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

by Sav R. Miller

  Tension expands in my core like an unraveled thread, tangling like a spider web between my thighs. Biting my lip, I try to latch onto the anger bubbling in my chest, even as warmth spreads from my pussy outward, my body melting at the image of me bent over for him.

  “I didn’t run away from you,” I lie, swallowing over the emotion threatening the back of my throat. “You weren’t anywhere around when I left. Which, by the way, thanks for ditching me again. And thanks for recruiting a monster to babysit me.”

  He sighs, and I can just imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to maintain composure. “I didn’t realize Vincent was going to be a problem. I will deal with him.”

  Tears burn my eyes, and I sniffle as I fight them off, pulling my knees to my chest. Laying my cheek on my knee, I tap the phone, checking the time. “I hate it here.”

  “Tell me where you’re at and I’ll come get you.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head even though I know he can’t see me. My eyelids droop, obscuring the plexiglass in front of me, and I find it easier to let them rest. “Here. Aplana Island. I’m lonely.”

  He doesn’t say anything for several beats—so long, that I’m pretty sure the next time he does, I’m dreaming. “Yeah,” he agrees, the ice evaporating from his tone with that single syllable, making me wonder what exactly he’s agreeing with.

  Maybe Hades was lonely too, and he brought Persephone to his realm because he knew she’d bring the light with her.

  Somewhere in the distance, a door slams shut, the sound echoing in the rafters. Voices drift in my direction like a storm cloud, rough and angry as they draw closer.

  Kal curses under his breath. “Elena. Where are you?”

  Fatigue rolls over me, slow and steady as it envelops my brain, making it difficult to focus. The voices drift nearer, growing angrier, and if I could pay more attention to them, I’d probably be afraid. But my mind feels like a raft lost at sea, floating slowly among the waves as they carry me away.

  “Where did you go?” I ask instead. At least, I think I ask, though it’s hard to feel my mouth all of a sudden.

  “I had to meet someone.”

  “A girl?” I can’t hide the bite of jealousy; it slips out like a serpent’s tail, lashing quickly.

  “Yes. But not like that.” A pause, then a sigh. “My sister.”

  “You have a sister?”

  “Yes. Sort of. It’s... complicated.” Kal clears his throat, and I wonder what he’s doing right now. If he’s standing over Vinny’s prone body, a gun pressed to the back of his skull, waiting to know if I’m safe before exacting his punishment. “But never mind that, little one. Tell me where you are.”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, my words coming slower. The sound behind me picks up, footsteps pounding against the cement floor, but I still don’t open my eyes. “Some bus station.”

  “Bus station?” Another drawn-out pause, and then Kal curses again, something shuffling over the line. “I need you to get out of there, right now.”

  “Can’t,” I say, that warmth from before traveling through my veins, making my insides feel like jelly. “Too sleepy.”

  “Elena.” I can tell he’s speaking through clenched teeth. “That drug Vincent gave you was a diluted version of a very powerful street drug, and it’s probably kicking in right now. I need you to fight it, and get the fuck out of there and outside where people can see you.”

  Laughter floats around me, shadows casting across the bench where I lay; I see them from behind my eyelids, but I’m too tired to open and see what’s going on. Maybe the staff’s come back from a lunch break.

  “Well, well,” a voice says, with an accent I can’t quite place, “what have we got here, boys?”

  And then everything goes dark.

  Chapter 17

  I’m not a man who very often loses his cool.

  When it comes to both my lines of work, anxiety is a luxury I’ve never been able to afford.

  But when the line linking me to Elena crackles and goes silent, worry sinks into the core of my being, digging in and planting roots. I blink at the wall in Jonas’s office, waiting longer than necessary to see if the call revives itself, before I’m met with the ear rape of a dial tone.

  It bleats for a full minute, causing a spasm to rip through the muscle beneath my eye, darkening my vision slightly. An itch flares beneath my skin, the sound echoing long after it falls silent, and I slowly set my phone down on Jonas’s metal desk, turning around.

