watching me, this stranger, this interloper, this woman who would never belong, as I stood ankle deep in the ocean. Somewhere up there, Mikalo was being hugged and greeted, knowing I wanted a quiet moment to myself as I decompressed from the insanity of Athens and then adjusted to the ... well, to this.

  An island.

  An island his family owned.

  For the first time, I truly felt out-of-place. Felt that maybe I didn't belong. Wondered if, maybe, this was a mistake.

  While most women would dream of marrying a man of Mikalo's wealth, I felt it oddly confining. And, frankly, I felt more than a bit stupid, having lived in the delusion of who Mikalo truly was, burying myself in the fantasy of who I wanted him to be: a wonderfully extraordinary guy who was just like me.

  But he wasn't like me.

  And what if those differences ended up becoming an issue? Driving us apart? Driving him eventually into the arms of a woman who was a lot more like him?

  I closed my eyes, willing these dark thoughts away.

  He had given me no reason to think this or feel this. What was going through my head was me and only me. I was doing this, creating it. These were my fears not based on anything in reality.

  Whatever I was feeling, I was taking responsibility for.

  Still ...

  I looked into the bluest of blue seas, feeling the sun on my face and smelling the salt in the air. I closed my eyes and breathed deep.

  Eventually I would need to go up there and say a proper Hello. Move beyond the brief handshake and small smile I offered -- and they accepted -- and actually sit and talk and get to know these people. And allow them to get to know me.

  I hated how the thought terrified me.

  I was a success. Had my own money, my own career, my own life. Had succeeded despite the impossible. Why should this, this need to have his family like me, love me, even, so throw me off kilter?

  Who knows? But it was.

  I opened my eyes and took one last look at the water, breathed in one last breath of the crisp, clean air, and then turned and gingerly trudged the several steps back to land, determined to shake away my fear, my doubt, and get this over with.

  At the end of the day, whether his family loved me or not, I knew Mikalo did.

  And from that, I was gaining my strength.

  Chapter Twelve

  "You are prettier than I thought you would be."

  The voice was clear and strong. Deepened by age, it had an unmistakable air of authority. When this voice spoke, you listened.

  I nodded, putting the glass of water on the table before me.

  "Thank you," I said, immediately feeling like a fool for openly appreciating what was, in essence, a back-handed compliment.

  Nona sat opposite me, her thick elbows resting on the polished wood, her arms crossed over her ample bosom. She was a small woman, but large, her corpulence stuffed into a simple housedress, her feet jammed into a pair of slippers. Were you not aware of the power and wealth of the Delis family -- I'd come to understand that, were they involved in the chaotic clusterfuck of Greek politics, they'd be on a par with the Kennedys in the States --, you'd think she was just another Greek grandmother sitting on her stoop drinking mint tea and watching the world go by.

  "Yes, the eyes are not bad, and the mouth, it is not too large. But that lipstick, on your lips, that pink, it does not work for you."

  "I'm not wearing lip stick," I said. "Just a bit of gloss."

  She paused, her eyes narrowing as her mind raced.

  Caugina, leaning on the wood, her arms sprawled, having declared the end of the table her own little fiefdom, complete with a bowl of olives she greedily hoarded, paused, waiting.

  Silvestro, his fat face sweaty and eager, his plump hands resting awkwardly on the table, paused.

  And Mikalo, seated next to me, grew quiet.

  I was beginning to realize I had committed a faux pas by correcting her.

  Tough.

  Her eyes softened as a small smile spread across her thin lips, the cloud passing.

  "Lip gloss?" she asked, watching me. "My great-niece loves this lip gloss. Her and all her little friends, they are, how you say, fans of this lip gloss? They pass it around between their classes at school. It is good practice for when they are older and, maybe, will wear the lip stick."

  The cloud had returned.

  Conceding defeat, I simply smiled. Like a buffoon. An idiot.

  I felt Mikalo relax.

  Damnit, this was not going to work.

