Doves and Demons (Taking Flight Book 1)

By S. Marie Rose

I loved him. At least I thought I loved him. But I was just a game to him. Nothing more. The day I gave him my hand in marriage, he gave me a look into the Hell that would be my future. A glimpse into the nightmare of what it meant to be his wife. My husband was the first to have my heart. The first to have my body. And, the first to make me wish I was dead. Thanks to Johnny Cruz, I will never allow myself to love again. Thanks to Johnny Cruz, I don't even have a heart left to try.

Charlotte Cole is a young woman trying to figure out how she ended up in the center of chaos and heartbreak. After some thinking, it's not hard to determine the starting point of all her pain...Love. She thought she knew the man she married. She thought she had life all planned out. But it only took her wedding night to realize she married the Devil himself and quickly learned what it was like to live and breathe in Hell.

When everything she worked so hard for starts falling down around her, it's her new neighbor that surprisingly picks up the pieces. Deklan O'Malley is something from another world. Tall and built like a god, his lopsided grin and warm, knowing eyes do little to expose the lethal Marine that lies within. He;s not only the most handsome man she's ever laid eyes on, but he makes her feel safe. Considering Charlie's life has suddenly turned into this very dangerous game, safety is a luxury she can't afford to take for granted.

It's a heart-wrenching story full of secrets, love and betrayal. Where good and evil collide and you're left to wonder if you can ever trust anyone again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Marie Rose
• Release date: May 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463476451

S. Marie Rose

Who is S. Marie Rose? It's simple really...she's just a girl trying to do something that makes her happy. A mom trying to do what's best for her children and a woman that after years of silencing her dreams has finally decided to take a chance. S.Marie Rose is a Romance author from CT. She's dedicated to her two crazy little boys and running a non-profit program for individuals with intellectual disabilities. Her first book Doves and Demons is a full length romantic suspense novel that kicks off the Taking Flight Series. Loaded with twists and turns and so many "OMG!" moments, readers are in for a wild ride with this suspenseful trilogy.

Book preview

So, here I am. Back at the very place I swore I’d never return. I was baptized here. Confirmed here, even—Geez, it’s hard to say out loud—married here.

I gave my grandfather’s eulogy right at that very podium, three months later did the same for my closest cousin.

Under the speckled prism of this same stained glass, I’ve seen life transpire. And, as the years have rolled by, I have seen it end. Some people call it the circle of life. I call it a lesson in creative writing.

At your baptism, you’re surrounded by a small group of loved ones, a close knit of family and friends. It’s on this day that you’ve unknowingly opened the book to the first page of your personal story. It’s also the day that you’re given the chance to decide exactly which words will one day blanket the pages.

Everything in the beginning is always good. You’re protected by a safety net that is the people you love, while the choices in life are made on your behalf. For your sake, this cluster of protectors has—for you—rejected Satan, accepted God, and promised a life everlasting.

Someone else has picked up the old-fashioned quill, dipped it in ink and penned the details of the fairytale they hoped you’d one day get to live. It’s here, in this moment, where— Once upon a time…—actually does exist. Where you innocently trust with all your heart and fiercely love with all your soul. You believe in the good of man. You have faith in the sanctity of humanity.

Then life happens.

No more can you blame your decisions on adolescence, wrong doings on inexperience. Misfortunes are no longer anyone else’s fault but your own. The training wheels get ripped off and you’ve yet to learn to ride. The quill has been passed on and you’ve yet to master the art of legible penmanship.

You’re a chef without an oven. A surgeon without a knife.

You’ve suddenly become the sole heir to your very own destiny, and no one cares whether you’re ready to accept such an important mission or not.

If anything is worthwhile to remember, let it be this—Not one person, at any time, will ask you if you’re ready. They won’t, at any time, see if you’re prepared. Of course, they can try to hold your hand, but they’ll never once be able to walk in your shoes. For the town can only pave the streets, it’s the driver that must learn to navigate the terrain.

