ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

30: Rewards and Punishments

RITA

The sun Hangs high in the Sky.

Yet, we're still tangled in his bed. His hands hold me tightly, like he's trying to keep me in his arms. I have to be agile if I want him to release me — which is harder today than usual.

Last night was overwhelming. Every subtle movement ends in a whine or a sharp inhale. I feel like he's finally imprinted in every fibre of my body. Deciding to stay a little longer in his clasp, I turn in his embrace.

I smile. He was meant to smite me — not cuddle me. He should have enveloped me in hatred, as I'm his foe's daughter. Yet those azure eyes hold admiration and a raw, almost tender passion.

Behind his mocking manner lurks a malevolent man. I witnessed his most intense rage, the way he tore Nicolai apart in blind fury. Yet the more time I spend with him, the more I realize that this same man can hold me as if I were about to shatter.

But the more time I spend with him, the more I see behind his veil of sillyness. His hands may be deadly, but his heart isn't entirely rotten; otherwise, I'd be dead now, not in his arms.

He's a great companion. He erased my solitude. Despite his scoffs and ridicule, I like his companionship — especially at night, sinning with me against nature's rules.

Tonight, though, he left like a thief and came back after hours. I didn't question it. He's not mine to question. But I'm his to question, because I'm his willing captive.

I peck his lips before slipping quietly out of his embrace. Then I take his shirt — hanging on the edge of the table — and pull it on.

After wearing it, I look at my ankles and wrists, hued in indigo. He loves to mark me — with hands or with teeth like canines sinking into my flesh.

Sighing, I walk to the bathroom. After taking a shower, I towel-dry my body, wear his shirt back and use some mouthwash. He has a bottle of vodka, using it instead.

Wiping my mouth on my shoulder, I leave. I glance at Roman before exiting the bedroom, but the half-empty bottle on the nightstand doesn't go unnoticed. No wonder he's sleeping like a hibernating bear.

Rooting on the last stair downstairs, my eyes widen and my mouth gapes. I cannot help but totter — the aftermath of yesterday has taken away my ability to walk — on my way to the kitchen.

And there it is: Clitoria ternatea.

He bought me a new plant, and I'm elated. It's harmless, beneficial, and rich in antioxidants—good for the immune system. So I decide to make tea.

Humming softly, I pluck the petals — a guilty pleasure washing over me as I strip them of their beauty. I should let them dry, but I use them fresh.

As the water boils, I rinse the petals and place them into a champagne glass, since he doesn't own a teapot. The liquid turns a deep sapphire blue, its fragrance rich and earthy.

Sipping my tea and relishing its taste, I wander through his loft in boredom, a piece of bread tucked beneath my arm.

My gaze drifts to the bookshelf in the living room. It's an odd collection — mostly dictionaries in various languages, interspersed with just a few children's novels.

Curious, I pull out the English dictionary and leaf through its worn pages, my finger tracing unfamiliar words.

That's how I learned the language back in Mexico: one definition at a time, then searching for those same words in every book I could find until they became second nature.