  Vincent sits duct taped to a plastic chair, one of Jonas’s dirty gym socks shoved in his mouth to block out his pathetic whimpers. I’ve barely even touched him, and the fucker’s already pissed himself twice.

  Perching on the edge of the desk, I steeple my fingers together, watching him struggle against his bindings. His fear would smell so sweet, if not for the unspoken violence lighting his gaze, telling me he’s not in the least bit sorry.

  Which makes my decision a hell of a lot easier.

  My phone vibrates a moment later, an incoming text from Jonas flashing across the screen.

  Jonas: Station Thirteen, at the corner of Fifth and Poplar. En route now.

  Though he hadn’t been around the bar so far this week, Jonas had still been close by, overseeing an export of some craft beer he’s been working on in his spare time. I’d grouped him in on the call when I dialed Elena, in case he was closer and able to get to her quicker.

  Cuffing the ends of my sleeves, I do my best to bury the blood coating them, admiring the addition to Elena’s handiwork on Vincent; when I entered the bar, he’d been curled into a ball on the floor while Gwen tried to wrap his hand, which she remarked she thought was broken after giving me the CliffsNotes of what happened.

  His fingers certainly weren’t bent correctly, nor was he able to move them when prompted; when I noticed the discarded needle across the room, a detail Gwen left out of her account, I’d smiled at Vincent and stomped down on top of his already mangled hand, relishing in the garbled scream that tore from his chest.

  If it wasn’t broken before, it is now.

  Dragging him into Jonas’s office with the help of Blue, who finally came back from an extended lunch, I split my knuckles wide open on his swollen nose, using the heel of my hand to make sure that cartilage cracked, too. While I cleaned myself up and called Elena, I had Blue strap Vincent to the chair and gag him, waiting to hear from my wife before I proceeded.

  Unfortunately for him, the end of that call probably isn’t what Vincent was hoping for.

  Blue watches from the corner of the room where he lounges on an old leather sofa, hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. Nicknamed for the ocean-like quality of his gaze, he keeps it trained on me, silent and waiting for more orders.

  Picking my suit jacket off the coat rack by the door, I shake it free of any debris, slipping it on over my shoulders as I take in Blue’s calm demeanor. He’d gotten back from his break and sprung right into action, no questions asked.

  It’s the kind of quality you look for in an employee. A soldier.

  Without knowing much about his actual background, the squared, neat cut of his dark hair and the anchor tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt sleeve, tells me he probably has some military experience, which means he understands loyalty.

  His existence here as a bouncer makes me less irritated with Jonas and his shitty hiring skills.

  Slightly.

  “You just gonna leave him here?” Blue asks as I head for the door, cocking a thick brow.

  I pause. “Got a problem with that?”

  He holds his free hand up, shaking his head. “Nope. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

  “I’ll be back for him. Don’t let him out of your sight, and don’t let anyone come in while I’m gone.”

  Closing the door behind me with more force than necessary, I quickly scan the bar floor, making sure all of the patrons found their way out. After I kicked Gwen’s skinny ass to the c
urb, I announced to the few customers that we were closing early, bolting the doors so no one else could get inside.

  Pushing out the back door, I lock up and walk down the alley to my waiting town car, informing the driver—drivers change so often around here, I haven’t bothered to learn his name—of our destination. He guides the vehicle through the streets, practically empty this time of year, until finally turning onto Fifth and stopping in front of Station Thirteen.

  It’s not an active bus station; hasn’t been in years. The Primroses, majority owners of the island, scaled back years ago on public transportation costs, arguing that we don’t get enough tourists each summer to balance out the expense.

  So, the few stations we had were either torn down and turned into something more profitable, or—on the south side of the island—they became hotbeds for criminal activity.

  This one in particular is known for its shady operations, but Elena wouldn’t know that, because I dropped her in the middle of my world and gave absolutely no explanation.

