Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

good stuff.
“We don’t have long,” Kal says, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. He
picks up a circular saw from the floor, plugging it into an outlet nearby.
My lips part. “You’re using that?”
Glancing at the saw, he nods once. “I don’t half-ass these things, Elena.
Men who cross me don’t get mercy.”
It’s not as quick as I’m expecting, but the second he brings the blade
down to Vincent’s chest, I’m stuck staring, enraptured by the way skin and
bone split open for him, bowing to Kal’s precision and force.
Like souls bending for their reaper.
Heat stirs in my core as I watch him work, filling me with unease that has
less to do with the gore in front of me and more to do with the fact that I’m
apparently not at all disgusted by it.
I keep waiting for the shock to settle in, for numbness to flood my body
as my brain tries to block out the trauma, but it never happens. A small fire
burns in my chest as Kal opens Vincent’s, and I clench my thighs together in
an attempt at relief.
Maybe it’s because I grew up a mafia princess; I’m definitely no stranger
to death.
Or maybe it’s that the violence comes as a tribute to me, being wielded on
my behalf in a way no one has ever done for me before.
When you grow up in the world of la famiglia, you’re taught to take the
abuse. Fight back when you can, but on the whole, and especially where men
are involved, you’re expected to put up with it.
That’s why I was still going to marry Mateo de Luca.
Why I thought I could handle him.
When Kal finishes several minutes later, brushing his forearm over his
face and smearing blood over his cheek, I’m met by an intoxicating,
complicated wave of arousal.
Cleaning up quickly, he ushers me from the building back into the main
house; I don’t even protest, too lost to the storm raging inside me, threatening
to drown everything in its downpour.
Guiding me into the en suite bathroom through our bedroom, he positions
me in front of the glass shower, reaching inside the stall to turn on the faucet.
His hands are caked in Vincent’s blood, his clothes ruined, but he doesn’t
seem to give that a second thought when he reaches for me.
The air grows thick from steam and lust, pressing down heavily the