You see, the world never stops spinning. The sun will rise just as sure as it will set, and neither is contingent on whether or not you’re prepared to travel the long road ahead. They don’t give you a map. They don’t scribble down directions.

It’s up to you to find your way.

Somewhere down this road, a few pages of your book will become tattered and ripped. Others have been lost all together. You find that there are days where you seemingly have nothing to write, while other days, there doesn’t seem to be enough room to jot it all down. Then, there are the days where you’re just doodling along the edges of scraps and loose leaf, chasing away uncertainty and cursing away despair. To be lost in the peace that comes from swirling your pen around the page will understandably be your only solace in a life that’s often full of chaos and disaster.

Along the way, try to remember that the middle is often the hardest, as it’s the part of your book where, once upon a time, really means, when shit actually made sense. The part that determines how the end will play out, the prelude to the conclusion of your life. Will you sink? Or, will you swim?

Here, you test your own limits, walk those thin lines and play Russian Roulette with your morals and values. It’s the introduction to true temptation, the part they warned you about in the beginning. The part you were too young to remember. It’s a coming out of sorts. A true testament to your strength and the basic foundation of your character. When the devils arrive to declare war with the angels. When just one bad decision is all it takes to determine what the future will hold.

Then, like most things in life, it’s here before you know it. The end is your future and your time to change the script is gone. If your story was worthwhile, someone will stand at that podium and extract excerpts from your book.

With tear stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, she’ll read them to the crowd before her and they too will shed a tear for the one they’ve lost. The contents of your book will determine who shows up to say farewell. That is, if your story was worth an audience at all.

Some who have traveled to pay their respects will take what they’ve learned from your book and rewrite their own endings. Others will remain complacent, arrogantly assuming they’ll have their own set of mourners regardless.

Writing your own story will never seem as important as it is until now. Until of course, it’s too late. When you realize this whole time, you were the teacher of the lesson. Those in the crowd—your students.

It’s my own story that I’m worried about. In my short life, I’ve not only danced with the devil, I’ve slept in his bed. I’ve allowed his touch to singe my skin, and his presence to devour my soul.

For Eve, he came in the form of a deceitful snake. For me, he came in the form of love.

As I watch the faithful flame pass from stick to candle at the feet of St. Peter, I pray, hoping that I’ll live long enough to finish my story myself.

I never planned to be back here.

I never planned for any of this.

Chapter One

The Big Day

Six Years ago

My eyes hurt. Once two large brown orbs of certainty are now narrowed with nerves. The ache comes from scanning along the path before me, up then down, then up some more. I had done it more times than I could physically count and had a throbbing pain in my temple to prove it.

For almost five minutes, I had done nothing but estimate the exact distance from here where I’ll start to there where I’ll end. Each time coming up with a different number than the one before it.

One hundred feet.

It was a guess but one that seemed to fall somewhere in the middle of my previous assumptions.

Was I nervous? Yes. But mostly excited.

When my father took me by the arm before I had the chance for any additional calculations, I almost fainted. If somewhere there happened to be a technique to curtail the beating of an anxious heart, I wished briefly that I’d researched it beforehand. The steady walk to my future continued. The destination appearing further out of reach than originally predicted.

One hundred feet my ass. It seemed I had signed up for some type of religious pilgrimage. In fact, I’m sure Moses made it to Mount Sinai in less time.

Dad tugged a bit around my arm as if able to read my mind, forcing me to give Moses the benefit of the doubt, secretly reminding me that obtaining the commandments was far more taxing than marrying the man I loved.

It’s not just the length of the aisle or the sloth like procession in which I was partaking in that had me on edge. No, it was the extra time it gave my critics in the crowd to concoct the most disreputable philosophies on not only what had brought us to that very moment, but more importantly why we were there.

They thought I didn’t notice, but I did. It was practically written all over their faces. All over their tight-lipped smiles and narrowing eyes. The shot heard ‘round the world all over again. After all, history does have the tendency to repeat itself, right?

I’m afraid this time however, the devastating blow was blasted straight from the barrel of the sawed-off shotgun. The sound almost deafening as it ping-pinged off the walls of the cathedral.

