by SR Jones
I don’t know what to say. It’s the most Markos has ever said in front of me. His words tear at my heart, and I imagine him as a child hiding in his bedroom closet listening to those prayer beads and focusing on nothing but the sound of them as his parents tear themselves apart. Lost for words, I simply put my hand over his on the seat beside us, squeeze, and let go.
He turns to me, and those mysterious eyes of his hold a warmth I’ve not seen before.
I think back to my session earlier with Ms. Ramos. It was one of the hardest I’ve endured. She told me that she believes I’m suppressing a lot of my trauma at what happened to me and Mom when Costas took us. She also thinks that I’m suppressing my response to the oral rape, as she insisted on calling it, that I endured. I tried to tell her it’s one of the least traumatizing things to happen to me. The aftermath was worse. Getting swabbed inside my mouth and having blood drawn to check I hadn’t caught anything from the sick bastard.
“Maya, I believe you feel guilty at surviving, and for not suffering to the same extent as your mother, and so you’re ruthlessly pushing down any feelings relating to your own assault. You must have been terrified.”
Her words had made me want to scream. I don’t want to think about it, any of it. It’s a deep, dark place I don’t go to, not even in my own mind. I think of Mom, and I mourn her, but I don’t go there, to that day. I’ve locked it up, in a box, and I never want to open it. Nothing good comes of opening boxes, I’d told Ms. Ramos.
She’d smiled at me sadly and said, “No, maybe not, but sometimes those boxes open all by themselves. If yours does, we need to deal with what’s inside, okay?”
I’d promised her that, yes, I would deal with it, if I needed to. After all, she thinks we’ll be working together for a long time to come. She says I have severe trauma, and due to this suppression theory of hers, she seems to believe that one day, I’ll burst with it all.
Maybe I will, but I’ll have her to talk to and Damen to pick up the pieces, so the thought doesn’t terrify me as much as it probably should.
“What the hell?” I lean out the window as we pull up the drive and stare at the stream of men pouring out the front door of the house like busy ants leaving the nest.
“You’ll see,” Markos says, before getting out and coming around to open my door.
I clamber out of the car, my dark thoughts forgotten, and my curiosity growing as I enter the house and catch the unmistakable scent of fresh paint.
“Damen?” I call out, and he appears at the doorway to the dining room. As always, he takes my breath away a little, and today, he’s wearing a dark suit, which isn’t something I see him in often, and it only adds to his stature.
“Hey there. I have a surprise for you.”
“Is it to do with the smell of paint and the hundred men leaving the house?”
He chuckles. “Less than twenty men, and yes, partly it is, but come into the kitchen first.”
Taking my hand, he leads me into the kitchen, and I gasp and then give a squeal of delight. There at the stove, cooking what smells like one of my favorite dishes, Moussaka, is Rita.
“Oh my God, Rita!” I run to her, and she laughs as she wraps her arms around me and hugs me.
“Look at you, child, all grown up. I shall have to stop calling you that now. You look marvelous, my darling.”
“Are you staying?” I hold my breath, so hoping she will say yes.
“Of course! Your husband made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“I’m so happy. I’ve missed you, and it will be awesome not being the only woman here. I think my ovaries are shrinking or something due to all the testosterone in the air.”
“Hhhmm, more like they’re doing a happy dance.” She winks at me and turns back to the stove.
“I’ve so much to talk to you about,” I say as I go to pull up a chair, but Damen takes hold of my hand. “In a minute, baby. I want to show you something first.”
“Okay. I’ll be back Rita,” I say.
She nods and smiles at me, her eyes twinkling.
As soon as we’re upstairs and out of earshot of everyone, I throw my arms around Damen. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. This means so much to me.”
“I’m glad. I thought it would be nice for you to have her here, someone who is part of your past after you’ve lost so much of it. I can’t bring your mother back, or make Spiros into a decent human being, but I could bring Rita here for you.”
“I love you,” I tell him, and I kiss the heck out of him on the landing of the home we share. His lips are warm and taste of coffee. I want to drown in him and never surface. If I could spend my life wrapped in his arms, breathing in his scent, it would be a life well lived.
When we finally break away, I turn toward the room we now share, but he tugs on my hand and leads me in the opposite direction. We head down the long hallway, and he stops outside a door.
“It feels weird sharing my room with you, as if the space isn’t truly ours. I thought about asking you if you wanted to re-decorate it, but then I figured it would still be the place where a lot of my bad memories lurked. It’s not a room I want to live in for the next however many decades. This house, though, it’s perfect as a base for us. Safety has to be our top priority, so I started thinking of ways living here could be bearable. I decided we need our own room, a fresh start. I hope you like this. I hope it isn’t too controlling, me having done this, but I wanted to surprise you.”
“You? Controlling? Whatever gave you that idea?” I laugh and mock slap his shoulder.
“This is our new room, baby.”
He opens the door to one of the guest rooms, one I’ve been in before that had a lot of terribly dated furniture in it. I step inside and stop dead. I’m confused. This room isn’t right. It’s too big. For a moment, I can’t quite figure out what I’m seeing, and then I understand. Damen’s knocked this room into the next and created one huge bedroom. And he’s had it done in a day.
