Absorbing the clean slope of his sharp jaw and the tiny dimple in his cheek that clefts when he’s deep in concentration, I do my best to commit it all to memory, in case this has been a fluke, and I wake up tomorrow with him ignoring me all over again.
The dread swirling around in my stomach promises it is.
Nothing good can last.
For some reason, that’s the fear that keeps me from falling into an immediate slumber. Not the fact that someone is clearly coming after me, just like Kal said they would, or that my world back in Boston is probably crumbling to the ground.
But the notion that whatever stone was turned tonight, be it through trauma or the natural progression of surrender, is fleeting.
That I’m stuck in a loveless marriage, a prison, like I always feared I would be.
“How come I haven’t seen you naked?” I blurt, trying to erase the anxiety with conversation.
Kal’s eyebrows raise above his glasses, and he glances at me. “I can assure you, it’s just as big when you see the full picture.”
Heat flares in my cheeks as I think about the size of his dick, and I shift my thighs absently, scooting closer without fully meaning to. “No, I just… you’ve seen me naked. I’m naked now, in fact.”
“No complaints here.”
One of his hands comes down, sliding over my waist, and when I open my mouth to say more, he yanks me toward him, pulling me flush with his side.
My clit throbs where it touches him, already jonesing for another hit, but it’s clear Kal’s using the premise of sex to distract me, and so I give up asking, trying to find contentment in what I do know about him.
Right now, I know he’s willing to do anything it takes to protect me, and despite our situation and everything that complicates it, that feels like a major feat.
It takes the sting out of the knowledge that he has more blood on his hands than just my own.
I lay against him for a while, staring at the wall across from me, listening while he occasionally turns a page, the even rhythm of his breathing lulling me into slumber.
“You were spring, and I the edge of a cliff, and a shining waterfall rushed over me,” he recites softly, the line barely registering in my brain before sleep welcomes me once again.
Chapter 21
“You look oddly well rested.”
Taking a bite of my croissant, I look across my desk at Jonas, cocking an eyebrow. “Oddly?”
Scrubbing a hand over his beard, he shrugs, shuffling through the papers in front of him. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you look like anything less than a zombie. Just a bit interesting, that’s all.”
“Interesting,” I repeat, swallowing the last bite of pastry. “That’s a fancy word for boring.”
“Ah, deflection. So, it does have something to do with a certain little lass.” He leans back in his chair, folding his hands together. “Did you finally consummate your marriage?”
“I’m not talking about that with you.”
“Consider it—what’s that American football term? Running interference?” He pulls a packet from the bottom of his stack of papers; it’s the contract I signed years ago, just before my grandfather’s passing, giving me access to a multimillion-dollar trust fund the old bastard had set up in my name.
He’d already signed over ownership rights to a half dozen businesses on Aplana, as well as stocks and shareholdings in a variety of different companies, but I suppose he never quit trying to atone for only finding out about me when it was too late to save my soul.
One stipulation for the trust was that I had to be at least twenty-five before the funds became available to me. And I had to be clean, which meant extracting myself from the life of crime I’d fallen into.
A much more difficult feat than outsiders seem to realize.
Once you’re part of the mafia, that’s it. They don’t let their people go without a fight; frankly, when I let Rafe know months ago about me wanting to step down, I’d expected more resistance than I got.
I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop with that one.
Another condition was that I had to be married, and it had to be legitimate.
Of course, having amassed my own wealth over the years, I had no interest in bowing to the terms just for my paternal grandfather’s guilt money.
But then, I tried reconnecting with my sister; her and our two brothers had been strategically left out of the will, the inheritance, and the trust fund.
In fact, they were never even supposed to see a penny from it, which is why I’d been writing Violet’s checks from my own savings, intending to transfer the trust money into an offshore account and leave the personal bank information with her.
But she kept rejecting my checks, and as the expiration date to access the trust funds drew nearer, I knew drastic measures needed to be taken.
I knew Miles, my grandfather’s estate attorney, would eventually come by for the proof. I just had put it on the back burner recently, with all the other things going on in my life taking precedence.
“No one would use a football term to describe meddling,” I say, brushing crumbs from my desk into a trash can, and taking the contract from him. I flip through the neatly printed pages, noting the scribble of my signature and the neat cursive of my grandfather’s at the bottom of each page.
“In any case, your expiration date is pretty soon. How are you planning on proving to Miles that you’re serious about Elena?”
Tapping my finger on the page above the marriage clause, I exhale. Under normal circumstances, the existence of a wedding at all would prove my loyalty, but in a world where marriages are forged all the time for this exact reason, I suppose I can’t begrudge my grandfather for wanting to secure his legacy.
And it’s not like my marriage is real where it matters—in our souls.
Our hearts.
Just on paper, and in our bed.
Scrubbing a hand down the side of my face, I sigh. “Well, I’m certainly not giving them bloody virginal bedsheets.”
“She wouldn’t have them now, anyway.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he shifts in his seat, toying with the collar of his leather jacket.
“Birth control,” I say finally, remembering the conversation I had with Elena after fucking her silly in the shower.
