Promises and Pomegranates: A Dark Contemporary Romance (Monsters & Muses Book 1)

by Sav R. Miller

  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.”

  Chapter 8

  ‘Are you not interested in me that way anymore?’

  Sinking my nails into the meat of my thighs, I mentally berate myself for letting the question slip from my lips.

  My mind was too hazy, partly from the orgasm I’d had less than a half hour before and partly because the cabin was starting to feel like a coffin, and suddenly the question barreled off my tongue and hurled itself in his direction.

  As if sleeping with Kal Anderson is the single most important thing in the universe.

  True, I’ve thought of very little else in the weeks since he tore through my virginity, but still. Given the absolute chaos of the last twenty-four hours, the complete upheaval of life as I once knew it, sex should be the last thing I’m worried about.

  I should be glad he doesn’t want that from me. It should make me feel strong, like he’s letting me keep the only bargaining chip I’ve ever had.

  And yet, as I glance at him from my end of the black sedan we were ushered into after dismounting the jet, that familiar ache spreads from my pussy outward, flowing through my veins like it belongs there.

  And all I feel is unwanted.

  He’s practically glued to his door, his suit jacket folded on the seat between us. The sleeves of his black button-down are flipped up to mid-forearm, revealing corded muscles and more bronzed skin than I’ve ever seen from him.

  Scrolling through his phone with the pad of one thumb, he strokes at the underside of his stubbly jaw with the other. The screen shifts so quickly, it’s hard for me to imagine he’s even processing any of the information.

  Pursing my lips, I bend down and feel around in my backpack for my phone, coming up empty. I turn my head, brushing my hair out of my face, my mouth falling open to ask where he put it.

  “A liability,” he says before I’ve even uttered a word, and without sparing me a glance. “When we’re home, I’ll get you set up with a new device.”

  Home. Smoothing my hands over the soft material of my leggings, I look out the tinted window as the green-blue terrain of wherever we landed whips past. The ocean stretches out just beyond the treetop horizon, although I’m unsure if that means we’re still mainland.

  “Where exactly is home?” I ask.

  “Aplana Island, though natives just call it Aplana. It’s just outside the Boston Harbor Islands.”

  “Never heard of it,” I say, my finger pressing a button that inches the window down.

  It whirs as it descends, the sound puncturing the silence around us, stirring a calmness in my gut I haven’t felt since I walked into Mateo’s bedroom. Up and down, I repeat the motion, mesmerizing myself with it.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Kal shift in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs as if he can’t quite get comfortable. His left hand comes down to grip just above his knee, squeezing until the veins strain against his skin, his throat bobbing repeatedly as he swallows over and over.

  I wonder if he’s having second thoughts about all of this—marrying me, fucking me, stealing me from Boston. Is it possible the bad doctor didn’t quite know what he was getting himself into when he stepped in as my knight in not-so-shiny armor?

  Before I have a chance to ask if it’s too late for an annulment, Kal’s hand lashes out, covering mine just as salty air blasts my face; he pries my finger away, returning the window back to its original closed position, labored breaths tearing from his chest.

  Tipping my chin up, I note the tightness around his eyes and the shrinkage of his pupils. He looks savage, like a monster come to life in dire need of his pound of flesh, and it steals the oxygen from my lungs for the briefest of seconds.

  Not because I’m afraid, though.

  Because I like it.

  The chaos in his eyes sucks me in like an undercurrent, pulling me deeper into his dangerous waters.

  For a moment, I’d rather drown in them than resurface.

  A lump materializes in my throat, and I swallow over it. My heart skitters inside my chest, that cinnamon and whiskey scent I spent weeks trying to forget assaulting me as he looms over my body. His gaze skirts along the edges of my face, madness lighting his features and keeping him distant.

  Gripping the doorframe, he blows out a long, low breath, his chest rising sharply with the action. Blinking rapidly, he seems to snap back into his normal state of being, dark brown eyes meeting mine as the pupils correct themselves.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice barely audible, unsure of what’s just happened and not wanting to set him off again.

