I can only hope she’s as pliant in a few moments.
She stares up at me like she sees beneath the cold, rotten exterior to the molten interior; I shift forward, my body an object caught in her magnetic field, losing myself in her warmth.
Golden irises glisten like melted luxury, and my hand lifts of its own accord, reaching for the ends of her chocolate-colored hair.
“Why?” she asks, the single syllable devoid of even a fraction of emotion.
It gives me pause, my fingers brushing against her as they fall back to my side. “Why not?”
“That’s a very selfish way to look at it.”
My eyebrows arch in surprise. “Whatever gave you the impression I was anything but?”
She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest, tucking her hands beneath her armpits. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”
Behind us, the door to Mateo’s bedroom opens slowly, my employee’s strawberry blonde head poking in. Marcelline glances around with her wide blue eyes, then slips inside with a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder, closing it shut as she walks over.
Elena’s gaze latches onto my housekeeper’s form as she hands me the bag, blazing with unrestrained rage even though Marcelline won’t look past my clavicle. She watches Marcelline’s pale fingers brush mine, anger radiating off her supple body in waves, deliciously intoxicating.
Jealousy isn’t a quality I typically look for in a woman, but the existence of it within the spring goddess before me is like fresh soil, ready for me to dig in and plant my roots.
It’s the foundation for corruption, that green emotion, and I plan to use it to build us from its rubble.
“Marcelline,” I say slowly, as my housekeeper backs away.
She pauses, furrowing her brows, likely wondering if I’m about to give her another task beyond her pay grade. I make a mental note to offer her a bonus and vacation, knowing I’ve already involved her too much.
But loyalty, I’ve learned, is a small price to pay for some people.
It’s how I got into this mess in the first place.
Unzipping the bag, I reach inside and begin pulling out cleanup equipment, setting up at Mateo’s bedside. I pull the knife from his chest first, extracting it slowly so as not to splatter the blood still hemorrhaging from his chest. It empties in a last pump, spilling from the wound onto the marble floor, and I curse myself for not putting a plastic tarp down beforehand.
With a handkerchief, I clean the blade, then gesture toward Elena flippantly. “Have you met my future wife?” I ask Marcelline, reveling in the sharp silence that follows.
It’s the kind I go out of my way to create, that cuts through the air like a whip.
Bending down, I wipe up the blood with a hospital-grade cleaning solution and disposable towels, then toss them into the wastebasket. With one finger, I flip Mateo’s eyelids closed, then pull his comforter up to his chin, tucking it in at his sides.
If you didn’t know any better, and with the smell of the cleaning solution overpowering the stench in the room, you’d never realize he’s dead.
“I’m sorry.” Elena’s the first to recover from my assertion. “Your what?”
As if on cue, the bedroom door opens once again, Rafael entering with a bald priest in tow. He holds a Bible close to his chest and beams at Elena when he sees her, sweeping his gaze over her dress.
I glance at Marcelline. “Any chance we have something else she can wear?”
Frowning, she shakes her head. “No, sir.”
Sighing, I drag a hand through my hair and push to my feet, discarding my leather gloves. I don’t necessarily want Elena wearing a dress meant for someone else, but I suppose there isn’t much choice.
Shirking off my coat, I toss it onto the bed beside Mateo’s body, smoothing over the lapels of my suit jacket. The Father speaks in Italian, the smile on his ruddy face indicating he has no idea what’s going on.
Probably thinks this is the ceremony he was hired to officiate in the first place.
Elena eyes her father, then the religious one beside him, before her wary eyes land on me. They narrow into little slits, her nostrils flaring, as if she’s trying to force my combustion.
“What’s going on?” she asks, hands curling into fists at her sides.
No one answers immediately, presumably waiting for my explanation. Seeming to sense that I’m about to move, Elena flinches the second my feet start in her direction, launching herself toward the door; I lunge for her at the same time, anticipating her attempt to escape, catching her around the waist with both arms.
