Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“That’s a very selfish way to look at it.”
My eyebrows arch in surprise. “Whatever gave you the impression I was
anything but?”
She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest, tucking her hands beneath her
armpits. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”
Behind us, the door to Mateo’s bedroom opens slowly, my employee’s
strawberry blonde head poking in. Marcelline glances around with her wide
blue eyes, then slips inside with a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder,
closing it shut as she walks over.
Elena’s gaze latches onto my housekeeper’s form as she hands me the
bag, blazing with unrestrained rage even though Marcelline won’t look past
my clavicle. She watches Marcelline’s pale fingers brush mine, anger
radiating off her supple body in waves, deliciously intoxicating.
Jealousy isn’t a quality I typically look for in a woman, but the existence
of it within the spring goddess before me is like fresh soil, ready for me to dig
in and plant my roots.
It’s the foundation for corruption, that green emotion, and I plan to use it
to build us from its rubble.
“Marcelline,” I say slowly, as my housekeeper backs away.
She pauses, furrowing her brows, likely wondering if I’m about to give
her another task beyond her pay grade. I make a mental note to offer her a
bonus and vacation, knowing I’ve already involved her too much.
But loyalty, I’ve learned, is a small price to pay for some people.
It’s how I got into this mess in the first place.
Unzipping the bag, I reach inside and begin pulling out cleanup
equipment, setting up at Mateo’s bedside. I pull the knife from his chest first,
extracting it slowly so as not to splatter the blood still hemorrhaging from his
chest. It empties in a last pump, spilling from the wound onto the marble
floor, and I curse myself for not putting a plastic tarp down beforehand.
With a handkerchief, I clean the blade, then gesture toward Elena
flippantly. “Have you met my future wife?” I ask Marcelline, reveling in the
sharp silence that follows.
It’s the kind I go out of my way to create, that cuts through the air like a
whip.
Bending down, I wipe up the blood with a hospital-grade cleaning
solution and disposable towels, then toss them into the wastebasket. With one
finger, I flip Mateo’s eyelids closed, then pull his comforter up to his chin,