Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

and now the obvious power struggle?”
“There’s no power struggle to be had here, little one. Your father has
none.” Finally, Kal looks over at me, his eyes smoldering, causing heat to
pool between my thighs. “The only one here with any sort of power,
especially over you, is me. Your husband.”
His words make my throat constrict, even though they sound vaguely
threatening in nature; his tone, though, oozes sex, and even though my brain
is struggling to keep up with every single emotion rolling around in my body,
it’s that one it latches onto.
Like a familiar friend, arousal shows up and overpowers everything else,
making me forget what I was even just complaining about.
Clenching my thighs together, I shift in my seat, reaching for the glass of
water in front of me. I take a sip, keeping my eyes locked with Kal, until
Papá clears his throat, drawing my attention.
“Bambina,” Papá says around his scotch. “How’s school?”
My hand freezes in midair and I choke up, almost dropping my glass. I
take another sip, buying a few seconds while I scrape together an answer. “I...
dropped out.”
Okay, not a good save, but whatever.
His eyes widen, and he sets his tumbler back on the table. “Perché?”
I can feel Kal watching me, but I look right at Papá. “I didn’t want to do it
anymore. Teaching literature doesn’t interest me.”
“I see.” Papá’s nostrils flare, and he taps his thumb ring against his glass.
“I suppose you didn’t think to inform the person on the hook for your student
loans that he’d be having to pay for them sooner than he thought?”
Shame scores my face, fiery as it lashes against my skin. Ariana and
Stella glare down at the table, while Nonna downs the rest of her wine.
“Never mind the fact that I said from the beginning that school wasn’t
your destiny. But you didn’t want to believe me. Had to learn the hard way,
and screw me over in the process.”
Kal stiffens beside me, fingers tightening around his fork until his
knuckles bloom white. My foot kicks out, pressing against his in a silent plea
not to send the utensil through my father’s throat.
“I’m sorry, Papá,” I say softly, the anger in his gaze revitalizing the
nausea from before; it blows up, like a vapor expanding to fill the shape of its
container, and I grip the edge of the table, trying to stave off the vomit rising
in my esophagus. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”