Slamming her back into me, the gentle swell of her ass pressing obscenely against my cock, I wrangle us around so we’re directly in front of the priest, whose eyes are now wide and confused.
He hisses something to Rafael, who shakes his head and offers soft, soothing tones back. I dip my lips to Elena’s ear as she struggles against my hold, apparently unaware that it’s her fighting spirit that drew me to her in the first place.
The more she tries to get away, rubbing her ass against me, the harder I get.
“Careful, little one.”
Shifting forward, I slip one of my hands down over the expanse of her belly, pushing down with my fingertips. She sucks in a little breath, undoubtedly feeling the evidence of my reaction, and freezes immediately.
Our audience does nothing to suppress the arousal traveling south; if anything, it seems to heighten it, knowing she’s completely at my mercy. One wrong move and I’ll humiliate her in front of her father, more than I already have.
Gesturing to the priest with my free hand, I keep her anchored to me with the other.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, jerking her shoulder against my chin. “I am not marrying you.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”
“Papá,” she breathes, glancing at him pleadingly. “You see what he did to Mateo, right? Why are you not stopping this?”
“Even if he wanted to, I assure you, there’s nothing he could do.” Shooting the priest a dirty look, I snap my fingers, telling him to get on with it.
“My father is the most powerful man in the city,” Elena says, speaking over the priest as he begins his speech.
I snort. “No, he isn’t.”
Rafe stiffens, but I ignore it. That can’t be news to him, anyway.
“We’re gathered here today to celebrate one of life’s greatest moments, the joining of two hearts in the presence of God. Here, in this… chamber, we witness the union of one Dr. Kallum Anderson and Miss Elena Ricci together in marriage.”
A pause. The priest hesitates.
“Oh my God,” Elena gasps, beginning to struggle again. “What the fuck? Stop it! Let go of me!”
Clamping one hand down over her mouth, I nod at the priest. “Continue, please.”
He licks his dry lips, then raises his Bible again, pressing on. “If anyone present has just cause as to why this couple should not be united, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Elena’s shrieks reverberate off my skull, the vibrations from her throat rippling through my forearm. I tighten my grip on her mouth, moving so my index finger slightly blocks her nostrils; she screams and screams, the sounds muffled and broken, until she realizes she’s not regaining oxygen.
Breaking off on a strangled cry, she halts, face reddening. I cock an eyebrow, craning my head to look into her eyes. They’re feral, flames dancing in the golden rings, and part of me wants to feel bad for forcing her into this.
From her world into mine, knowing she really doesn’t deserve it.
But she’s in danger, and my plan can’t happen any other way, so in truth, neither of us have a choice here, really.
“Kallum, do you vow to trust and honor Elena? To laugh and cry, love her faithfully, through sickness and in health, and whatever may come, ‘til death do you part?” the priest asks woodenly.
“I do,” I say, something pinching in my chest as I say it, the lie bi
tter on the back of my tongue. He repeats the same vow for her, and she shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes, mouth still covered. “When I remove my hand, I want you to say it. Say you do.”
Her eyes harden, the tears soaking up.
“I’m helping you. Say you do,” I murmur, just low enough for her to hear, “or I start picking off the people you love, one by one. Mateo was just the start, little one. Next is your father, if you don’t do what I say.”
She whimpers, the sound making my dick stiffen even more, and huffs a single breath. Slowly, I slide my hand to her chin, ready to pounce if she screams again.
But she seems to think better of it, instead focusing on my eyes, refusing to look away.
“Why?” she whispers, and I think about her asking the same about Mateo, how she didn’t seem to judge, just wanted to know my reasoning. As if every action, even the most despicable ones, can be explained away if you try hard enough.
I hook my thumb under her chin, tilting her head up, admission on the tip of my tongue. My secrets beg to be split wide open, to bleed out on the floor for her, but I know I can’t risk it.