Logically, when you’re four months pregnant, draped in a blinding white wedding gown, one that just so happens to fall perfectly over the tiny bump that is your stomach, it often reaps such a reaction. Still, I wished they would have just stayed home. Stone Throwers!

The elder women of the family clearly had a problem with the entire picture, more so than the rest of the naysayers. The poufy headed flock took one look at the virginal color of my dress through their bifocal lenses and made no attempt to hide their disgust.

Their hands actually shook in a fit of fury, as they white-knuckled whichever medical apparatus they’d chosen to stable their wobbly legs for the day. I smirked as we glacially moved forward, passing the gaggle of blabbermouths with purposeful steps of leisure, grinning brightly in their direction as I did, even despite the potent odor of moth balls and denture glue.

The three women, infamous for their hardened scowls, were all dressed in their finest muumuus as they shook their heads in disapproval.

Miserable old maids.

My soon to be husband stood tall in the distance, patiently awaiting my arrival and very much so, erasing any previous thoughts clear from the hard drive of my brain. With the simple black tux doing wonders to accentuate his fit frame, I couldn’t help but press my legs together to stop from going into premature labor.

He wore a slate gray tie that lightened his eyes to a color that reminded me of fine whiskey, caramel and distinct, hypnotically drawing me closer. The glowing beams reflected off me as I continued to remind myself to put one foot in front of the other.

The smell of the fresh cut peonies in various shades of pinks and whites in my hand, swarmed my senses. My mind, suddenly the biggest fan of, The Little Engine That Could, practically sputtered exhaust fumes in an effort to simply process that this—my wedding—was actually happening.

The feel of hundreds of eyes penetrating my skin continued to unnerve me some. Being the center of attention was high up on the list of my dislikes, coming in third, just under raisins and green peas.

Only this was different. Certainly, I wasn’t going to be eating peas or raisins anytime soon. But everyone looking at me? That was something I wasn’t sure I knew how to handle.

Surprisingly, as I continued, the expected feeling of panic was missing. Sure, there were heavy stares from some and gasps of admiration of my beauty from others, but I mostly chose to ignore the crowd. In the moment, I was only thinking about the future that stood before me and the past that had paved its way for this exact moment.

So much had happened in such a short time. Hard to believe the worst of it was just two months ago. Sixty-three and a half days to be exact. Lying to the grand jury and committing perjury made it easy to remember these particulars.

The things we do for love, right?

As if tuning into the horror that I’ve tried so hard to bury, my father gave another slight squeeze where our arms connected. The sensation only serving to remind me of the cross I bore.

Suddenly, the squeeze turned into a chokehold and I was suffocated by his presence. So often the guilt made it difficult to breathe. Many times, it crept up unannounced, almost plague-like, willing and prepared to cause enormous amounts of damage.

I may have been able to keep the horrid details of the arrest from everyone, but it didn’t mean that I had come to terms with it. The burden of dishonesty and betrayal sat like bricks on my shoulders as I walked down the aisle, arm in arm, with the man that had provided, loved and protected me unconditionally since the day I was born.

I could never let him know the truth. Never let him know what I’ve gone through. What I’ve done.

Nobody could know that I deliberately put my career in jeopardy. Or, that I almost threw my entire education right down the dirty, hair-clogged drain.

What If they knew that I actually risked birthing a baby behind bars without as much as a second thought? What would they say then? Why not just hand over the, Mother of the Year award before my water breaks?

If the plan had gone sideways, I could have very well been another burden for the taxpayers, a mere statistic in the Department of Correction’s annual review.

In the event it had backfired, I—Charlotte Cole, would have been locked away in a dingy looking jail cell for five to ten years, participating in some sort of scavenger hunt where I spent all my time looking for Jesus and coming up with the most creative ways to eat ramen noodles.

Worst of all would’ve been the ungodly colored orange jumpsuits, the definition of cruel and unusual if I do say so myself. They were all likely scenarios had anyone found out that I committed a felony to save the man I loved.