  Took her from one cage and imprisoned her in another, possibly for naught, depending on what I find inside.

  If they’ve touched a hair on her head, I’m not sure what I’ll do. It’s been a long time since my blood cried out for a massacre, and yet as I climb out of my car and head for the glass front door, that’s the exact image surfacing in my mind.

  It would be all my fault, too.

  That knowledge is a poisoned knife to my gut, hell-bent on a quick and painful demise.

  All that talk about her being of no use to me dead, and yet I went and put her right in Death’s path anyway.

  Jonas meets me just inside the door, a plastic toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He unzips his leather jacket, falling into step with me as we survey the area, searching for signs of distress or struggle.

  I don’t see any, at first; he veers off without a word to check the bathrooms, leaving me to wonder if the noises and voices I’d heard on the other end of the phone had been my imagination.

  A flash of dark hair catches my eye toward the front of the lobby, and I do a double take, not recognizing the form at first glance.

  Elena lies across a plastic bench, the hem of her dress pushed up her thighs, hair matted with sweat, and...

  “Fucking hell,” I mutter, rage burrowing into my bones, merging itself with the marrow. I stand frozen in place, my eyes roving over her unconscious form, my pulse speeding up as my anger builds.

  The K carved into the inside of her thigh is visible the way her dress sits, and partly reopened; blood streaks across her skin, long and drawn out like her attacker dragged his fingers over her.

  Touched what fucking belongs to me.

  I hear Jonas’s footsteps approach as he leaves the bathrooms and hear his sharp intake of breath as he soaks in the aftermath.

  “Bloody hell,” he says, carding a hand through his curls. “Is that...”

  Swallowing over the disgust solidifying in my throat, I nod. “Looks like it.”

  “How is this even possible?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowing. “You were barely off the phone with her for ten minutes, and she’s accosted for the second time this afternoon?”

  Violence vibrates off my body in waves, the urge to maim the men who did this to her overwhelming in its intensity; seeing her lying there, defenseless and used, elicits an entirely visceral reaction in me, setting my soul aflame.

  Jonas glances at me. “Do you think they...”

  Gritting my teeth, I cut him off with a quick shake of my head, unwilling to entertain that thought, although it certainly doesn’t look promising. “Let’s get her somewhere safe, and then I’ll worry about doing a full workup.”

  “Shouldn’t she go to a hospital—”

  My head snaps in his direction, nostrils flaring with the half-voiced implication. “Do you think there’s something they’ll find that I can’t? Something I won’t be able to treat?”

  “No, I just think she might need a breather. You know, in case she wakes up and all she can remember is her attack, and the fact that you left her alone in a strange, frankly seedy, bar.”

  Moving around the bench, I note every single abrasion, cataloging them for the future. A purple welt brackets her eye, while her neck is rubbed raw, as if someone had their hands around it. Shucking off my jacket, I pull her dress over her thighs and drape it across her, tucking it around her form.

  “You think this place has a security system? Camera, audio?”

  Looking around, Jonas frowns. “I can’t imagine they’d waste their time with that in a mostly abandoned building. You know crime isn’t the same here as it is in the city. It’s not… organized.”

  Sliding my arms beneath Elena’s frame, I brace myself with my knees and lift her off the bench, ensuring the jacket covers any indecencies. Cradling her against my chest, I ignore the stench of the bodily fluids in her hair, carrying her to the front door.

  My chest throbs as I walk, guilt blooming like a field of poisonous flowers inside me; one single indulgence, and I’m a goner. A slave to the aggression and pain I otherwise keep at bay.

  Anyone who touched her will die.

  “Anderson,” Jonas says as I reach the door. I cast a glance over my shoulder, seeing him standing in front of the ticket window, holding up what appears to be a note card with the Ricci insignia on it. He cocks an eyebrow.

  Breathing heavily, I focus on the black piece of paper, shifting Elena’s weight so she isn’t slumping. My mind races, trying to settle on a single course of action, while the blood in my veins comes alive with electricity, singing as it pulses through me in a frenzy.

