“Mmm. That is a good look.” Zlata sidles up to me and pushes a tumbler of vodka into my hand.
I squint at her. “What’s a good look?”
“Yours. It says there’s a man over there you want in your bed. You should go for it. He is yours.”
“It’s not a real marriage, Zlata.”
“There were vows. It is real.”
“Temporary,” I allow, blinking to clear my blurred vision.
She smirks. “That should not stop you from having a wedding night. He is yours,” she repeats. “Claim him.”
I don’t want to claim him. But he may have other uses.
Sex with Declan makes me feel more alive than I have in months. My attempts to move forward, to make friends, to try and find some stable ground to build on here, haven’t taken hold. I frown, struggling to think through the vodka clouding my brain. Maybe I’m going about it wrong. Maybe instead of cleansing myself in fire or water, I could use sex as a tool for renewal.
Am I stupid enough to think it might actually work? It could. Even if it doesn’t, at least I’ll enjoy trying.
“You’re right.” I swallow half the liquid in the glass, wincing as it burns down my throat.
“Of course I am right.” She bats her lashes. “He is good, yes?”
“Good?” She pops my buzz with an elbow to my ribs.
She leans in, her eyes trained on the men on the other side of the room. “I think he would just…what is the word? Take over?”
“Dominate,” I murmur. He certainly takes control, but he doesn’t give me any orders. Or any choices, for that matter. What he wants in bed is what he gets because he takes it. And I let him because it’s such a trivial matter, really, when his attentions always leave me babbling incoherently.
“Yes. Dominate. Such a delicious word.” Her eyebrows waggle and I snort out a laugh. Her sly grin fades. “You will let him take care of you, yes?”
I don't like having to take care of someone else.
“I’ll let him take me to bed. I can take care of myself.” Means to an end, I remind myself.
She gives me a look. It says I’m lying through my teeth, but she lets it go and catches her sister’s eye, her chin jutting imperceptibly. Mila understands the almost invisible signal apparently because she announces it’s time to go and Murat and Ismael need to make sure they get home safely.
You wouldn’t think four people leaving would be chaotic, but somehow it is. In the confines of my flat, the goodbyes and well–wishes tumble over each other, layer upon layer of sound. The alcohol doesn’t help matters. The two bottles are mostly empty, sitting on my scarred coffee table surrounded by glasses.
After the noise of company, the silence rings in my ears like tiny bells. Declan hasn’t touched me since we left the church. Time to change that.
His gaze is harsh and cold as I straddle his lap. My fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring myself. We’ve done this before. Tonight is no different. The vodka gives me the courage to ask for what I want.
“Fuck me,” I whisper. “Now.”
If he’s going to take what Ryan never got, there’s no point in doing it halfway. Who cares if the vows mean nothing? Who cares if everyone knows it’s a charade? I need to finish this out, strip myself bare, and drain the last bitter, blackened part away. I’ll either be emptied, never to fill again, or reborn.
Fury turns his eyes blue blue hard blue, a frozen lake. Spurred by the alcohol warming my belly, flooding my veins, I crush my mouth to his, hoping for a response.
I get one.
It explodes out of him and overwhelms me. His mouth commands mine, dictating my reaction. Wet, sinful, with a hint of mean. His tongue flicks, strokes, curls around mine, his teeth nipping a fraction too hard. The pain is a welcome distraction. Firm lips burn kisses along my neck, his tongue darting out to taste the crazy–sensitive spot below my ear. His mouth curves as he does it again, biting softly. His fingers dig into my hips. I’m not going anywhere unless he wants me to. I don’t want to. Declan’s possessive displays show me those caring parts he refuses to admit are there, and I need them tonight.
He grips the hem of my sweater, tearing his mouth away long enough to drag it over my head. My bra strap snaps against my arm as he tugs at it, his mouth swallowing my hiss at the sharp sting. Fingers pluck and pinch my nipples. Teasing. Tormenting. Sending electric jolts straight to my core, erasing everything else. Yes. I’m purging. I’m breaking. And when his mouth closes over a nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh, my head falls back in abandon.