Imagining the disappointment in Dad’s face was so unbearable my eyes filled with tears just thinking about it. And when he looked down at me, tears streaming from his own eyes, I had no choice but to look away for the sake of keeping my composure.

Two hours, twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

That’s how much time was spent in the wee hours of the morning, preparing for this very moment. Having body parts pulled, plastered and placed in convoluted formations just to look as glamorous as possible, wasn’t going to be for nothing. Strange people fondling my boobs, waxing my legs and discussing the appropriate shape of my pubic hair, was not going to be for nothing.

I will not ruin my makeup.

Besides, I told myself. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, right?

Johnny promised he wouldn’t ever go down that path again. A path, I’m embarrassed to admit, I never knew existed until that infamous night. He promised to be the father he had always dreamed of, the one he never had. He vowed he would take care of me. Take care of us.

There’s nothing to worry about.

With the final few steps behind me, I came face to face with the man I was ready and willing to pledge my life to.

My father gave my hand to Johnny, patting him on the back in a show of approval, telling the man that I was about to marry that even though I’d soon be his wife, first and foremost, I would always be daddy’s little girl and that it would do him well to remember it.

Before God, our family and friends we said, I do and in the moment, everything felt perfect.

You may now kiss the bride! The priest proclaimed to a sea full of supporters and gossip chasers who were all visibly excited to lap up the free alcohol waiting for them at the reception.

Like a sprinter at the sound of a starting pistol, Johnny all but jumped at the opportunity to follow the pastor’s orders. Pulling me close and kissing me hard, he claimed my mouth twenty feet away from the bloodied replica of Jesus.

Shocked, the urgency of his embrace had me expelling a series of nervous giggles.

Let’s be real here, being pregnant in a white dress was show stopping enough, we certainly did not need to start dry humping each other in the House of God.

Though, I must confess, I’d be lying if I didn’t imagine Great Aunt Mildred passing out from having to witness the very public display of affection. The image had me smiling briefly against Johnny’s kiss of desperation.

The smile was short lived.

Johnny’s tongue plunged deeper into my mouth, leaving me with no choice but to push away from the man I had just married, careful to do it in a way that wouldn’t draw unwanted attention to what appeared to be our first disagreement as a married couple.

Caring little about the hedonistic display, he tugged back at my hands. A move that forced me to take a quick step forward as to not fall flat on my face. Convincing myself he was acting nothing more than playful, overly excited even, to be united as man and wife, I looked up into his eyes and grinned.

That’s when I noticed it. Something was wrong. Off.

Even the air of the church seemed to have cooled to an almost unbearable temperature

The look in Johnny’s eyes sent the fun-loving upturn of my mouth running for cover. They had changed. The two hazel iris’s that I had agreed to give my life to darkened and dilated a little. Frosted and narrowed a bit. A horrifying gleam sat deep within his pupils. Bone chilling mischief sat confidently within his grin. If I hadn’t known better, I’d swear we were all standing witness to a real-life demonic possession. A cold chill ran through my body. An intense feeling of unease radiated my core.

What just happened?

He moved in once more, lightly kissing me on the lips, then adding another gentle peck to my cheek. The heat from his clean-shaven face warmed my suddenly frozen body, in a way only the Devil could warm the tundra. I smiled warily as the crowd gazed onward, approving of what—to them—was nothing more than a mutual display of affection.

Stuck in the unfamiliar embrace with Johnny, my eyes fell to my parents. Sitting proudly in the crowd, Mom clasped a tissue in her hand, holding it to her chest, while Dad nodded admiringly at the sight before him. Disappointing them could never be an option which is why I found myself pleased that their seats weren’t up closer.

Working his way from my neck, Johnny grazed his nose along the side of my face. The pressure of his cheekbone fell firmly against my temple, setting his mouth just inches away from my ear.

You’re mine now, Charlie. You belong to me. He crooned callously, careful to be sure that only I was the one that received the message.

