Beauty in the Broken

There’s nothing more to say. I keep quiet as he leaves the room. I’m left with only my will not to succumb to claustrophobic panic, and my newly discovered insight.

I could never have guessed the depth of Zane’s hatred for me, which reflects the intensity of his feelings for Damian. Unknowingly, he gave away his secret when he showed me how much he cares. The caring goes deeper than friendship or loyalty.

He’s in love with Damian.

Damian

Zane’s message jars me. In the back of the car on the way home from the airport, I read it again. Lina has met with her father. She’s already disobeyed me. I’m furious, but I’m not surprised. I can’t say I didn’t expect it. I stare at the dark factories on the side of the highway as we approach Pretoria, contemplating an appropriate punishment, but my body and mind are tired, refusing to cling to the anger and tipping toward excitement at the thought of finally spending time with my disobedient little wife.

I rub my burning eyes. It’s close to midnight. Ellis agreed to my terms. The meeting to sort out the logistics took forever. Despite my fatigue, my chest buzzes with a warm sense of contentedness. I’m high on my accomplishment.

Zane greets me at the door. At least he takes my jacket and asks about the trip before rubbing in Lina’s defiance.

“I told you marrying her was a bad idea. She’s already undermining your authority. They did you in once. They’ll do it again. She did it on purpose, humiliating you by marrying you in a funeral dress, which the whole city is talking about, oh, and don’t read the tabloids because it’s all over the gossip pages, and she ignored a direct order, in front of the guards. You can’t let this go, Dami.”

I roll up my shirtsleeves, accepting the drink he pours. “You shouldn’t have waited up.”

“Are you kidding?”

“It’s late.” I go toward the stairs, eager to see my wife.

“Dami.”

Irritation at his persistence simmers under my skin, but Zane is like a brother. We had each other’s backs in jail, and I swore I’d never let him down, which is why I squash the annoyance and pause to look at him.

“Tell me about the meeting. Tell me how they took it. I wish I could’ve seen their fucking faces when you dropped the bomb.”

“Tomorrow.”

His face falls, but he knows when to stop pushing me. I leave the drink on the table with the ridiculously oversized bunch of flowers and make my way up the stairs. On the threshold of my room, I stop to look at Lina. My wife. In the light that comes from the bathroom, I can make out her features. She looks peaceful in her sleep. One arm is raised above her head, cuffed to the bedpost. The other lies over her stomach. The sheets are a knotted mess at her feet, almost as messy as the crow’s nest of hair spread over my pillow. She must’ve tossed quite a bit to work that golden mass into such a tangle. Her plump lips are slightly parted, and her chest rises and falls with an even rhythm that’s soothing to watch.

Quietly, I walk to the edge of the bed. The long nightdress would normally cover everything from her neckline to her ankles, but the silk has hitched up around her legs, exposing a slender calf. Her feet are narrow and small, her toes perfectly proportioned from the big toe that’s the longest to the little toe that’s the shortest. Who the hell has perfect toes? Who in fuck’s name has sexy little toenails with moon-shaped cuticles and baby-pink nails?

The neckline of the hideous, black nightdress sits askew. The upper curve of her right breast shows. I own her, but not in a way that permits touching her in her sleep. Not yet. I do it, anyway, brushing my knuckles over that curve. Underneath the fabric, her bare nipple tightens. Fuck, I can’t stop myself. I drag my index finger over that hard, little tip. It pebbles further. She doesn’t stir. Testing my willpower, pushing my luck, I feel the full weight of her tit in my palm. She fits my hand like she was made for me. I move lower, smoothing my palm over her abdomen. Gently, I place her free arm next to her body. Like a doll. In her sleep, she lets me arrange her. It’s in her sleep, goddamn, but I tell myself she lets me, because I can drag my hand lower over her sex and between her thighs. She sighs. Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t wake. I take my exploration farther, the silk gliding under my greedy palm like the slickness of cum over a sweaty skin, and all I can think about is ejaculating everywhere on that skin.