The Killer's Wife

Prologue

I've always wanted to have a unique story.

One that I would remember to the death, that I would tell my children if I had them someday. And if I didn't have them, I would tell the story to other children, to everyone who wanted to listen to it. I would make warm tea in the kettle, not too hot to keep them from scalding, and horribly sweetened. My grandmother always did it to me when I was a child myself and I used to chug it by the litres from a plastic mug printed with tigres, which I didn't want to give up.

Today I don't understand what I liked so much about it. Perhaps a lemon scent or a sweet taste on the tongue? Sugar sticky lips? Maybe the warmth that gradually flowed through my body until it reached the eternally numb fingers... I said I didn't understand what I liked so much about it, and now I see that it's a lie. And I don't want to start my story with a lie. So I will begin with the greatest truth of my life.

I woke up soaked in sweat less and less often. Today, my bad dream returned after a long time, but I learned to control myself. Slow down the breath, calm the thoughts, calm the runaway heartrate. I turned my head to make sure I hadn't woken him.

No, he sleeps like a baby.

I've told myself a thousand times that this world we live in is too cruel for him, but we both know there's no escaping it. If we wanted to bury the past and flee, we would awaken the beasts. They love prey that tries to escape – it's more fun for them, the adrenaline.

I am not a supporter of adrenaline activities. I am always relieved when, after another nightmare, it vanishes from my blood and I can finally think clearly again.

I pulled my body closer to him. I placed my hand carefully on his chest, slowly, finger at a time. He continued to breathe calmly. In the gloom of the moon, I stared at his face. The disheveled dark hair was my fault. Flawless lips and thick black eyelashes so perfectly imperfect that any artificial winking doll from the cover of a fashion magazine would envy him, were perhaps made only by the Mother herself. But a red scratch stretching from the left corner of his lips through his eye to his temple, cutting through his groomed eyebrow exactly halfway... This was not my work, nor the work of the Mother. This was the fault of Uranus Malakai, son of Daniel Malakai.

Uranus wasn't even a proper beast, just a very stupid man. He was just a stupid little boy who decided to show his daddy what he could do. So he tried to kidnap the wife of a feared killer and mobster.

Like I said: a little stupid boy.

Now he's lying under a stone, eating dirt, and my husband didn't have to lift a finger for it.

I killed him myself.

I took a pen from my purse and took care of him and two other friends gradually.

The pen was a gift. It had a sharp metal spike that held tight and would easily cut through a thin metal sheet. I was happy about it. It was elegant and unobtrusive, a bit like me, except that it needed a steady hand, a master, to serve it's purpose. Anyone who tried to tame me ended up with fangs forever etched in the skin.

I stroked my husband's cheek, tracing the groove with my fingers, on which a scab had already begun to form after a day. It will heal, but there will definitely be a scar left there. He will have a cut in his eyebrow, as young people wear today, to make them feel rough. He doesn't need anything like that. He's a tough guy every step of the way, you can see it in his eyes.

I can see it.

He lost his family, his friends, and his own honor, and he got out of it. What's more, he learned to love again, and I was happy that he loved me. He thinks he doesn't deserve me, and I used to think I didn't deserve him, but now I know we deserve each other. We deserve to be happy.

And that's the biggest truth of my life.

Because they broke my husband and he got up, forgave them and went his way. Because they broke me too, and I got back on my feet, watched as my husband slowly murdered them all, agonizingly, forgave them, and moved on, with him. I hope it will be like this forever. I want to share every breath with him. Wherever we are.

"I feel the same way," he whispered.

I thought I was just dreaming, but it was enough to see the gleam in his steely blue eyes to understand that he was awake watching me as I was watching him.

I like to compare the color of his eyes to steel. It describes their coldness and stubbornness that they carry. Purposefulness and will are the qualities I appreciate about him. They are a stark contrast to my self-control—if I had any. He can be gentle, affectionate, considerate and caring, while I, controlled by my emotions, am rash, insensitive and inattentive.

"You're my flame," slipped out of his lips, which kissed my neck. I melted under his touch. "You're not insensitive, you just get too carried away sometimes." He kissed me again.

"So you're admitting that you think I'm rash and inattentive?"

"Yes," he hummed teasingly.

Surprised, I pushed him away.

He stopped when I shot him an angry look. And then he laughed heartily in a warm guttural voice.