He rips the button off my jeans and shoves a hand into my panties, drawing a high–pitched whine from my throat as his fingers thrust into me. Hard, brutal, pleasure barreling through swollen flesh, whipping me up and snapping me back. I grind on his hand, not caring how insanely wanton I must look.
The climax leaves me limp in his arms, half–dressed and breathing hard. “Get up,” he growls. “Bedroom. Strip.”
I slide off his lap, my legs weak and trembling with the effort to hold myself up. The bedroom’s too far away. I’ll never get there before my legs give out. My hands don’t want to work, fumbling with the bra hanging off my arms. He comes up behind me as I enter the bedroom, pushing my jeans and underwear over my hips and down my legs.
The buttons on his shirt fight me as I struggle to pop them free, stubbornly holding the fabric together. Tearing his shirt becomes my only option, and the heat of his chest singes my hands. He’s real. He’s solid. He’s here. His belt buckle scrapes over a knuckle as I will my hands to work faster.
Oh, praise the little baby Jesus, he went commando.
We fall on the bed, mouths clinging to one another, hands reaching for each and any part we can get at. He rolls us so he’s on his back, and before I realize what’s happening, he scoots down, pulling my hips up at the same time.
The first lick is firm, hot, and I almost fall over and smother him. Bracing myself on my forearms, I try to steel myself for the assault.
Foolish of me to even try.
I wanted him to destroy me. He’s leveling me, digging down and demanding more than I thought I had. His tongue, his fingers, his teeth — he uses everything, walking that fine line of pain and ecstasy. He scrapes and bites and torments, bringing me to the edge and never letting me fall over. Once. Twice. Three times. Up and up and up and up.
Finally he stops, leaving me throbbing and clawing at the sheets. I glance down, trying to see his face. It’s grim. “On your back.”
On my back. Yes, yes please. I scramble to comply. I’m no longer capable of thoughts longer than a single word. Want fuck now hard yes. A crinkle, a rip, and it’s time. He looms over me, expression distorted and twisted in the darkened bedroom. He yanks up my hips and hunches over, his mouth millimeters from mine. “Who am I?”
What?
“Say it,” he hisses. “Say my name. Tell me you know who’s in your bed. Tell me you know who’s fucking you.”
He is. He’s under my skin, inside my head, surrounding me. Taking me. There’s no Ryan here. There’s just us. Him. Only him. What Declan’s done to me leaves every other sexual experience I’ve had in the dust. He’s reset my programs. He’s exactly what I needed. What I need. I need him to finish this out.
“You,” I breathe. “Declan.” I kiss him hard. “Fuck me.” No please. He doesn’t get a please.
For one long, agonizing second, he doesn’t move. His anger slips, revealing something so inexplicably tender, I swear I’m imagining it because it’s gone in a blink.
His hips slam into mine with little finesse. I arch up on a gasp, then dig my heels into the mattress, determined to match his pace. It’s a torturous bid for pleasure, oblivion within reach. Without being asked, I work a hand in between our bodies and rub the taut bundle of nerves there, spearing my fingers down in a V to slide around the root of his cock with every stroke.
Sweat beads and slips. The room fills with the sounds of flesh smacking flesh,
his grunts, my whimpers. His mouth is everywhere. My lips. Jaw. Ears. Neck. Marking me. Branding me. Shattering me to glue me back together. I suck his tongue into my mouth, dark satisfaction surging as he groans.
Not much longer.
I clamp down on him as the pressure builds. Fingers moving in tight frantic circles, the first wave comes in a rush. Rising. Towering. He’s growing harder. Harder. I pinch my clit, the sting of pain flinging me over the edge.
It’s his name I scream, just like he wants me to.
“Fuck!” He goes rigid above me. His hands will leave bruises. Right now I’m too dazed to care. He collapses, and we become a damp, sticky heap, his weight pressing me into the bed. I probably ought to protest. He feels good. Solid. Real.
He moves before it gets too hard to breathe, rolling to his side with a soft groan, sitting up to deal with the condom. When he lowers himself back down, he drags me to his side, possessive to the last. His hands move in soft lazy circles over my back. They lessen as his breathing deepens and slows.