Jonas cocks an eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re using it.”
I make a face, sitting forward to pull up a browser on my computer. “I’m making her an appointment with Dr. Martin, and she’ll be going on it. I’ll pass the prescription along to Miles.”
“You think that’ll satisfy him? She could technically be going on it for any reason.”
Typing in the online scheduler, I add a note of identity to my request, then hit submit. “It’ll do.”
It has to.
After we’ve looked over prospective replacements for the three Flaming Chariot employees we lost, and set up an intelligence meeting with the Ivers International team, Jonas leaves the office, and my phone nearly vibrates off the desk.
A tabletop pendulum sits on the wooden filing cabinet in the corner of the room, swinging side to side, immediately drawing my negative attention as I pick the phone up.
Irritation floods my being as I scan the screen, hitting accept before I can talk myself out of it.
“Carmen,” I say, expecting the shrill voice of my former lover to fill the speaker, but I’m met with a low timbre instead.
“Anderson.” Rafe’s voice is clipped, unlike I’ve ever heard from him before. “Thought I would have to chase you down in order to speak to you, but it appears you’re just as eager to chat with my wife as you’ve ever been.”
“Believe me,” I say, leaning against my desk, crossing one loafer over the other, “I’m never eager to do anything regarding that she-devil.”
He makes a grunting sound. “In any case, I didn’t call to talk about Carmen.”
Of course, he didn’t, because any conv
ersation about her inevitably ends in admitting defeat where she’s concerned. She’s a lost cause, drifting out to sea while everyone chooses to look on.
“How’s my daughter?”
A laugh tickles the back of my throat, but I swallow over it, aware that I need to navigate whatever it is he’s about to say carefully. “You mean after you deliberately had her attacked? She’s as well as can be expected.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention the tight warmth I’ve buried myself in twice now since yesterday, but I bite down on the urge, not wanting to fan the flames just yet.
“I can assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rafe replies, and I can imagine him fingering the edge of his massive thumb ring, staring down at the same insignia that was etched into the card left at the bus station. “It’s just been a while since she answered her mother’s texts, and we were starting to get worried.”
“Maybe don’t spread lies about the way her marriage started, and she’d be more inclined to speak to you.”
“What were the lies exactly, Kal?” He pauses as if waiting for my answer, but barrels on before I can say anything. “Did you not murder her fiancé while he dressed for his wedding? Force me to bear witness to the ceremony where you stole my little girl’s hand, after already stealing her virtue?”
“I forced you to do nothing. I presented the situation and gave you the opportunity to make a decision. You chose safety over the contract she had with those media vultures.”
He sniffles, and I blink into the empty office. Is he crying? “The fact of the matter is, Dr. Anderson, that we want our Elena brought home. I don’t care what we have to do to get her back, but please, stop keeping her captive. She’s my... bambina.”
His voice breaks on the last two words, the Italian thrown in dramatically, and a thought snaps into place in my brain, pushing me into a standing position as anger grows sour in my gut.
“What are you doing, Rafe?” I ask slowly, glaring at the only framed picture I own; it’s one of a sixteen-year-old me, sandwiched between Rafe and Carmen during their anniversary party. Carmen’s arm is wrapped tight around my waist, keeping me close to her side where I’d stay for years, like an idiot.
Rafe stares on, oblivious. The way we needed him to be.
And then one day, he wasn’t.
Things were never quite the same.
Which I suspect is why he’s being so cagey now—this has all the makings of a setup, and the idea that he’s trying to lure me into some kind of trap has my blood boiling.
Especially since he hasn’t asked me to do a single job for him since I initiated our little arrangement, and while I’d begun to think that meant he was accepting my retirement, now I’m realizing that maybe his plan all along was to take me out in a more creative fashion.
Beside the picture frame, the pendulum sculpture keeps ticking, making the muscle beneath my eye twitch with each swing.
After a moment, Rafe clears his throat, and when he speaks again, the sadness is completely absent. “I want money. You fucked me over in this Bollente deal, and I had to square off a nice portion of Ricci business just to get out of it.”
“I wasn’t the one who told you to sell your daughter,” I say. “Or who asked her to come to my bed.”
“Just like you never asked Carmen, right?” he spits, growing more agitated with every passing second.
I never went to Carmen, I want to say. It was always her coming to me.
But I don’t.
Sucking in a deep breath, I steel myself against the rage building like water behind a levee, threatening to drown me in its ferocity. I focus on the smooth swing of the pendulum, blocking out everything until all I can hear is the ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
An itch crawls deep beneath the surface of my skin, and I round my desk as Rafe drones on, pulling the pistol out from the drawer. Lining it up, nerves eating at the steadiness in my grip, I unlock the safety and pull the trigger, watching as the bullet sparks across the room.
It passes clean through the picture frame, fracturing the glass in an explosive connection, and lodges in the wall behind it; glass shards fly off the frame, the force knocking the pendulum off balance, and I watch as it crashes to the floor, one arm breaking off, finally falling silent.
