Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

concerned with the loss of blood and possible abrasions to my liver and
spleen, that no one bothered to clean the wound or try to free some of the
broken muscle that would eventually produce the mass of scar tissue on my
side.
I remember the pain after the surgery; they called it phantom pains. Said
I’d probably feel them the rest of my life, long after everything else healed.
They said I was lucky. That a guardian angel must have been watching
over me, because the damage to my spleen had been pretty significant, but
they’d managed to repair the rupture.
It was my nineteenth birthday.
I never felt lucky.
Not one time in my life, even with the countless brushes with death, did I
feel lucky.
Until Elena.
The chair creaks beneath the weight of my grip, the wood hidden beneath
the soft fabric bending at my whim. I school my features, gritting my teeth
against the fury building like a cyclone in my chest, spiraling out of control.
Raising my arm, I point the pistol right at her forehead. “We can remedy
that mistake now. I certainly don’t want to make the same one twice.”
She swallows, watching me with those glassy eyes. “Elena will never
forgive you for killing her mother. She’s hurt now, but she knows who’s
always been there for her. She’ll always choose this family over a stranger.”
Releasing my hold on the chair, I begin to slowly creep around the table,
keeping the gun trained on her. “You took her away from me, so that little
fear tactic doesn’t really apply anymore, does it? What do I care if she
forgives me, if she’s not going to be warming my bed and cock at night?”
Carmen scoffs, disgust flooding her features. “As crude and vile as ever, I
see.”
I move closer, brushing my index finger over the trigger. “You know
what’s crude? The number of times I’ve told your daughter to get on her
knees and watched her choke on me. How I’ve broken her skin and lapped at
her blood so many times, the flavor is practically embedded into my
tastebuds.”
Pausing right beside her, I lift the gun to her forehead, pressing the mouth
to her temple. “She gets off on it, you know. The pain. Never looks at me like
I’m sick, or deranged, or some kind of monster. I bet, if I got her pregnant
right now, she wouldn’t eliminate the problem. She might even beg me to