* * *
Morning comes, grey shifting light harsh on my gritty, burning eyes. I couldn’t sleep wrapped in Declan’s arms. Not after last night. Not after we wrecked each other so completely. How could I have been so stupid?
The smart thing would have been to avoid him. Sleep on the couch. Instead I chose to extend this mockery of a marriage and consummate it. Knowing Declan only did it out of a twisted sense of obligation makes it worse.
There’s no caring here. Certainly no love.
He stirs against me, his hold shifting into a sleepy caress. Despite the sensations wrung from my body last night, his touch has me aching for more, yearning for it to mean something. That yearning is the final nail in the coffin as he slips inside, half–asleep and dreaming of uncomplicated women who want nothing more than a quick screw and a pat on the ass as he shows them the door.
I squeeze my eyes shut and match his lazy rhythm. It’s the gentle push/pull of the ocean, to and fro, advance and retreat. This is not us, this soft, sweet lovemaking. But here, in the early morning quiet, I can pretend we’re like any other newlywed couple, sated from the night before, eager to start our new lives together. His mouth finds mine with a sweetness I didn’t know he was capable of, and the last piece of the old Nora shudders and dies.
He whispers my name as we fall, plunging into the unknown.
I’ve never been more afraid of what comes next.
Chapter Eighteen
They came out of nowhere. One minute we were walking home from the university, the next we'd been pried apart and several large men in uniforms had surrounded Ryan, knocking him to the ground. The kick to the stomach ensured he'd stay down.
Slap. Thunk. Crunch. Hands, fists, someone had what looked like a billy club. I struggled against the hold on my wrists, twisting my arms around in their sockets trying to free myself.
The shouts and taunts sounded like gibberish, punctuated with groans and wet smacking sounds. My throat was raw from screaming. It didn't do any good. They continued to beat the life out of Ryan.
After one last shrill scream and a crunch of bone, they spat on him and left, the man holding me back releasing me to follow his comrades. I ran to Ryan's side, scared to touch him, needing to know he was okay.
“Someone will come. Someone will help us.” It seemed safe to hold his hand, so I did. His grasp was weak in mine.
“Don't leave,” he rasped. His eyes were glazed over, and it looked like he was having difficulty focusing.
Wind swirled around us, sneaking tricky fingers under my coat. Why hadn't anyone come? He was getting weaker. His already loose grasp was faltering. “I need to go get someone. I'll come right back. I promise.”
“Too late.” A shudder worked its way through his body. “Cold.” His lips were turning blue, his skin paling.
“Here.” I shrugged out of my coat and draped it over him. “Is that better?”
The corners of his mouth tipped up in a smile. “I love you. So much it hurts sometimes.” He drew in a ragged breath, coughing once as he exhaled.
“I love you too, you dork. And you're going to be fine.” I bent forward to kiss him, panic and dread spooling out through my limbs. His eyes were so dull now. Flat. “Let me go find someone. Call an ambulance.”
He shook his head, face twisting with pain. “Too late,” he repeated. “Just stay.”
I’m shaking.
Someone’s shaking me. My throat aches. My pillow’s damp. Opening my eyes, I’m met with a glinting blue stare. Declan. Swallowing soothes some of the tightness, and a few deep breaths does the rest.
I haven’t had many nightmares since Ryan died. I’m grateful to whatever’s suppressing them. Nightmares on top of the waking one I’m in would have put me out of commission a long, long time ago.
“You’re okay?” Concern shadows his eyes.
I nudge his hands away and sit up. “I will be.” Honesty. I owe him that much. We are friends, of a sort, despite being bound to each other in a way neither of us wants. “He didn’t die right away,” I say. Maybe it would have been easier if he had. He’d passed out, though it had taken hours for him to stop breathing. The bruises on my knees had imprinted themselves on my brain; I couldn’t leave him. He’d asked me to stay, and it was the last thing I could do for him.
And never, in those agonizing minutes, did anyone come out to help. Too afraid, or too indifferent, to show simple kindness to a pair of strangers. The locals must have had some inkling of what was stirring before Ryan was attacked. It’s the only explanation I can think of that keeps me from hating each and every single person I come into contact with.
