Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry I didn’t tell you. You deserved to know.”
I swallow, nodding, even though the memory feels like a slap to the face.
Skimming my hand over his side, I frown, something still bothering me. “Did
she do this?”
His eyes follow my fingers as they smooth over the puckered skin, and he
nods slightly. “Indirectly, but yes.”
My chest pinches, aching for the damage my parents inflicted on him. For
not even being their blood, they sure did do a number on him.
“I hate knowing she ever touched you,” I admit softly, knowing I won’t
be able to move past it until it’s hurled out in the open. “Hate knowing she
ever got to see you like this.”
“She didn’t,” he interjects, catching my hand, flattening it on his skin.
“No one but you, little one. What can I do to make you believe that?”
I shake my head, declining that he even needs to prove it, saying that
there are just some things that only time can help work through. But he
doesn’t accept that, leaning back and shoving his hand into his pocket,
pulling out the utility knife he keeps tucked inside.
“Mark me,” he says, holding out the blade.
My hand recoils from him completely, falling into my lap. “God, no! I
don’t want to hurt you.”
“Yes, you do.” He grabs my hand, pushing the knife into it and curling
my fingers around the handle. “Hurt me so I can feel what it was like for
you.”
I hesitate, the knife heavy in my palm, the metal cool against my skin.
Fear seizes my throat, making me tense up as my mind tries to decide if this
is a good idea or not.
Best case scenario: if we divorce and he hooks up with someone else
down the line, at least they’ll see another girl’s initials carved into his skin.
Worst case: I cut too deep, and he bleeds out and dies.
Still, it’s hard for me to pass up such a rare opportunity, and maybe
inflicting a little pain will help me fully move on.
Flipping open the blade, I nod, pushing up off the couch. He grins
wickedly, leaning back on the coffee table; I get up, letting the blanket fall
around me, and straddle his hips, trying to ignore the immediate arousal
stiffening beneath my ass.
“You want a shallow, rough stroke,” he says, guiding me to his left
pectoral muscle, pressing the tip of the knife into his skin. “Something that’ll