Blaire's World: Volume One

by Box Set

Seven. Eight.

  I wrap them around her, pinning her against my chest.

  Nine. Ten.

  I open my eyes. It’s the least I can give her. Watch as I escort her to the shadowed land. I drop my eyes as I clench my fingers. I’m surprised to see that hers are open, her gorgeous velvet, black orbs on my face. I see in their depths, the knowledge of what I’m about to do. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t lift her hands or fight. She simply lies in my arms, her lips slightly parted, her face angelic and slightly flushed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, a sob breaking through my calm.

  I know, she mouths, unable to say more because I’m now withholding the air from her lungs. I can’t bring myself to crush her beautiful, fragile neck. So I simply hold it in my hand and squeeze the life from her. Slowly, her face goes from dusty brown to red. Her mouth opens in a helpless gasp. Her eyes open wider.

  I feel something on my face and realize that a tear is escaping. Her arms jerk up, a visceral response to what’s happening to her. She clutches my arms, but she doesn’t push me away. Instead, she clings to me, pulls me closer, as though embracing me. Her face is now turning white from lack of oxygen and I lose control completely. I cry as I drag her to the floor, my hand wrapped completely around her delicate throat.

  Her hands touch my shoulders for a second, drop to my biceps, then fall weakly away, her knuckles thumping against the floor. Her eyelashes flutter. She tries to keep them open, tries to watch my face, those beautiful eyes drinking me in even as they dim. I’m straddling her now, crouched over top of her. My tears raining down on her face, on her chest, on the hand that strangles the life from her.

  Finally, her eyes close. Her mouth is open in a tiny ‘oh’. Her chest is still lifting in erratic gasps, but they’re coming further and further apart. Only a matter of seconds before she’s gone. I know that despite my children, I won’t live long without her. Maybe a few years. Until I can properly secure their future.

  My eyes fall on her face again and then drop further to my hand. I see her name, tattooed on my left ring finger. Luna. I had it done two days after meeting her. I knew from that first moment that there would be no one else in my world. She was it. Luna is everything. My sun, moon, universe. She makes everything better.

  I release her, hope and despair clashing and exploding through me in equal parts. If she dies, I die. If she lives, we’re fucked.

  “Please God, don’t die,” I beg, my voice sounding foreign, rusty.

  I watch her chest, watch her face. After a few seconds colour starts to return, chasing away the pale death mask that had enveloped her, that I’d forced on her. Her chest moves slightly. I lift her hand, bringing it up to my face kissing her palm before pressing it against my cheek. I use her fingertips to wipe away my tears. As her chest begins to fill with air, expanding and deflating with increasing frequency, I move up her body to her head, placing it in my lap. Her eyelashes flutter but she doesn’t open her eyes.

  “Andres,” she croaks.

  “I’m here, cariño,” I tell her.

  She nods slightly and then lifts a hand weakly off the floor. She drops it immediately, as though she doesn’t have the strength to move. I reach out to lift it for her, but she flinches.

  “Shh, Luna,” I say, trying to keep my voice soft. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “D-dead?” she asks, her voice slightly frantic.

  “No, baby,” I assure her. “You aren’t dead.”

  She lets out a wail, so sudden and unexpected that I stiffen. Then she curls on her side, rolling away from me on the hard, wooden floor. I feel as though my heart is breaking as I watch her fall apart, even more than when she’d confessed her plans to run away with our children. She sobs and screams out her pain, tearing her already sore throat with cries of despair. I don’t know what to do, how to sooth her agony, since I’m the one who caused it. I place a hand on her shoulder and, when she doesn’t try to get away from me, run it down her back. This is something I know she loves. She used to ask me to draw pictures on her back when we lay in bed together and she would try to guess what they were.

  Finally, as her sobs begin to die away and turn to hiccups, I roll her onto her back. She looks up at me through tear-soaked lashes. I expect to see accusation there. I know I deserve accusation. Instead I see nothing. Just bleak emptiness. As though my Luna has died inside, though I spared her body. I grow cold at this thought.

