Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

strong, like he’s letting me keep the only bargaining chip I’ve ever had.
And yet, as I glance at him from my end of the black sedan we were
ushered into after dismounting the jet, that familiar ache spreads from my
pussy outward, flowing through my veins like it belongs there.
And all I feel is unwanted.
He’s practically glued to his door, his suit jacket folded on the seat
between us. The sleeves of his black button-down are flipped up to midforearm,
revealing corded muscles and more bronzed skin than I’ve ever seen
from him.
Scrolling through his phone with the pad of one thumb, he strokes at the
underside of his stubbly jaw with the other. The screen shifts so quickly, it’s
hard for me to imagine he’s even processing any of the information.
Pursing my lips, I bend down and feel around in my backpack for my
phone, coming up empty. I turn my head, brushing my hair out of my face,
my mouth falling open to ask where he put it.
“A liability,” he says before I’ve even uttered a word, and without sparing
me a glance. “When we’re home, I’ll get you set up with a new device.”
Home. Smoothing my hands over the soft material of my leggings, I look
out the tinted window as the green-blue terrain of wherever we landed whips
past. The ocean stretches out just beyond the treetop horizon, although I’m
unsure if that means we’re still mainland.
“Where exactly is home?” I ask.
“Aplana Island, though natives just call it Aplana. It’s just outside the
Boston Harbor Islands.”
“Never heard of it,” I say, my finger pressing a button that inches the
window down.
It whirs as it descends, the sound puncturing the silence around us,
stirring a calmness in my gut I haven’t felt since I walked into Mateo’s
bedroom. Up and down, I repeat the motion, mesmerizing myself with it.
From the corner of my eye, I see Kal shift in his seat, crossing and
uncrossing his legs as if he can’t quite get comfortable. His left hand comes
down to grip just above his knee, squeezing until the veins strain against his
skin, his throat bobbing repeatedly as he swallows over and over.
I wonder if he’s having second thoughts about all of this—marrying me,
fucking me, stealing me from Boston. Is it possible the bad doctor didn’t
quite know what he was getting himself into when he stepped in as my knight
in not-so-shiny armor?