The opportunity to think about what was going on in that moment dissipated when he grabbed my hand and turned me to our audience for the announcement of all announcements.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Juan Maxwell Cruz!

The church erupted in echoing applause, a diversion that served only to block the sound of my breaking heart.

Chapter Two

A Devil in Sheep’s Clothing

Champagne bottles popped in the limo like fireworks on the Fourth of July. One after another, the sound of the cork leaving the confines of the bottle neck blasted through my rattled nerves, making it almost unbearable to withstand.

Those privileged enough to ride with the newlyweds, roared with congratulatory exclamations and sentimental speeches. I was only able to smile politely in acknowledgement of their kind words.

Everyone looked so happy. My parents looked as if they a were on cloud nine. My brother Nick, the quintessential middle child and renowned Playboy, was actually sitting with his current flavor of the week, showing her something that closely resembled affection in a public setting. I hadn’t caught the name of the lucky guest as introductions to my brother’s newest conquests were never necessary. She’d be gone soon. They were always gone soon. Wasting my breath wasn’t on the agenda for the day.

The cool bubbles of the non-caffeinated diet soda tried hard to please yet failed miserably at the task. Maybe it was the lack of caffeine, or the fact that it wasn’t champagne that filled my fluted glass the way it did for everyone else. Either way, I still couldn’t find that feeling of serenity that should’ve been present in the moment.

A quick glance around and I realized there was someone else in attendance that hadn’t quite found what they were looking for out of the day.

When I boldly alluded that everyone looked happy, I’d forgotten someone.

Forgotten or purposely omitted? I suppose that’s the real question.

Meet Christopher. The oldest of the three Cole siblings. How I’d ever overlook the brawny beast that sat across from me was anyone’s guess.

His demeanor was predictable. Rolling his eyes and staring at his phone. His two favorite pastimes.

My big brother was a dateless, grumpy and giant overprotective pain in the ass. Worst of all, he hated Johnny, despised him really and his distaste for all things joyful had grown significantly over time as his job added more stress than required for his thirty-two years. To me it was clear, the side effects that often stemmed from increased pressure and added responsibility were taking their toll on this man that had once been so carefree and happy. I felt for my brother. I really did. But why should I care what he thought?

Because you do. You always do. My subconscious reminded me.

The thick beard growing on his usually mildly stubbled face, was all the proof needed to figure out that he was onto another case. It was my brother after all. The master of disguise. The man of many faces. The Frank Abagnale of the new generation—well, the legal version anyway. He may not have been a criminal, but he was a very large thorn that had been impaled in my ass since birth.

So, who are you today, Chris? Other than a massive buzzkill of course. My question pulled him from his cloud of misery.

His eyes shifted from his phone, glaring at me with the brotherly annoyance I’d come to know so well. The neon lighting of the limo turned his complexion a variety of rainbow-like colors. Normally, I’d poke fun of the way his head resembled some sort of strobe light straight from a 1970’s disco club but the queasiness of my stomach, combined with the no-nonsense glower in his eyes, dissuaded me from any form of levity.

The goal of being undercover Pip, is to keep the fact that I’m undercover a secret. He sat back then, trying to ignore the buzzing of his phone in his right hand and failing at the task. Plus, you know I don’t mix work and family."

When his phone finally stopped vibrating, he brought his attention back to me and for a second, he just stared as if he were committing the moment to memory. As he soaked in the image of his baby sister in her wedding dress, something that looked a lot like emotion flickered in his eyes but just as fast as it appeared it was gone. The glimmer of humanity faded, and I wondered quickly if shape shifting was a real thing.

Looks like you don’t mix family with anything lately. I’m surprised you even recognized us honestly. That got his attention. It was a low blow, sure, but it was true just the same. I tossed the frustrated words in his direction, fully knowledgeable that they would sting and hopeful that the aftershocks would last a while.

My oldest brother leaned back against the seat, brought one ankle up to rest on the opposite knee while slinging his left arm on top of the leather padded limo bench. To anyone else, he looked relaxed. To me? I knew he was anything but.