  I push my arm beneath her legs and the other very gently under her back, being especially careful with her neck. I roll her against my chest and stand. I carry her through the house, now growing darker with the shadows of the late afternoon. She lays limply against me, emotionally and physically exhausted. I feel the same, like we both need a week’s worth of sleep.

  I set her gently in the bed. I’ll let her sleep for a few hours and try to find something for us to eat. Then we’ll figure out the next steps. Luna can’t die. But Luna can’t live.

  I cover her with the blanket, run my hand over her hair and turn to leave the bed. She grips my shirt, clinging to me.

  “Andres,” she whispers hoarsely against my chest, clinging to me, digging her nails weakly into my side. “What you did? I understand why, because I understand your world. I knew the moment I left that I was giving up my life.” I know the words must be hurting her, but still she pushes on, tries to get them out. “But this is the world I tried to save our son from. The choices I never want him to make.” She rolls her head so she can look directly up at me. “If you let me live, I will never stop trying to save him. I will never stop running.”

  14

  Luna

  I wake up alone surrounded by shadows. I bolt upright, clutching a blanket against my chest because I don’t recognize anything. Remembrance returns slowly along with aching pain throughout my body, particularly my arm. I’m thirsty but the terrible swollen pain in my throat tells me that a drink will be agony. I push a hand through my hair, fingering the knots from the long strands.

  I wonder what time it is. Normally I would check my phone, but that’s definitely not an option since I left my phone in Mexico and the burner phone in Cuba. I don’t feel very rested or refreshed so I know I haven’t slept for long. A shudder runs through me as I think about what Andres did to me. I understand why he did it, but the pain of it is so overwhelming I can feel my mind trying to fold.

  My husband tried to kill me. He wrapped his hand around my throat, held me down and squeezed the breath from my body. For those few moments he put his cartel, his brothers, his birthright above me. He put me in my place. He pulled back at the last moment. I try to cling to that shred of hope. But I can’t help feeling that, while he didn’t kill my body, he did murder something inside me.

  When I ran from him I knew what I was doing, knew that there would be severe consequences. When I explained to Andres why I ran away I never imagined I would have his support, let alone his love and agreement to my plan. I can’t help but wonder if he wishes I’d done a better job. Managed to actually leave with our children, disappear for good. As much as it would have broken his heart, killed his love for me, at least he would have known that we were alive and well. Wherever we were. And that his son, both of his children, were away from the cartel.

  After we talked, after he held me and let me cry, I thought… I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Perhaps that he would forgive me and we could move on? Be a happy family again. Idiot. I should have known that this would be impossible. You don’t fuck over cartel and live to tell about it.

  I rub a hand over my face and try not to cry. My face feels raw from crying, like it’s been scrubbed by sandpaper. I crawl from the bed, tugging the blanket where it’s tangled around my legs and toss it back. I walk slowly to the washroom and flick the light switch. When nothing happens I let out an annoyed sigh. It’s clear that this house hasn’t been in recent use.

  I run the taps and splash water on my face, trying to wake myself up a little more. I dry my face
off and squint at the mirror, but I can’t see anything in the now dark room. I laugh a little. I’ve come a long way from the wealthy woman of privilege who had every convenience and amenity at the snap of her manicured fingertips.

  I run a hand over my hair and try to restore some order to the wavy mass wishing I at least had an elastic to tie it up with. Andres prefers it down and I usually oblige, knowing I look pretty, framed by the long golden-brown tresses. But now, I think we might be past physical preferences. Still… I feel a little better on the inside knowing I look good on the outside, so I continue restoring my appearance as much as I can.

  I return to the bedroom, find the bag that contains some women’s items and dig until I come up with deodorant and a toothbrush. I wonder how long he’d originally intended to keep me alive and what he planned on doing to me as I look at the meagre contents of the bag. A shudder runs down my back and I quickly shake off the morbid thought, get to my feet and go back to the dark washroom to finish cleaning up.