It’s a gorgeous room. Stunning. At first, it strikes you as masculine. As a space with Damen stamped all over it, but it’s not true. It’s so much more. Everywhere I look there are touches of me. Everywhere.
There’s a huge sheepskin rug, like the one I always wanted to have. Splashes of bright turquoise and gold brighten the dark colors of the room, a vase here, a sculpture there. All of it stunning and limited enough to give the room real personality, but not overwhelm the simplicity of most of the furniture. On the bed, there’s what looks like … no way. Is that … I step nearer and touch the stunning silk fabric. It’s a Versace comforter, in blues and golds, holding the Greek key pattern.
“How did you know?” I ask Damen, happy tears stinging my eyes.
“I asked Stella. She told me your dream bedroom would be a cross between a room in the world’s swankiest hotel, and a Sheik’s palace. I didn’t think I could live in a knock-off Sheik’s palace, but I thought splashes of it wouldn’t hurt. She also mentioned that you loved Versace.”
I laugh. “Well, I think Stella exaggerated my tastes a little bit, and actually this is perfect! What I would have chosen for myself. I love bright things and beautiful prints, but in touches. This works so well. Did you pick all this out yourself?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “No, I hired one of the city’s best interior designers and had her do it for me. Do you like it? It’s not too masculine in general, is it?”
“No, I like the dark colors and the simple furniture. I love that you got me a Versace comforter and a huge fur rug.”
“Yeah, well, Stella told me about your dream to make out on a real sheepskin rug like in the old movies. I couldn’t resist getting you one, and I’m going to fuck your brains out on it.”
“Geez, just when I think you can’t get any more romantic.” I giggle as he picks me up in his arms. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“Showing you the bathroom.”
“I can walk, you know?”
“I know. I just like carryin
g you sometimes. I don’t want to risk you getting away before we christen that rug.”
The adjoining bathroom is as wonderful as the main bedroom. It’s dark too, with a huge freestanding dark bronze bath, and shelves full of all sorts of potions and lotions. I have to thank Stella for telling Damen all the things I love.
Even better than the bathroom is the epic orgasm Damen gives me when we do indeed christen the rug. He takes me from behind, me on all fours, him pulling my hair as he fucks me so hard I’ll feel him for a week. I shout so loudly when I come, I’m embarrassed to leave the room in case Rita heard all the way down in the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Maya
The dress fits like a glove. The store pulled off a miracle getting it ready for me in such a short time. I push my right leg out, loving the split that reveals my leg up to mid-thigh. It’s sexy because you only see it when I step forward on that foot.
Around my neck, I have a gold and turquoise choker to pick up the colors of Stella’s dress. Matching earrings complement the look. I don’t have a veil. Instead, my hair is pulled back and fastened with a Grecian style gold laurel leaf.
My makeup is simple. Warm gold on my eyes, a nude on my lips, some blush on the apples of my cheeks and mascara. Nothing more.
On my feet are simple sandals with a low heel. We are getting married in church. For real this time. We’re not having a reception afterward. I feel it would be wrong to dance around, drinking, pinning money on my dress, and eating cake, when so many of our beloved have passed in recent months.
I had some bad news this morning, though. Stella can’t give me away, what with it being a traditional ceremony. So Alesso is going to. It feels odd having him do it. But Spiros is out of the question, and Stamatis… Well, he may have accepted me, but he’s trying to repair his tattered marriage, so I can’t ask him. My aunt would lose her mind.
“You look so beautiful,” Stella drags me out of my thoughts. “Here. Let me take some pictures. Damen is going to fall for you all over again when he sees you today.”
After she’s taken the photos, I do one last check of myself, including my small bridal purse, making sure I have all I need, and then I wait for Alesso.
Bang on eleven, there’s a knock on the door of Stella’s house, where we’ve been getting ready. Her parents are out, thankfully, because I’m not sure they’d be happy with Alesso showing up at their door.
Stella goes to open it, and I hear her give a gasp of surprise. For an awful moment, my heart lurches. What if Damen’s changed his mind? I rush as fast as I can in my dress to the door and stop in shock.
In the doorway, looking oh-so-handsome in his dark suit, is my father. My real father, Stamatis.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
He smiles. “It is simple. My daughter is getting married today. Damen called and told me, asked if I wanted to be here for you, and I do.”
“But Aunty?”
“Your aunt will accept this. In time.” Something in his face hardens then. “She has no choice— you’re my daughter. It is what it is.”
Wow. I see the cartel boss in him then. The steely determination.
“So, daughter. Shall we?” He offers me his arm.
“Yes, Father.”
He smiles at me, and I grin back, my heart soaring.
When we reach the church and the music starts as I walk down the aisle, I swear my heart almost stops at the sight that is my husband waiting for me at the altar.
He’s more gorgeous than ever, and I can’t believe he’s mine.
The ceremony passes in a blur, much like the first, but for very different reasons. This time, I’m not terrified out of my mind. This time, I’m high on a surge of joy not experienced in a long time.