Not yet, anyway. Not before she’s mine.
So, instead, I shake my head, offering her a little grin. “Why not?”
Chapter 4
I had a teacher when I was younger who swore that our mindsets had infinite power over our lives. She lived and breathed the notion that time was little more than a social construct, and that people have the ability to create their own realities.
She’d say humans are made up of energy, and that energy has a certain magnetism to it that attracts both what we fear and what we desire, and that it was up to us to reflect the kind of life we wanted to the universe so it would be able to deliver.
Incidentally, not a great look for a Catholic school teacher.
Still, standing at the threshold of forever, staring into the soulless eyes of the man who’s haunted my dreams for the last eight weeks, I can’t help wondering if what Sister Margaret said was true.
In the weeks after Kal left me alone in my bedroom, I must have dreamed a dozen times that he’d come back to steal me away from Mateo, though it never continued beyond that.
Is it possible my nightmares morphed into real life?
I glance at Papá, who seems to look everywhere but at me as the priest goes on his spiel about love, quoting Corinthians as if it isn’t obvious this union is a farce. For Christ’s sake, Kal still has one arm wrapped around my waist, one hand collaring my throat, and yet we’re all acting like this is normal.
Like he didn’t just threaten my family if I didn’t acquiesce.
Betrayal burns the back of my throat, liquid fire scorching a path down my sternum, and I strain against his hold once more. Ignoring the hard length pressing between my ass cheeks, and the way it makes my thighs clench, I try to wiggle a hand free.
He tightens his grip, crushing my hip bone, and I wince. Moving my hand back, I brace the meat of my thumb along his leg, digging my nails into his thigh until my fingertips go numb.
The only evidence that he even registers my attack comes when he forces me to bend slightly, shoving his pelvis tighter into my backside; he’s so hard, I can make out the entirety of his erection, hot and heady as it moves into the crack of my ass, the layers of clothing between us no match for it.
His hand momentarily leaves my throat, eliciting a strange, empty sensation in his wake. He wrenches my fingers from his leg, and pushes my hand to my side, before gripping just below my jaw, tilting my head slightly upward.
“Do that again,” he breathes into my ear, a slight strain lacing his voice. “And I’ll fuck you in front of everyone.”
I scoff, my voice just as soft, just as strangled. “You wouldn’t.”
There has to be a line, somewhere. One that not even Kal Anderson will cross, and something tells me fucking your boss’s daughter—a mafia don, no less—while he watches might be the ultimate form of disrespect.
“I would, and you’d love every filthy second of it.”
Okay, then.
He pushes my chin up more, capturing me with his eyes; they’re so dark, endlessly devoid of color, it’s like staring into two black holes and trying to maintain solid footing. “I’m not your enemy, little one.”
“You’re not my friend, either.”
A muscle thumps beneath his left eye, and his gaze drops to my lips. “No,” he agrees, sliding his hand so his thumb brushes over my mouth, plucking my bottom lip like a guitar string. “I’m your husband.”
Before I have a chance to protest—not that there’s anything that I can say anyway, since I did finish my vows—his hand glides around my head, tangling in my hair, and he crashes his mouth to mine.
I’m so startled by the assault that I don’t react, at first. Kal isn’t a kisser. Even the night he took my virginity, debased me in what I thought was every way possible, his lips never once touched mine.
Sure, they slid across every inch of my skin, caressed my most sensitive flesh, and spoke affirmations to my soul, but he hadn’t kissed me.
Now that he is, I don’t quite know what to make of it.
The kiss is gentle, almost sweet, as he eases me into the language of it, guiding my movements before I can fully relax and take part. His fist tugs on my roots, angling me for better access as he coaxes and teases, and my hands reach up to his chest.
I push, reflexively trying to extract myself, and then he’s shifting, smothering, consuming me with his heat, deepening the kiss. My breath catches in my throat as his tongue pushes past my lips, entwining with my own.
