Chapter 9 Melody
Melody
Flies buzz around the corpse. They never stop. They eat and breed, maggots writhing beneath the surface of his greasy skin. Even in death, he could never escape that slime-like shine over his features. I whisper prayers to gods I don't believe in for the insects to eat his eyes.
But when the glassy orbs are replaced by red, bare sockets? It's worse. Fuck, it's so much worse.
"Melody?" Dante's gentle voice snaps me out of my hellish vision.
"Huh?" I manage to mumble out, not quite believing I'm deep in Appalachia with him. With Roman. With Melnyk and the others, but no Helena.
"Where'd you go?" he asks, eyes searching mine for answers that I don't want to give.
"You know where she went," Roman interrupts. "None of us could keep her safe. She has to live with what she did. And so do we."
Roman stands and nods to me before disappearing down the stairs. His door slamming shut echoes around the concrete space. Melnyk approaches me and carefully lays a hand on my shoulder.
"I've seen many things, miss. The horrors of war spare no man." He shakes his head. "I have never been locked in a room with the rotting dead, though. You are very strong."
The other men—Forge, Moore, and Nihil—nod solemnly and shift in their seats.
They don't seem like a very talkative bunch, and I'm pretty grateful for that.
I don't want to rehash everything over and over again.
I know I can't go back to my old life. Not yet, anyway.
But god, I wish I could. I miss practicing still life sketches with Helena.
I miss running up Dante's credit card with spa days. I miss doing whatever I want.
It's funny. I never had that luxury for my whole life until Dante swooped in.
Most people don't get those kinds of luxuries ever.
But I miss it. If I dig down deep enough, I kind of miss the greasy diner and my ratty apartment.
I miss anything and everything that isn't being holed up in this safe house.
The one saving grace here is Dante. Dante, my good boy, who's currently gently stroking the back of my neck with the little slivers of fingernail he's allowed to grow out.
Dante, who fought his best friend for making an offhand remark about…
well, me and my husband's masculinity. Ugh, men.
Sometimes, it sucks that I'm so attracted to this one.
Though it doesn't suck that bad. Especially when he looks at me with those beautifully green eyes, rimmed with thick, dark lashes.
And if I'm being honest with myself, watching him fight Roman tooth and nail was kind of hot. Am I really about to let him off that easy? For lying to me—by omission—for, what, a year?
A gentle warmth emanates from my chest as I look down at my husband snuggled into my side. Shit. Yeah, I'm gonna let him out of the doghouse. But not before a little more groveling at my feet from him. That was… shockingly hot.
"My love?" Dante places a tender hand on my forearm. "What can I do for you?"
"You—"I pat his cheek a little harder than I mean to. "—can be my good little puppy, if it doesn't offend your masculinity."
Something like lust flashes across his face as he makes a strangled sound, trying to cover it up with a cough.
I crook my finger and pointedly stalk towards the stairs, down to our concrete-walled bedroom. My husband follows me just like the puppy Roman accused him of being. Good. He approaches me with open arms, but I shake my head.
"No. Down."
Dante immediately drops to his knees, hands shaking as he curls them into fists and hangs his head. "I'm sorry, love."
"Show me." I cock my head to the side and stare down my nose at him. "Show me how fucking sorry you are, Dante. You want my forgiveness? It's like I said. Fucking beg."
My husband lowers himself to his forearms and knees.
I hear him suck in a breath, but I don't want him to beg with words.
Not yet. I gently place my foot on his shoulder and apply just a little bit of pressure, just a touch, forcing his forehead closer and closer to the floor.
He gasps and shudders, swallowing what sounds like a rumbling moan.
Oh, he likes this? Good. So do I. I force him down further, watching him shift his hips to the side.
No doubt his erection is pressing into the cold floor.
There's a tiny part of me that wants to see it, but I want to watch him suffer more.
Like a benevolent goddess, I release my hold on him, and he twitches.
His beautiful green eyes look up at me, rimmed with tears and those luscious, dark lashes. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Please, love. I'm so sorry. You're right. You're always right. I'm a fucking idiot—please, love, please forgive me. Let me touch you."
The sight of him like this, panting on the floor beneath my feet, burns a fire deep in my soul. I can't help but smirk at the powerful man on his knees. "Not yet."
