Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

at all times, there are just certain things you can’t change about a person.
Once Elena gets a taste of freedom, she won’t be recaged without a fight.
Frankly, I’m surprised it’s taken this long for her to venture off our
property. There are only so many days you can spend staring at a plot of dirt,
waiting for spring to arrive.
“Elena,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even, despite the irritation
flowing through me. Not at her, but at everything else in my life. “I’m in the
middle of something. Can this wait?”
“I don’t know, Kal, because we never discussed sexually transmitted
diseases, and I’ve just had the most interesting conversation with some girl
out front who knows you.” Her lips curl back in a sneer. “You’re the only one
I’ve been with, so as far as that goes, you’re okay, but am I? Who fucking
knows, since apparently I really am the cliché virgin archetype, and I just
trust that a man with so much more life experience than me—a freaking
doctor, even—would know better.”
“Jesus.” Dragging a hand down the side of my face, I rub at an ache in
my jaw. Looking at Jonas, I nod toward the door. “You can see yourself out.”
“I wouldn’t mind staying for the show.”
I pin him with a look, and he huffs but gets to his feet anyway, making
his combat boots thud harder against the floor than normal. When he reaches
the door, Elena shifts slightly to the side to grant him passage, never taking
her gaze off me.
“Go easy on him, will ya, love?” Jonas says, and I have to grip on to the
plastic armrests on my chair to keep from launching myself at him, and
tearing his intestines through his asshole for even looking at her, after
everything.
She turns, blinking, clearly taken aback, though by his accent or the fact
that he’s speaking to her at all, I can’t quite tell. It’s instantaneous, the way
his attention extinguishes her fire, fingers pinching a flame until it no longer
exists.
“Who are you?” she asks, narrowing her eyes, taking in the leather jacket
stretched across broad shoulders, the unkempt beard, the general sense of
danger that follows him like a storm cloud.
Her foot inches backward ever so slightly; Jonas doesn’t seem to notice,
but I catch it, and the retreat twists my stomach in knots.
“Jonas Wolfe, pleased to meet you,” he says, tipping his chin down in
acknowledgment. “Not surprised you didn’t know that, though. That one over