  When I’m done I find myself standing hesitantly next to the door, clutching the knob with shaking fingers. I’m scared to leave the room, to go to him. How will he act? How should I act? There’s not exactly protocol for how a person should behave directly after their spouse tries to kill them. I snort bitterly as I picture myself walking up to him and asking, “Excuse me darling, are you going to try to strangle me again or shall I make us some supper?”

  I have a tendency to overthink everything, to analyze every situation and try come up with an appropriate response. Or an inappropriate response, if I’m being totally honest. I know how to use my good looks and emotions to draw a response from the men around me and, in the past, I haven’t been shy about using this particular strategy to get my way. I know I sometimes create drama because of this. Now I feel helpless in the face of a situation I can’t control. I started this drama by running away from my husband, but I can’t control this situation. As much as I want to wail and cry, I know my tears have no place here. There won’t be anyone to comfort me through this.

  I turn the knob and step into the dim, shadowy hallway. I pause for a moment, listening. I hear nothing but the sound of my own breathing. I think perhaps Andres has left the house to go for a walk, or a drive. Like he did before. Relief flashes through me and I feel a little foolish at fearing nothing but shadows. I continue down the hall, my hand on the wall for support.

  I stop short, a cry on my lips when I see him sitting in the chair in the living room. “Andres!” My hand flies to my throat in a protective gesture. There’s enough light in the room that I can see he notes the gesture. My heart hammers in my chest and adrenaline floods my system, begging me to run, warning me that this man tried to kill me.

  I stand there, still as a statue, fighting with myself, reminding myself that he’s still my husband. My knees feel weak and tears prick my eyes. Each breath comes out in a harsh gasp, which hurts my raw throat. I can see that my visceral reaction is affecting him as well. He goes rigid in his chair, his fingers tightening on the arm.

  “Come here,” he commands sharply, his deep voice cutting like a knife, making me jump.

  I cling to the corner of the wall. I feel like I’m going to fall. I have no balance, like I’m in a dream or something. I want to turn and run, dive back into the bed, under the blankets, close my eyes and go back to sleep. But I know I won’t make it. He’s so much stronger and faster. He’ll be right on top of me, crushing me, killing me.

  Hot tears slip through, despite my determination not to cry in this moment, to face him without the drama.

  “Luna,” he says again, his voice just as demanding. He tips the armchair forward so it creaks against the floor, his boots thumping against the hardwood. “I said, come here.”

  I nod and let go of the wall, forcing myself toward him. As though I’m marching toward my death, I can feel panic rising. How can he force me to do this? It’s cruel, demanding I go to him after what he did to me. I can’t stand it.

  My knees give out just as reach him and I collapse at his feet, hitting the floor hard. The pain in my legs jars me back to the present, away from the dream-like state I was experiencing. Like a snake, he strikes, reaching out and gripping my arms, dragging me toward him. I yelp and try to lunge back, thinking this must be it. He must’ve changed his mind. He’s about to kill me!

  He gives me a little shake. “Stop it, Luna,” he snaps. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  Still I flinch back, unable to contain my reaction. My mind is completely at odds with my body. His scent, so masculine with a hint of his soap. His touch. My body recognizes my husband and reacts to him, but instinct, self-preservation begs me to run from him, to save myself. I stay frozen on the floor, kneeling at his feet, my eyes down. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice husky and painful.

  He drags me toward him until our faces are almost touching, my lips grazing the bristly hairs of his chin where he hasn’t shaved in days. His elbows are braced on his knees. “Look at me,” he growls.

  With extreme difficulty I lift my eyes, past his wide jaw and perfect, sharp features to his blue eyes. They are blazing at me like a wounded animal. A wolf who has been cornered and doesn’t know a way out except to fight. My throat catches in sympathy. I know how much he hates the darkness, the terrible side of his job. I despise the idea that I crossed over from being his comfort to another thing that draws him toward the darkness.

