Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“Your mother is plenty alive,” I say, slipping my hands under her back
and lifting just enough so I can slide beneath her. She grunts as I do most of
the work, her body going limp and molding into mine the second I let her go.
Sighing, Elena drops her hands, pressing her phone into her chest. “That
did not go the way I was hoping.”
I thread my fingers through her hair, my chest pinching for her. “I know.”
“My fault for having expectations, I guess.” Her voice catches at the end
of her sentence, and she sucks down a gulp of air, rolling so she’s facing the
back of the seat. “Was your mom normal?”
“Normal’s relative, I think.”
Elena hums, closing her eyes as her nose brushes the leather seat. “Well,
relatively speaking, I think my mother’s insane.”
Snorting, I take a second before responding, the pinch in my heart
expanding into more of a dull pang, something bold that I can’t possibly get
rid of.
Because I can’t stop wondering what Elena must think of me.
Later, there’s a knock at the door of the penthouse we’re renting during
our stay; Elena’s sprawled out in the bed, breathing heavily and twitching
through some kind of dream, so I slip out quietly, hoping she doesn’t hear me
leave.
When I open the door, I’m not at all surprised to find Rafe standing on
the other side, smoking a cigar even though the hallway has a bold NO
SMOKING sign.
I guess some things really don’t change.
We stand there for several beats of time, just staring at each other, until
finally he breaks first.
He always breaks first.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No,” I reply flatly.
His face screws up, and he takes the cigar from his mouth, huffing a
plume of smoke in my direction. “You know, you used to respect the order of
things. Used to understand that I’m your boss, not the other way around.”
“You’re not my boss, Rafe. Simple as that. I haven’t done a job for you in
months, nor have I been gathering intelligence, or patching up any of your
men. I don’t work for you anymore.”
“That isn’t how this works,” he snaps, pointing the butt of the cigar at me.
“You don’t get to just leave. There are protocols in place. Oaths that can’t be