  The note card taunts me, evidence that Rafael and Carmen are still trying to push the narrative that I stole their daughter, rather than negotiating her hand fair and square. I’m sure this was another ploy to play up my evil existence, whoever assaulted Elena probably taking the evidence with them in order to make me look worse.

  But how did they know she’d be here?

  My brain itches to figure it out, trying to determine whether Vincent was involved or if it was a single string of luck, but then I remember the broken goddess lying in my arms.

  Right now, getting Elena medical attention feels more important, so I leave the building and tuck her into the back of my car, laying her across the back seat. When Jonas follows a moment later, he slips me the drive, before heading off in another direction.

  Chapter 18

  When I was a kid, my mother tried to treat one of my black eyes with a warm compress, swearing that the heat would cause the blood to separate and expand, and that I’d be able to go to school the next day without feeling embarrassed about getting into another fight.

  It didn’t work; instead, the heat caused my skin to swell, blurring my vision in that eye for two whole days. I wore a patch to school, shame flaring in my cheeks as the other girls whispered and pointed, like black eyes in a private, Catholic all-girls school weren’t a common occurrence.

  All of us had more pent-up rage than our tiny bodies could handle, a result of the life we’d been born into that had us repress everything, and it often manifested at recess in the form of flying fists and discarded boots.

  My parents never asked what happened when I came home with a new cut or bruise, but there was always a little glint in Papá’s eyes that filled my chest with a gooey warmth. One that silently said he was proud of me for fighting, even if he didn’t know the circumstances.

  It didn’t matter, because as a Ricci, fighting is in my blood. It’s expected.

  Encouraged, within reason.

  So when I pry my eyes open and am met by the harsh, disgruntled glare of my husband, I’m momentarily taken aback. Mainly because I don’t know why he’s glaring at me.

  Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I look around the room, recognizing the black furniture and drapes covering the windows of our bedroom. If not for the dim glow of the bedside lamp, we’d be entrenched in complete darkness. />
  “Hi,” I croak, the one word like fire scraping up my esophagus.

  “Drink,” Kal deadpans, holding out a Styrofoam cup with a straw. So straight and to the point, completely devoid of any emotion as he meets my gaze.

  Not even a hint of relief.

  Talk about bad bedside manners. I always heard that Dr. Anderson was efficient, yet ice cold when dealing with patients, but until now I’ve never seen it in action.

  It’s... powerful, his tone leaving no room for argument. A stark contrast from the calm, yet passionate man I’ve come to know, though I suppose there’s very little room for passion in a medical setting.

  I take the drink, sipping gingerly, trying to keep my cool even as the liquid sears the inside of my raw throat.

  Closing my lips around the straw, I study him as his gaze drops to my chin. He’s wearing the suit I last saw him in, though it’s now rumpled and sporting various degrees of stains, and his hair is completely disheveled, sticking up at odd angles as though he’s continually running his hands through it.

  I wonder if he feels bad about leaving you.

  Probably not, I muse silently, switching focus to the aches decorating my body.

  My eye has a pulse, I realize, timing each painful throb with the beat of my heart, and every one of my muscles feels ragged and torn, like I’ve just run a marathon without proper training beforehand.

  Setting the cup on the bedside table, I stretch my arms above my head, wincing as a sharp sensation lances through me, making my body convulse. Dropping them, I reach up and run a hand through my hair, pausing when I meet tough resistance.

  “What...” I start, pulling it past my chin to inspect the issue. A clear substance mats the strands together, and I wrinkle my nose, trying to place the scent.

  “You don’t want to know,” Kal grits out, clasping his hands together.

  Gaping, I raise my eyebrows. “What happened?”

  “Some men found you in that bus station,” he says, voice low and dangerous as it lashes against my skin. “I don’t know who they are, or if they’re affiliated with something larger, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. The damage is done.”