You know I love you, Pip. Always have. Always will. Christopher chanced a glance at Johnny then, doing his best for my sake, to keep his unpleasant thoughts to himself.

I rolled my eyes at his petty behavior. And I love you, big brother. Always did. Always do.

The look on his face worried me. It was a look that told me there was a lot more going on in my brother’s life than I’d ever be able to imagine. The sympathetic smile that sat along his bearded chin did nothing to ease my concern.

Then I watched in awe as it happened again, the eyes of the toughest, roughest man I knew glistened momentarily with a moisture that would never be released and a feeling of complete sorrow took over my body. His troubled grin lingered longer than usual, and regret etched itself deeply into the corners of his deep brown eyes. I knew then that something definitely wasn’t right.

The urge to ask questions sat there on the tip of my tongue but I would’ve been a fool to think he’d ever tell me anything, so I swallowed the inquiry down, hoping that the fog of dread that seemed to be hanging over his head was merely just a passing cloud and not a precursor for disaster.

Unsure how to offer the support I knew he needed but would never request, I placed my hand on his leg. Eventually he covered my hand with his own, squeezing lightly, but saying nothing.

If only I knew that this intimate moment, would have been one of the last moments, I probably would’ve squeezed back.

My brother, the rugged, overprotective introvert that he was, returned his gaze to his phone and just like that I lost him.

Johnny clanked his glass of champagne with his groomsmen, a handful of men that I had never met until that morning. The congratulatory sound pulled me out of my moment with Christopher and brought my attention back to the rowdy festivities that were transpiring all around me. Luckily, I was able to shake away the nerves I felt from earlier at the church by repeatedly convincing myself that I was simply reading too far into Johnny’s change of behavior on the altar. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, the declaration looped in my head until I had no choice but to agree. After all, making mountains out of mole hills had always been a well-known habit of mine.

By the time we arrived at THE COVE, the area’s most elite oceanfront banquet venue, I had already forced myself to forget about the incident altogether.

For five hours we sat and listened to one drunken family member after another toast to our future. I watched with glinted eyes as my parents danced to their own wedding song, then laughed uncontrollably at my brother Nicholas’ attempt at the Cha-Cha slide.

The day had been more than I could ever have dreamed of. I had mentioned cloud nine earlier, only right then I had surpassed the clouds and taken on the moon. My happiness had me floating aimlessly among the celestial bodies of the Milky Way, bouncing weightlessly from one part of our solar system to the other, until I was more than eager to finally get home to be with my husband.

Husband? My inner voice gleamed. I can get used to saying that.

Anxiety to be all alone with Johnny gobbled me whole. Even more ready was I to surprise him with the incredibly see-through lingerie I had purchased for tonight, with him in mind, as dressing myself in something so scandalous was a first for me.

A subtle blush dabbed the apples of my cheeks, all while a swarm of bats fervently flapped their stealthy wings throughout the cave that was my chest.

Never much of an over-dramatic romantic, I couldn’t help but imagine what the night had in store. I closed my eyes and pictured candles lit throughout the house. The soft flicker of flames casting shadows of our bodies onto the freshly painted walls. I could see rose petals—smooth and silky to the touch—placed strategically in a trail that led to our bedroom while I envisioned myself lying on the soft satin of our sheets in nothing but my new lingerie, sated and peaceful.

And there he was—my husband. Hovering above me like a protective shield, careful not to add too much pressure.

Goosebumps exploded onto my skin at the image of Johnny spending extra time placing chaste, loving kisses, to the lowest part of my growing belly. I could see the discipline required to have me as tenderly as I deserved caught deep within the muscles of his neck.

Lost in the image of him making love to me until the morning light shined through the windows, my skin practically burned with need. Over and over again, we’d christen every room with love in our new home and make memories that would last a lifetime.

I could almost hear his voice. I listened quietly as he told me how much he loved me, how badly he wanted me and how good I made him feel. My core temperature skyrocketed as the pictures of the immediate future flashed before me, the limbs of my body weakened by a love I had never known.