“Do you hear me, Anderson?” Rafe asks. “You have two choices: money, or your sworn fucking loyalty in the form of services. Otherwise, you’re dead.”
Pulling the phone from my ear, I tuck my gun back inside its drawer and hang up.
I find Elena in the back yard a little later, hauling sacks of soil out of a cardboard box and dragging them over the grass to where she’s set up a makeshift workspace against the hedges.
Marcelline stands a few yards over, steeping a tea bag in a blue ceramic mug while she watches.
Brushing a sweaty piece of hair from her face, Elena turns to survey our yard, putting her hands on her hips. The lavender dress she has on perfectly outlines the heavy swell of her ass, and as I approach her I’m flooded with the memory of grasping it while pulling her onto my cock.
For a moment, I can forget about the other things going on and lose myself in her presence. She’s like a cozy spring afternoon, recent blossoms and fresh sea air carried across a breeze, and it wraps around me, blotting out the ugly reality of everything else.
I’ve never been the kind of man to run from adversity, but as I stand there staring at the woman before me, the one I’ve dragged into my mess, I find myself wishing I could. Wishing this could be the life someone like Elena deserves.
“Don’t be mad,” she says before I’ve even reached her, spinning to face me. There’s a look of elation cast over her delicate features, a softness erasing deep-set rigidity. An afterglow I can only explain as a residual effect of mind-blowing sex.
“Why would I be mad?” I ask, reaching out to frame her cheek with my palm. My thumb grazes the underside of the bruise around her eye, noting that the swelling and purpling has gone down significantly since last night.
“I’m about to fuck up your yard,” she says, pointing to the bags of soil. “And I have no clue what I’m doing. Marcelline’s supposed to be reading the Wikipedia page, but...”
She rolls her eyes around to look at my housekeeper, who shrugs, sipping her tea. “But gardening is not part of my job description.”
Elena huffs. “Neither was helping Kal kidnap me, was it?”
My insides churn at her flippant use of the word, and I wonder what all her sisters told her about what the news says back home. If it changes the way she views all of this.
Clearing my throat, I drop my hand and stuff it inside my suit pocket. “I’ve got a few meetings keeping me busy the next few days, but I could probably help you this weekend.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows raise, and she nods at the rectangle she has marked off with driftwood. “Do you know anything about planting flowers?”
“I assisted on a successful triple bypass during my residency, and have stitched up more open wounds than you’ll likely ever see in your lifetime. I’m sure I can handle plants.”
Leaving the two of them outside, I return to the Asphodel and hunker down in the library, trying to rid myself of the strange feeling curdling in my stomach. It’s not quite painful—almost a nauseating wave that crashes against the shore over and over, without ever fully receding.
Unscrewing a bottle of fifty-year-old scotch, I pour three fingers into a tumbler, pick up the first book my hand lands on, and flop down in one of the two leather armchairs in front of the dormant fireplace.
Opening the book, I balance it on my knee, my eyes glued to the page without actually reading. My heart beats rapidly, repulsed by the way my stomach burns with awareness, trying to ignore the fact that the Riccis once again played me.
Because that’s what all of this boils down to; if not for the friendly guidance and promise of luxury Rafael gave when we met, my entire
life would likely be different.
I might have a shot at a relationship with my sister.
Might be married for love, and not because I needed a queen on my side of the board.
Might still have the medical career my mother wanted for me, without ever feeling like I needed to give it up to make up for all the lives I’ve ended.
Minutes later, the library door creaks open, Elena slipping inside. She shuts us in together, tiptoeing over to stand directly in front of me.
“Are you okay? You seemed... tense, outside.” She glances at the spine of my book, cringing. “Uh-oh, Dorian Gray? I know you have some mileage on you, but honestly, thirty-two is young nowadays. The oldest man in the world is one hundred and fifteen, you know? You still have time.”
Shutting the book with a snap, I toss it onto the end table and lash out with one hand, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down into the chair with me. She squeals, adjusting so she’s straddling me on her knees, pussy sitting pretty on top of my dick.
It hardens beneath her immediately, ready for its next fill.
“Is the oldest man in the world really that old?” I ask, skimming my nose along her jawline.
Shivering, she shrugs, slipping her arms around my neck and grinding down on me. “I have no clue, but it distracted you from your funk, right?”
Pulling back just enough to stare deep into her eyes, I exhale, shaking my head slightly. “You distracted me. You seem to have a natural talent for that.”
“Oh.” Grinning, Elena leans in, running the tip of her tongue over the shell of my ear, then nipping at the lobe. “Well, let me make it up to you.”
Her hand retreats from my neck, sliding down my chest, before diving into the waistband of my pants; she crooks her elbow, wrapping her fingers as tight around my growing erection as she can, smoothing the pad of her thumb over the glossy tip.
Leaning my head back, I let out a long breath, my stress morphing into impending release as blood rushes south.
“Someone’s ready for me,” she whispers, stroking my heated flesh. Reaching down, she pops open the fly, scrambling to pull me out, and lifts herself up.
Promises and Pomegranates: A Dark Contemporary Romance (Monsters & Muses Book 1) Page 15