“I never did find out why they’d singled him out. Was it wrong place, wrong time? Or did they know who he was? His thesis was controversial. His advisor had backed him, though, so we thought the only danger he’d be in was once he went to defend, and they’d attack him with words, not fists.”
Rubbing my hands over my face, I push back the blankets. Tea. Tea will take away the last of it. I won’t get any more sleep tonight.
I pad out to the kitchen and feel my way around, faint light from the street lights outside making fuzzy shapes of the living room. I put the kettle on and root through the cupboard searching for a clean mug and the last of my herbal tea. It’s good stuff, my one luxury I’ve had consistently while I’ve lived here. They regulate everything from bread to meat to fresh vegetables, but I’ve never had any problems getting my hands on tea.
“Is there any vodka left?” Declan limps into the kitchen. I find the bottle in the freezer and hand it to him. He unscrews it, takes a swig, and makes his way to the living room.
Once the tea is brewed, I join him on the couch, curling up with my mug and a blanket. “I tried to have his body transported home. Bosnian officials wouldn't let it beyond the borders.” The only kindness those officials had shown was to have the body cremated. “Are you ready to get out of here?” I ask, changing the subject. Steam floats off the surface of the liquid, sinuous tendrils wafting under my nose.
“No.” He chuckles at my surprised noise. “I didn’t get what I came here for. I’ve missed a good deal of the actual fighting because the war is more unpredictable than expected, and that’s saying a lot because war is never predictable. I got the shite kicked out of me because they thought I saw something I didn’t. I’ve got half a story. I didn’t earn my fee, which means I’ll have to return some of it or come back in when I’ve healed enough to do so. Or they could choose to send me elsewhere. Won’t know until I get home.”
It occurs to me I don’t know exactly what he does, other than go into places he’s likely to get killed and take pictures. If we’re both going to be up, we might as well talk. “So you, what, have an agency or something that sends you on shoots like these?” He squints at me in the dark. “Just asking. I don’t really know that much about you.” Though if I think too much about it, it feels pointless, like we’re going backward. He’s already seen
me naked, already seen me at my most vulnerable. Not to mention our impending divorce. Do I really need to know anything about him?
Vodka sloshes in the bottle as he tips it up for a drink. “It’s an agency, I guess. Media outlets need photos of all kinds, so they send people out like me to get them. We’re not their regular staff so they don’t have to pay out insurance policies if we’re killed on the job.”
“Where else have you been?” I sip my tea, wincing as I burn my tongue, and settle into a more comfortable position.
He’s been all over. He was in Japan after the tsunami and Lebanon during a spate of fighting with Israel. He spent time in Libya when they knocked Qadafi out of power and sold a series of photos from Baghdad for a hefty sum.
“Hurricane Katrina was one of my first assignments. Getting there was too easy.” Another swig of vodka. He doesn’t follow up the statement with anything else. Based on the coverage that was sanitized enough to show on the local news, he doesn’t need to.
Gunfire erupts in the distance. The familiar, manic tatatatatat prickles my skin with each bullet launched from the barrel. Not nearby. My shoulders tense.
Declan sets the bottle on the table, picks up Middlemarch, and flips it open. His arm comes up. I stare at it. He shouldn’t have done that. Does he think I’m going to fall apart when the firefight’s obviously nowhere near here? I shake my head and take another sip of tea. He glares at me until I put my mug on the table and crawl across the couch to his side, tension draining from my body when he pulls me closer.
I hate how soothing his voice is.
* * *
“It is good you are leaving.” Mila gives me an authoritative nod, then passes me a mug of tea. “This is not your fight.”
“It’s not yours, either.” The heat seeps through the ceramic and singes my fingertips. I set the mug on the floor. “That’s one of the many downsides of war. It’s almost always someone else’s fight.”
Mila and Zlata are ridiculously well adjusted for what’s going on around them. Or maybe they’re desensitized to it. Violence is funny that way; it can keep you on edge or lull you into submission. It seemed it had the latter effect on the sisters.
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