Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

never continued beyond that.
Is it possible my nightmares morphed into real life?
I glance at Papá, who seems to look everywhere but at me as the priest
goes on his spiel about love, quoting Corinthians as if it isn’t obvious this
union is a farce. For Christ’s sake, Kal still has one arm wrapped around my
waist, one hand collaring my throat, and yet we’re all acting like this is
normal.
Like he didn’t just threaten my family if I didn’t acquiesce.
Betrayal burns the back of my throat, liquid fire scorching a path down
my sternum, and I strain against his hold once more. Ignoring the hard length
pressing between my ass cheeks, and the way it makes my thighs clench, I try
to wiggle a hand free.
He tightens his grip, crushing my hip bone, and I wince. Moving my hand
back, I brace the meat of my thumb along his leg, digging my nails into his
thigh until my fingertips go numb.
The only evidence that he even registers my attack comes when he forces
me to bend slightly, shoving his pelvis tighter into my backside; he’s so hard,
I can make out the entirety of his erection, hot and heady as it moves into the
crack of my ass, the layers of clothing between us no match for it.
His hand momentarily leaves my throat, eliciting a strange, empty
sensation in his wake. He wrenches my fingers from his leg, and pushes my
hand to my side, before gripping just below my jaw, tilting my head slightly
upward.
“Do that again,” he breathes into my ear, a slight strain lacing his voice.
“And I’ll fuck you in front of everyone.”
I scoff, my voice just as soft, just as strangled. “You wouldn’t.”
There has to be a line, somewhere. One that not even Kal Anderson will
cross, and something tells me fucking your boss’s daughter—a mafia don, no
less—while he watches might be the ultimate form of disrespect.
“I would, and you’d love every filthy second of it.”
Okay, then.
He pushes my chin up more, capturing me with his eyes; they’re so dark,
endlessly devoid of color, it’s like staring into two black holes and trying to
maintain solid footing. “I’m not your enemy, little one.”
“You’re not my friend, either.”
A muscle thumps beneath his left eye, and his gaze drops to my lips.
“No,” he agrees, sliding his hand so his thumb brushes over my mouth,