Chapter 37 SHARP EDGES AND SOFT CARESSẸS
Silverware clatters on plates. Chairs squeak on parquet floors. A string quartet’s version of “Joy to the World” plays in the background. The dinner portion of this ball is in full swing.
The aroma of butter-poached lobster and applewood-smoked quail, or the sweetness of the dark chocolate spiced curry scallops should entice me.
But my stomach twists instead.
I’m all too aware of the empty seat beside me, where my husband should be. As much as I don’t want to, a thread of worry tugs at my chest.
Where is Elias? He was supposed to be back before dinner began.
Why are you worried about him? He’s a butcher; he can damn well take care of himself.
I poke at the garden salad with my fork.
“Lana dear,” a familiar silken voice purrs.
I stiffen and look up. Shkelzen stares at me, the same slimy smile on his face.
“Your husband left you. Probably too tired of your ice-queen act.”
“At least he has a queen.” I spear some lettuce and stuff it into my mouth.
It was that or stab him in the eye.
He chuckles, nudging Agron. “The Anderson airs. They always thought they were too good for us.”
“And yet, here we are.” Agron smirks. “Her brothers are doing our bidding now. All to protect their precious younger sister.”
He swivels his tumbler, arrogance dripping off his frame. “What was it, cousin? Ten million? Or thirty? The amount of money we laundered through their hotels last month?”
“Fifty. All tied to their name.” Shkelzen chuckles, eyes full of victory. “Prime crop, our recent shipment from Lithuania. The girls aren’t even eighteen, but have the best tits and ass I’ve seen in a while.”
My knuckles tighten around my fork, face heating from rage.
We Andersons pride ourselves on our good name. We give back to the community. Open shelters. Donate to charities. It’s our philosophy.
And now, we’re tied to human trafficking.
Because of me.
My shoulders quake, tears burning behind my eyes.
Because of something I’m supposed to get at thirty-five. And I still have zero clue what it is.
We’re sitting ducks.
“And now, poor Lana has been dumped by her husband. Frigid bitch. Probably because she can’t fuck.”
The men laugh. My veins turn to ice.
“At least I’m not fucking you!” I snap, unable to help myself.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Shkelzen’s face darkens. He grabs my wrist and yanks me up.
Glasses knock onto the floor. Shocked gasps erupt in the room.
He twists my arm, and pain steals my breath. Fabric rips—the bastard tore off the strap of my dress. I gasp, clutching the tattered silk with my free hand.
“You fucking whore, how dare—”
Bang!
I flinch. Wetness splatters my face. The shot rings in my skull.
Everything freezes for a heartbeat. I look down.
Shkelzen’s hand has a gaping hole in it.
Screams of terror erupt. Chaos descends. Chairs knocked on the ground. Guns drawn, the security rushes in.
Movement comes from my right. A flash of black and green—Elias. He slams Shkelzen’s face on the table and grabs a steak knife.
Then a gurgled scream and blood.
Lots of blood.
Elias tosses something red onto the floor.
“A tongue!” Someone gasps.
My stomach lurches, but I can’t look away.
“What did I tell you last time?” Elias rasps into the bleeding man’s ear. “Touch my wife and lose a hand.”
Shkelzen howls in agony. He swats at Elias, but it’s useless.
“Because you didn’t listen, I threw in a tongue removal.” Elias yanks Shkelzen up and drags him to my feet.
“Didn’t your mom tell you, if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all?” Elias looks up, pinning me with his blazing green eyes. “Apologize to my wife. Wipe the blood from her shoes.”
I shake my head, but my husband’s glare roots me.
I’m to stay put. This is a matter of respect.
Shkelzen crawls, his bloody hand grazing my shoe. He smudges the blood away with a napkin.
“I-It’s fine,” I whisper.
When I look up, five guns are pointed at Elias. Edon’s face flushes, eyes murderous.
“How dare you?” he rasps.
Agron snarls, his aim unwavering. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do this.”
Elias wipes his hands with a napkin. He stares at his dirty tux in clear dismay.
“Fuck.” He tsks under his breath. “Such perfect craftsmanship. Ruined.”
Agron jams the muzzle harder into his temple.
