“I’ll pee my pants,” she screeches as I easily find an opening to her armpits.
“Would be a valid lesson not to make fun of me,” I deadpan.
“Mika, please.”
Her pleas will be the death of me. I stop, dropping onto my back, and she sprawls half on my chest.
As she caresses my chest, I close my eyes, saying, “Let me sleep for a bit and then we can train that aim of yours.”
She squeals, and just knowing I can make her happy expands my chest. I love her music, but I fucking live to hear those joyful sounds she emits.
“I want to go on a picnic,” she suggests.
“Sure. Whatever you want,” I say, my voice groggy with tiredness.
Our eyes lock.
“You’re the best man.”
No, I am not. But to let someone else have her is unfathomable. That’s not what a good man would do, but a selfish one.
“Trying for you,” I rasp, sleep dragging me further into its seductive pull.
She whispers in my ear, “I’ll always take you as you are. You’re safe with me.”
I smile in her hair. “That’s my line, malishka.”
11
DAHLIA
He’s in my bed, sound asleep. My hungry eyes gorge on every inch of his carved in perfection face, down to his broad chest rippling with muscles with every deep inhale. I pinch myself just to be sure he’s real and not a figment of my imagination.
I feel his heart beating strongly under my palm—the sonata of my life. I don’t think mine would survive if his stopped. It’s more than love that I feel for him. It runs deeper than that. He’s embedded into my essence, like my very life is interlinked with his. The notion of soul mates comes to mind. Maybe that’s what we are. We never needed words to communicate; our hearts did it for us.
When I was younger, I cursed our age difference, hated that other women came before me. I would cry, lying in my bed, feeling desolate to my core.
I don’t care about that any longer. He has always been mine. He just didn’t know it yet. I can’t fault him for that. We women are more perceptive, more attuned to our inner world and feelings. I guess, more everything.
I could watch him for an eternity and never get enough of him.
My fingers itch to unbutton his shirt and reveal his chest, discovering what he got tattooed there that he protects so fiercely, but I don’t want to betray his trust. He will reveal it to me when he’s ready.
It already feels like I’ve gained so much. Smiling, I remember him calling me a brat. I don’t care. I’ve always been one. It was just buried under layers of desolation.
Trauma has no timeline. Healing takes time. It’s trying and failing until you succeed, and it varies from person to person. In my case, four years of merely surviving, never really living, is enough. Now that I’ve escaped its greedy talons sucking my soul dry, I am eager to savor all the life experiences I’ve missed.
I roll out of bed, careful not to wake him up. Maybe he feels my absence because his brows furrow, his lips thrusting into a pout.
“I’m here, baby. Always near,” I whisper.
My assurance seems to reach his subconscious because he relaxes, shifting to his side.
Moving to my dresser, I put on a denim shirt dress and some trainers, pulling my hair into a high ponytail.
I tilt my face at the reflection in the mirrored closet. I look different somehow. My face glows, my eyes sparkle. Maybe it’s the orgasm or maybe it’s his presence. Only the thought of this ending once my brother returns dampens my mood. A bit over one week left to fill the void in my heart and live off the memories we made.
Slipping out of my bedroom, I go downstairs, finding my mother in her sitting room. She places her book down on the round table between us and watches me with knowing eyes as I sit in the chair by her side.