It laves over the backs of my teeth, the roof of my mouth, its tip leaving me tingling.
The arm around my waist crushes me to him, fitting our hips together, and the last remnants of my resolve crumble as I melt into it.
Into him.
Our teeth clatter and scrape, the dull sound of a primal coupling creating a low heat in my belly. Tiny kaleidoscopes of bright, neon colors burst behind my eyelids as we wrestle for dominance, our mouths fighting a war my mind doesn’t quite understand.
It’s almost painful, this kiss. Painful in the way being with Kal has so far proven to be—a sharp, sudden ache that feels like being torn open and ripped apart, but your body craves the sensation.
Like you need it to survive.
A low, guttural moan ebbs from his throat, making a home in my bones. The warmth in my belly spreads like a wildfire, burning everything in its wake, until I’m practically climbing his lean form, trying to get him to make the sound again.
Someone claps at our side, snapping me from the moment; my eyes pop open, seeking our audience. The priest smiles, chanting something in Italian that I can’t translate, while Papá looks on and Marcelline studies her white sneakers.
Self-consciousness flares in my chest as I come down, trying to disentangle myself from Kal’s limbs. He resists, pressing one last searing kiss against my mouth, before finally releasing me so suddenly, my knees buckle.
I reach out, grasping his sleeve to steady myself, sucking in a deep breath. My lips feel swollen and raw, and I smooth a finger over them, trying to commit the evidence to memory, since it’s the last kiss I plan on ever having with him.
“Rings,” the priest says, gesturing toward our hands. “You’re skipping steps, Mr. Anderson.”
“Kind of like you skipped courting, proposing, or generally asking for my consent in any of this,” I mutter, watching as Kal reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a burlap pouch and discarding his gloves.
“Would you have said yes?”
I blink, frowning. “What?”
“If I’d asked.” He pulls one ring out, a simple black band, and shoves it onto his own finger, then reaches for mine. “Would you have said yes?”
“I…”
In truth, I want to say yes. That my infatuation with this known killer would’ve led me to do anything he asked of me. But Mamá drilled into my head at a yo
ung age that such an admission was practically a death wish, and so instead, I shake my head.
“No.”
Yanking the ring from Mateo off, he tosses it to the ground, replacing it with a solitaire diamond.
His jaw tics. “No?”
Pulling my hand from his, I fold my hands over my arms. “No, Kallum, I wouldn’t have. I was engaged—”
“Didn’t stop you from begging me to fuck you.”
“That was different. It was a—”
“We ask these blessings for them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” the priest interrupts, moving forward and gripping our shoulders. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
He hesitates, sunken eyes darting between us. “Er… well, I suppose you can kiss her again, but if you’re going to, I request enough time to leave the room beforehand.”
Kal holds up his hand, shaking his head. “No need, Father. We’re leaving.”
Marcelline ushers the priest from the room, slamming the door shut as she exits. Kal cringes as it clicks loudly into place, then swallows, walking back over to the bed. He bends, collecting his things, no longer paying me any attention.
“Um?” I arch my eyebrows. “Do I get a say in anything? I still don’t even know what’s going on.” Turning to Papá, I hook a thumb at Kal. “Why didn’t you stop this? Hasn’t he just ruined your contract with Bollente Media?”
“No, you did that when you decided to sleep with the man.” Papá’s face hardens, disappointment melting his features. “And because you weren’t discreet about it, someone has video evidence that they’re using to try and blackmail la famiglia.”
My throat constricts, the blood rushing to my face as I process his words. “Someone was watching us?”
Disgust pulls at Papá’s mouth, his lips curling in a sneer. “Someone is always watching, figlia mia. And now, we’re all paying for your fuckup.”
Glancing over his shoulder at Mateo’s corpse, he shakes his head.
Promises and Pomegranates: A Dark Contemporary Romance (Monsters & Muses Book 1) Page 3