A sick smile curves Elias’s lips. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
He nods at the O’Callaghans and Ivanovs, who have paused their earlier brawl. “That was appetizer. Dead man’s switch, gentlemen. I have more where that came from. Much more.”
Then he faces Edon. “What type of man would I be if I let someone disrespect my wife? And remember what happened in Sri Lanka.”
Someone coughs. One of the O’Callaghans shakes with laughter.
Edon’s face ashens. He sits down.
“Sit! Continue!” he commands. “Get Shkelzen to a hospital.”
People scurry at his command.
Elias dusts off his tux and offers his arm. “Wife. Shall we?”
Wordlessly, I nod, still clutching my ruined dress. I take his arm as he leads me away.
Whispers buzz, silverware clinks. “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” plays now. Normalcy resumes, and someone laughs.
These monsters.
My legs quake as we enter the main hall. But Elias is sturdy. He holds me up.
“Shhh,” he hushes me again, the back of his hand grazing my skin.
Like he doesn’t want to dirty me with his bloodstained fingers.
“A sewing kit,” he barks at an attendant.
He steers me into a dark room and turns on the light. It’s a sitting room.
The attendant returns and hands him the kit.
The room tilts when I sit down. My heart won’t stop racing. I clutch at my ruined dress like a lifeline.
“Deep breaths,” he murmurs, “it’ll be okay.”
Okay? Nothing about this is okay.
He frowns as he fiddles with the torn fabric. His touch is gentle and reverent.
“I hate that they touched you, my zemer,” he says softly.
His fingers trail down my arm. Flutters awake in my lower belly.
“What does that mean? Zemer?” He’s called me that a few times before.
A small smile curves his lips, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, a seductive warmth fills his gaze.
My heart races for a different reason. Slowly, he lifts my throbbing wrist and presses a gentle kiss on the red marks left by the asshole. The violence dissolves into tenderness. Desire curls between my legs.
What does this make me?
But I can’t find it in me to care anymore.
The seconds drag as Elias stares at the bruise forming on my wrist.
“I will kill him,” Elias growls, starting to rise.
“Don’t.”
He halts, his chest lifting and falling rapidly. His eyes sear mine as his throat works.
With a nod, he sits down and takes out his phone. Soon, “Für Elise” plays from the speakers.
My heart pounds, my gaze darts to him.
“Music can heal…at least, for someone like you.”
Something in my heart breaks at the resignation in his voice.
He thinks it’s too late for him.
Elias doesn’t look at me as he rummages through the sewing kit. He licks the string before threading the needle, the motion practiced.
My eyes burn, remembering the boy who used to work in garment sweatshops after school to put food on the table. The boy who smelled like sewing machine oil, who had calluses on his thumbs.
His fingers are nimble as he works the thread through the delicate fabric.
“The slip stitch. Nearly invisible for silk.” His words whisper across my skin. “Pull too hard, silk scars. The trick is to catch the weft, not the warp. One wrong move, the whole thing unravels.”
An old ache flares in my chest as I stare at his dark hair, thick brows, the strong nose, and the divot on his chin. His fingers are steady and careful. Those hands were supposed to hold scalpels and perform sutures. They were meant to save stray dogs and cats.
They were never supposed to kill.
I cover his hand with mine. He stills, not looking up. His shoulders tremble just once.
“Kian,” I whisper.
Silence pulses for a heavy beat.
“Do you know what the worst thing is?” he murmurs, lifting his head.
The ache in my chest becomes a searing pain.
Elias’s eyes glitter with unshed grief. Slowly, he cradles my face, his thumb wiping my tears away.
His fingers are covered in blood, the gunshot spatter from Shkelzen.
“If I knew what would happen,” he rasps, voice thick, “I wouldn’t change a thing. Because I got to spend that year with you.”
My heart pulverizes, and a sob wrenches from my throat.
He draws me against his chest. I listen to the reassuring thumps of his heart.
A love song, his love sonnet to me.
“Kian’s gone,” he whispers. “In his place is a monster. Don’t hope for anything more. You’ll be disappointed.”
With that, he snaps the thread, his finger trailing over the nearly invisible seam.
If only hearts could forget, could mend so seamlessly.
I’m afraid he has stitched his permanent mark onto mine.