Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

And I realize, as she peels that piece back, revealing the blood-soaked
dress shirt beneath, that she wasn’t sniffling—she was smelling him.
A shock of arousal jolts down my spine, hitting me like a bolt of
lightning, singeing my bones. Perhaps she’s not all prey, after all.
Perhaps my little Persephone is actually fit for her fate.
She stares at the wound, the curved handle of my knife still protruding
from the area, and gives the smallest shake of her head. “Insurance.”
“What?”
Replacing the jacket over the area, she gives a little shrug. “Insurance,
right? The stab wound? In case whatever else you did to him didn’t work.”
My mouth parts to refute her claim, the need to distance myself from the
crime second nature at this point, but I don’t. There’s no reason, if she
already knows this was my doing.
Part of me—the sick, disturbed part I stuff down into the recesses of my
brain—wants her to know, anyway.
Wants her to see what I’m capable of, and what happens to those who
defy me.
Mateo’s decision to go through with this wedding, even when I told him
to find a way out of it weeks ago, was the ultimate act. And since I couldn’t
let him ruin my entire plan, I needed to remove him from the equation.
I’m not typically so crass and careless with my hits; I like to spend my
time learning a person’s nuances, what makes them tick, what keeps them up
at night. But his existence became a threat, and so he needed to be eliminated.
My only regret is not allowing her to be part of the initial poisoning.
Letting out a long breath, Elena tilts her chin up, turning to face me.
Unlike most people I meet, Elena’s never had a problem with eye contact.
She matches my gaze head on, like she knows it’s exactly what I want and
can’t help but give it to me.
I can only hope she’s as pliant in a few moments.
She stares up at me like she sees beneath the cold, rotten exterior to the
molten interior; I shift forward, my body an object caught in her magnetic
field, losing myself in her warmth.
Golden irises glisten like melted luxury, and my hand lifts of its own
accord, reaching for the ends of her chocolate-colored hair.
“Why?” she asks, the single syllable devoid of even a fraction of emotion.
It gives me pause, my fingers brushing against her as they fall back to my
side. “Why not?”