So many things happen in order to sanctify our marriage in the eyes of God. Candles are lit. Crowns are placed on our heads and exchanged. We kiss the Bible and walk around the altar‐like ceremonial table three times to recognize the Holy Trinity and their happiness at the union of our two families. The priest tells us our marriage vows are serious, and this walk around the table signifies our marriage bond until death.
I know Damen is religious, and so this has sincere meaning for him. It solidifies something for me. Places a well of contentment in my soul to know how deep his feelings run. How certain he is, after all we’ve been through.
Afterward, we pose on the steps for photographs, our merry little band. My heart is so full, I think it might explode from trying to hold too many emotions. My still too painful sense of loss over Mother. Missing my grandparents. Even sadness that Spiros isn’t here because of all he’s done and how he turned out. I might dislike him, but I still spent two decades of my life living with him, being raised by him; it’s not easy to disentangle the good from the bad.
I try to focus on the happy emotions and positive things, like the fact that Damen is here and getting healthy once more. I have my best friend, and I have my father, my true father, here by my side, publicly supporting me.
As the photographer takes a moment to mess about with his lighting equipment, I glance down the steps of the church to the trees beyond, and I freeze.
Spiros.
Standing on the street, watching, his face a mixture of sorrow and hatred, is my pretend-father.
Not wanting to alert Stamatis or Alesso to this fact, I take Damen’s hand and pull him to one side, kissing his cheek as I do so, making it look like an affectionate moment.
“Spiros is here,” I whisper to him.
“What, where?” The alarm in his voice is unnerving.
I get my, whatever Spiros is, I get he’s a screw up, but why is Damen so worried?
“Please don’t make a scene and start shooting,” I beg. “Not today. It’s only Spiros. He’s not going to do anything. He’s by the trees.”
I look to where he was, but there’s no one there. Nothing.
Damen frowns, squeezes my hand, and then turns to the party. “Time to wrap this up and head back home.”
There are a couple of frowns, but Damen fixes Alesso and Stamatis with his gaze and says, “Now.”
They clearly understand there is a threat because almost absent-mindedly Alesso checks his concealed halter, and as we leave the Churchyard, the men’s gazes constantly sweep the surrounding area.
We head home to the house, and despite my relief that things didn’t degenerate into a shooting match, Spiros yet again managed to put a dampener on something for me. Turning up as he did on my wedding day and lurking. I won’t let him ruin this, though. I will not.
A small group of revelers enter the home Damen is busy converting into a headquarters, whether he openly realizes it or not.
We’re a ragtag bunch, but a family of sorts.
I also have Rita back now too. I only wish my grandparents were here. Damen has promised we will go see them soon, for a holiday. I can’t wait.
My father is with me, though, and that means the world. When we get settled, the men all light cigars and pour glasses of richly colored brandy. Myself, Rita, and Stella sip at champagne and nibble on delicious cake.
After a couple hours of celebration, Damen comes to me. He takes my hand and leads me out of the dining room where everyone is still sitting, talking, and laughing. He heads up the stairs with me and opens the door to the room we now share.
I’m about to step in, but he puts his hand out to stop me. Smiling, he lifts me into his arms, and carries me over the threshold. “Do you know how this started as a ritual?” he murmurs in my ear.
“No.”
“Well in Germany, back in time, the Germanic tribes, hordes, I don’t know the correct name, but they were ye-olde gangs … these gangs, they’d roam from village to village, and they’d kidnap the bride. It’s why best men came about too; they would stand between the couple and any of the bride’s friends and family who might intervene.”
“Oh my God.” He puts me down, and I face him. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah. Some weird ass origins of the traditions we do these days.”
“You’ve been reading facts. Like me.”
“Like you,” he says with a smile. It’s a different smile to one I’ve seen on him before. Softer. Full of warmth.
“I love you,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you, Maya. You’ve made me a better man.”
“Are we going to carry out another medieval tradition?” I ask.
“What’s that?”
“Well, back in ye-olde Europe the consummation of the marriage was a public affair.”
“Sweet Jesus. No, we are not.” He is already undoing my hair, taking out the laurel leaf so carefully pinned in, and letting my hair flow down my back.
I shiver as it brushes my shoulders, already aroused.
Painstakingly, Damen undresses me. He takes my sandals off, my dress, and then with a delicacy I didn’t know he could possess, my underwear.
When I’m naked, he sets about taking his own clothing off, the whole time never taking his eyes from me.
When we’re both nude, he climbs onto the bed and pulls me with him, lying beside me, and trails his fingers over my bare skin. Over my shoulder they go, down my arm, down to my hand, and then back up, across my collarbone and down my other arm. He strokes every part of my upper body, brushing over my breasts, but not touching my nipples.
“Turn over,” he says.
I do, and he kisses me all over my back. Down my spine, kissing my buttocks, my thighs, the backs of my knees, my ankles, and placing one reverential kiss on the sole of each foot.
Once he’s kissed all the way back up my body, he turns me over and claims my mouth. He repeats this worship of my body, over and over, until I’m a writhing mess, and only when I think I’ll scream if he doesn’t give me what I need does he finally push into me.