  “Fine. Just... don’t roll your window down.”

  As he wrenches himself away from me, sliding back into his seat like a piece of metal drawn to a magnet, I frown. “What, is someone worse than you going to grab me or something?”

  Tugging at the collar of his dress shirt, Kal gives me a stern look. One I feel straight to my core.

  “There are many things out there worse than me, little one. And it’s not a matter of if they come for you, but when.” His voice is flat, unwavering, whatever episode he had seconds ago completely forgotten as his mask of composition morphs back into place. “I didn’t marry you so you could fuck around and get yourself killed, so when I tell you to do something, I expect you to listen. Don’t make me regret trying to protect you.”

  “You’ve also said you’re using me,” I point out, crossing my ankles as the driver slows to a stop. “That I’m no good to you if I’m dead. So, which is it? Did you marry me to save me, or to wield me like a weapon?”

  Our vehicle shifts into park, jarring us slightly forward as it shuts off. A moment later, Kal’s door swings open, a uniformed, gray-haired man standing just outside, a stoic expression on his aged face. Reaching over, Kal unbuckles my seat belt, then slips from the car, leaving me without an answer.

  Rolling my eyes, I follow in his direction. Heat from the sun grazes my skin as I step out, pulling my backpack along with me. We’re parked at the end of a curved driveway, and I’m too busy gawking at the massive wrought iron gate to notice Kal’s fingers wrapping around my forearm, yanking me back when I try to go through it.

  “You’re not a weapon,” he says, his touch burning me from the inside out. “You’re a pawn. That ring on your finger makes you my pawn. Don’t forget that.”

  Resentment notches against my sternum, defiance rearing its head like an angry welt bubbling against my skin. “Or what, Kallum? What else are you planning on doing to me? Gonna lock me up in your house and throw away the key?”

  His nostrils flare, eyes lingering on mine like he can’t help himself, but then he’s moving forward and dragging me along behind him.

  The gate opens automatically, revealing a perfectly manicured lawn bordered by tall privacy hedges, the far end of which overlooks the ocean. A massive house with gray siding, a wraparound porch, and three brick chimneys sits at the center of the lot, the only freestanding structure visible once we step inside the gate.

  “Jesus,” I breathe, staring up at the building with wide eyes. “Is this where you live?”

  “Technically, yes. Though I admit I don’t spend much tim
e here.”

  “Hm. Pretty spacious for one person.”

  “The Asphodel used to be a hotel. I purchased it some years ago and renovated it into a residential property.”

  The Asphodel. How strangely fitting.

  I can’t help wondering if he senses the irony of his home being named after part of the Greek Underworld.

  Kal glances at me as we stop at the front door, a tendril of black hair falling over his forehead as he tips his chin down. My fingers twitch, the urge to brush the lock away making my body vibrate as I rebel against it, grateful for the restraint he has on me.

  Wanting my new husband shouldn’t stir such a profound disgust within my bones—under normal circumstances, it’d be expected. Warranted.

  Yet as he stares at me in silence for several beats, I’m reminded once again that none of this is normal. Least of all, my reaction to being forced into a marriage at the threat of harm to my loved ones.

  I should’ve been more disturbed as I watched my fiancé’s life leave his body.

  I should’ve put up more of a fight when his murderer asked for—no, took—my hand.

  Should’ve scraped and kicked my way out of it, the way Papá taught me.

  The way I know Kal would have if the situation were reversed.

  Clearing my throat, I tear my eyes from his, and he drops my arm the second our stare breaks. Reaching into his pants pocket for a set of keys, he pulls one free and pushes it into the brass doorknob, turning until we hear the lock unlatch.

  A little thrill shoots through me as his hand finds my lower back, his icy skin somehow blazing through the material of my shirt, making my insides all gooey. I repress the sensation, trying to focus on the open entryway we walk into.

  Imperial staircases separate the two floors, an arched doorway splitting the two and leading down a long hallway. The floors are a deep cherrywood, polished to the point I can see my reflection in them, while the furniture all looks as though it was ordered straight from a Pottery Barn catalog.