  A fistful of oily olives clutched in her paw, Caugina pounced, her voice shattering the brief quiet like a sledgehammer.

  "Tonight before we tuck you into the bed, we will maybe braid your hair, yes?"

  And then she laughed, cramming the olives into her large open mouth.

  Silvestro, his face turning red, chortled, the sweat rolling down his cheeks.

  And Nona, sitting opposite me, simply smiled, her eyes never leaving me, her gaze insistent and demanding.

  Not being sure what else to do, I lightly laughed, giving Caugina this little victory.

  I glanced at Mikalo.

  He glared at Caugina.

  Caugina glared right back, chewing the olives like a cow chews its cud.

  Silvestro still chortled, oblivious.

  Nona watched me.

  She spoke.

  "And what is it you would like to do here during this visit?"

  I was speechless.

  Turning to Mikalo, I silently implored him to step in, remind her that we were here to get married. She didn't forget, did she?

  Throwing caution to the wind, I finally replied.

  "I'm here to get married, of course."

  The table grew silent, save for Caugina jamming more olives in her mouth, her fingers shining with oil.

  "And I'd like to see a bit more of the island, perhaps," I continued. "It's very nice here. I like it very much."

  "It isn't yours."

  Silvestro had turned his head toward me. He wasn't actually looking at me, his eyes still fixed on the table as he laced his fat fingers together in front of him. But he had deigned to turn his head as he spoke.

  "This island, it will not be yours," he repeated, his voice raspy, the words sounding as if they were squeezed through an exhausted tube as he caught his breath. "It will remain in the family always.

  "And you are not family," he then finished.

  Caugina watched, her eyes wide with glee, a grin plastered on her face as she waited for my response.

  Mikalo spoke.

  "She is family, Silvestro," he began. "She will be my wife and she will be family. But she has no interest in taking this island. She was simply saying to you how pretty it is and how nice it is here. I know Ronan and, you must trust me, she has no interest in taking this island and kicking you off."

  I wanted to speak. Wanted to assure them that Mikalo was right. But I held my tongue
, not wanting to wade even deeper into the mess I was unintentionally creating.

  Caugina, her eyes still wide, looked from Silvestro to Nona, desperate for the argument to continue.

  "Nona?" she asked, leaning toward the old woman. "What do you think?"

  And then she sat back, more olives stuffed in her gaping maw as she waited for the show to continue.

  Nona watched me, still, and then leaned forward, her hands leaving the familiarity of her elbows, where they had remained wrapped, hugging herself throughout the conversation, to press themselves against the table as she struggled to rise.

  No one moved to help her. No one would dare.

  She finally stood, her housedress gaping in the middle where the small buttons were losing the fight against her massive cleavage.

  "I think," she began, her eyes narrowing again as she looked at me, "that it is time for me to go up to the bed and get some sleep."

  And with that, she turned, shuffling out of the room and out of sight.

  Caugina laughed and pushed the bowl of olives away.

  "Come," she order Silvestro as she rose to go, leaving him on his own to struggle to rise and, finally, painfully limp after her, his legs reluctantly moving.

  Which left Mikalo and I alone.

  I turned to him, my arm sliding into his.

  "Well," I then said, my eyes on his, "that went well."

  Chapter Thirteen

  This made everything worth it.

  Lying here in Mikalo's arms, the clear light of the great big Greek moon shining, the ocean breeze stealing through the open window making the room nice and cool and fresh, his heartbeat under my palm, his large hand hugging my shoulder as my head rested on his strong arm, all of this made the nightmare of Nona and Caugina and Silvestro worth it.

  Or at least almost worth it.

  "They hate me," I whispered, aware he was just as wide awake as I was despite the late hour.

  "No, they don't hate you," came the reply.

  "It sure felt like it," I said, drawing closer and snuggling into him.

  He responded by holding me tighter, his other hand searching for and then holding mine, our fingers laced together, his breathing a comfort as my head now rested against his chest.