"Soon?" The word ejects itself forcefully from his lips as he starts to tremble. I almost want to let him.
Almost.
"Maybe." Bracing myself on the concrete walls, I slide my foot to his shoulder and push him down again. He falls to his hands and bows low to the floor. Every ragged breath he takes fills me with a sadistic—but also sort of loving?—glee.
"Please, love. Please let me touch you. I swear on my own grave that I'll never keep anything from you again.
I want you—I want to be worthy of you, my love.
Please. Melody, my wife, my queen. I will slit the throats of your enemies in front of you.
I will gift you their blood. Just let me fucking touch you, please," he whimpers.
"You'll slit their throats? You? No. Wrong." I dig my heel into his shoulder again. "Try again."
"You're right, of course—I'm sorry, love.
I will deliver them to you and watch you make another masterpiece.
I'll gasp and applaud—I'll adore anything and everything you create.
I swear. I promise. Please, Melody, please.
Forgive me. I need your touch. I need to touch you.
I need… you." He bows deeper and presses his forehead to my other foot. "Please, love."
When he puts his mind to it, he's very good at apologizing. I never thought a spoiled, little, rich boy like him would be, but I like to be surprised on occasion.
"Fine. One touch below the knee, not to exceed five seconds." I smile as he snaps his head up to look at me. "Make it count."
He snakes a hand around my ankle and kisses the top of my foot, letting out a contented sigh.
"Thank you, my love." Before I know it, both of his hands are working the tight muscles of my calf as his heated breath flutters over my flesh.
Liquid heat pools in my core, and I really do want him to do more, but playing with him like this is so much fun.
Counting the seconds in my head, I watch as he worships me.
That's really the only word for it. My husband is groveling on the floor before me, worshiping at my feet.
I watch a shiver overtake him and zap down his spine as he kneads the thick muscles of my leg.
I happily sigh as he pays special attention to the sore spots where my prison-issue shoes rubbed against my heels.
He doesn't massage the blisters, of course, but he ghosts his fingertips over the irritated skin and makes little comforting sounds.
Amendment to the "no touching" agreement: he is allowed to massage me.
"One," I whisper. He yanks his hands back and mumbles his thanks under his breath. "Good boy."
Another shiver runs down his spine, and his pupils blow wide as he looks up at me. His little pink tongue flicks out between his lips. "Thank you, love. Thank you. I swear I'll prove myself to you again."
"I know you will, babe." I reach down and tangle my fingers in his jet black hair. "I know you will."
A knock on the steel door wrenches me from sleep. In an instant, I'm yanked back to the prison. I brace myself for the loud screams, the violent metal-on-metal of cell doors slamming shut, and the infuriating buzz of fluorescent lighting… but it doesn't come.
"Sir?" Roman's hushed tones calm me at once. "Sir, Ella's gone dark."
"Fuck," Dante grunts as he rouses himself from the makeshift pallet on the floor. I didn't force him out of the bed, by the way. He chose to banish himself to the floor until he's back in my good graces (it's working).
"What's that mean?" I ask.
"She isn't on the job. She hasn't returned to any of her known properties. And I don't like the idea of us not knowing about all of her properties," Roman clears his throat. "We don't know where she is."
"Any highway cameras?" Dante asks as he staggers to his feet. "How long has she been out of sight?"
"No, and about four hours." Roman rubs his temples.
"I don't like that," I stutter out. "Four hours? How far are we from Philly?"
"Six hours, give or take." Roman opens the metal cabinet I've been using as a wardrobe.
He pulls out a pair of pants and thick wool socks, along with a black long-sleeve shirt, before throwing the clothes onto the bed.
"I don't mean to alarm you both, but we need to be ready to leave at a moment's notice. "
Fuck. Wow, okay. Not caring that my husband's right-hand man is standing in our doorway, I shimmy out of my sleep clothes (the ratty shorts and T-shirt I've had for almost a decade) and quickly pull on the new clothes. "What's the plan? Stand our ground?"
"Not this time, love." Dante offers me a sad smile. "We don't know what kind of reinforcements she might have. And I'll be goddamned before I let you die in a Waco reenactment."
"Are we the cult in this scenario?" I grimace and suck my teeth. I don't really like that idea.
"I mean, I wouldn't make a one-to-one comparison—" Dante starts before Roman cuts him off.