  I lift a shaking hand and touch the edge of his jaw, running my fingers along the length toward his lips. I savour the feel of his roughness against my skin. This is real, this is my husband. The man that has cherished me for five years. Held me in his arms countless times, given me the gift of his children.

  I reach up with my other hand and cup his other cheek before raising up higher on my knees and capturing his lips with mine in a kiss. It isn’t meant to be a kiss of passion but one of love and apology. I try to tell him how sorry I am for what I did, for the choices I’ve forced on him with my actions. But most of all, I tell him that I’m sorry he’s not free to live a different life, a life free of darkness, away from the cartel.

  When I try to break the kiss, he stops me. His hand goes to the back of my head, cupping me. He crushes me to him, pressing his lips hard against mine, taking what I was offering and then so much more. Andres’ kiss is desperate as he thrusts his tongue inside my mouth. When I try to pull back again his other arm slides across the back of my shoulders and he anchors me against him, forcing me to accept his kiss. I taste his desperation mixed with dominance and rising passion. And while my body quickly responds to his demand, like in the shower, my mind rebels.

  I can’t reconcile our situation. I don’t know how this can end. He said he wouldn’t hurt me, but for how long? I still betrayed him, betrayed the Los Zetas. Surely there must still be consequences? How can I possibly lose myself in passion while my very life is at stake? With these questions floating through my head I press my hands against Andres chest and push.

  He doesn’t move, if he even notices my resistance. I try to break his kiss, but he catches me by the back of the head and holds me tight, right where he wants me. He uses his lips and tongue to seduce me into compliance. Andres knows every inch of my body with intimate detail. He has never failed as a lover. Not once have I walked away from our bed dissatisfied. Soon I forget why I wanted away from him. Instead I’m reaching up, clinging to him, clumsily climbing into his lap. He grips me by the waist and lifts me up. Without breaking our kiss he urges me onto his lap, spreading my legs so I’m straddling him.

  I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and fall with him as he leans back in the chair, landing against his hard chest. He cushions me against him, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other coming back up to cup my head. My excitement rises and I rapidly become wet for him as I squirm against the hard ridge of his jeans. His arm tightens around my back, anchoring me solidly against him.

  I plunge my tongue into his mouth, bringing my hands ba
ck to his face and holding him the way I like him. My kisses are hungry and desperate. Except for our brief moment in the shower earlier, it has been months since we’ve been together. Andres had been away on business. When he’s home we are very active in the bedroom, fucking often and hard. The physical side of our relationship has always been a breathtaking, romantic whirlwind.

  I feel his hand clench in my hair and I savour the bite even as I suck on his tongue, controlling the pace of our kiss. We fight for domination in our embrace, me on top, him using the strength in his arms to crush me against him. He pulls at the hem of my shirt and then, without warning, tears it over my head, breaking our kiss. I gasp, rocking back on his lap. But before I can fall he catches me by the back of the head and drags me back to him, smashing his lips to mine. I whimper at the force and then grip him hard, pushing my tongue against his, loving the rush of pleasure that floods through my chest and stomach, straight down to my pussy.

  His hands are everywhere, tearing at my leggings, yanking at his own T-shirt. All I can do is cling to him with my hands and knees, try to keep my balance as I kiss his lips, his face and his chest. I lick and nip him every chance I get, every time his gorgeous tanned, tattooed skin gets close enough to my mouth for me to graze him. He groans and grips my head, holding me against him for just a moment, before releasing me to tear at our clothes again.

  Soon I am naked, writhing in his lap while he is wearing only a pair of jeans, his cock pulled out underneath me. I reach for it at the same time as I rock forward on his lap, catching him in another passionate kiss, thrusting my tongue against his. His hand lands on top of mine and together we squeeze his penis. Just the way he likes it.

  This frantic lovemaking, it feels like coming home, but it also feels different. More desperate. Like we’re reconfirming that we’re okay. Only we’re not okay. Which is probably why we’re so desperate to devour each other. To fuck until we can’t think. Fuck away our problems. Fuck away the cartel.