Every extremity tingled with the curiosity to roam the depths and divots of the lean muscle that adorned him, and I didn’t know how much longer I could wait.

We barely made it through the front door before I was trembling with expectancy. Closing my eyes as we crossed the threshold, the time had come to be swept off my feet. When the door shut and the sound of the latch clicking into place bounced off the walls, it meant one thing and one thing only…

It was only us.

Two people in love, ready for the new life that lie ahead. My eyes popped open in anticipation, prepared for all my dreams to come true.

Only it was dark.

No candles or petal-soaked trails in sight.

I forced myself to hide my disappointment, repeating the same mantra in my head, the one that told me none of that mattered. That this moment was solely about us and the love we had for each other. Soft candlelight and fresh cut roses could never top that.

So, I turned to Johnny, needing to look into the eyes of the man I loved, ready to begin this incredible journey.

But Johnny was gone. Replaced by an evil doppelganger that I was certain existed only in my imagination earlier in the day at the altar. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he managed to successfully knock the wind completely out of my chest with merely a look. One glance from his soulless eyes and the hot blood that once filled my body was abruptly frozen. I could almost hear it crackle as it ceased in its routine passing though my veins.

My heart pleaded for the ability to beat, but the winter wonderland that had become my insides refused to allow such a process.

In seconds he was ravenous and forcefully pulling me into his torso. The hand in which I had placed his wedding band just hours before ripped at the bodice of my wedding dress. Moonlight streamed through the window, bouncing off the platinum band in quick and abrupt flashes. The universes’ S.O.S., a warning of impending doom.

It was the same hand, the very one he gave to me as a symbol of devotion, that angrily slashed the delicate material into pieces, leaving me bare to him from the waist up.

Johnny took over my existence, stealing my thoughts and shredding my dignity. Hungry and unapologetic. Cruel and merciless.

Stunned and so completely taken aback by the animalistic possessiveness over my body, I shivered in fear. The predatory growls and grumbles of demonic desire stifled my breathing. My head spun into a whirlwind until I was unsure if I was awake or stuck in some kind of nightmarish hell. I could feel him as his grip dug into my flesh, hear him as the carnal sounds of domination sat like smog within the air. Within the man I thought I knew, sat the uncontrollable inclination to own, the insurmountable need to control. It was all there in that very room, the reality becoming clearer by the second—we were never alone.

The lack of oxygen had me lightheaded. A small gasp left my lungs, bringing me back to the detestable reality that in a matter of minutes I had come to know as married life.

I couldn’t seem to muster up the proper emotions. No words, because there weren’t any. No feelings, because right then I was numb. My mind was scrambling to put the reality of what was happening into perspective. A difficult task considering I needed to concentrate so hard on the basic skill that was to simply breathe in and then out.

Why is he doing this? My inner voice asked in a tone as shaky as the rest of my body.

Johnny bit my ear, seeming to know how to stop my thoughts while silently giving me the answer I feared the most…

Because I can!

He repeated the cannibalistic behavior, sinking his teeth into the meat of my shoulder then dragging his nose along the reddened mark before skirting his face along the length of my collarbone. He then pressed his cheekbone into my bare and lifeless skin before breathing me in through flaring nostrils as he continued to inhale the scent of my flesh, becoming increasingly more aroused when he could smell the fear that seeped out from my pores.

Tonight Mrs. Cruz, I am going to show you what it feels like to be a possession. To be owned. Because for the rest of your life—I. OWN. YOU.

Words I’d never forget. Words that would haunt me for years to come.

Another nip to the lobe of my ear brought me back to the here and now against my will. This time he drew blood. I barely felt the sting of the intrusion as he marked me.

Panic and confusion warped my thought processes as he ripped and tore at my wedding dress until it was lying in a pile of chiffon and beaded lace. Shredded into jagged pieces. Bunched into heaps of scraps.

Forgotten in the corner.

Shocked into silence, a single tear made its way down my cheek as the love of my life made good on his promise to possess my body with unabated aggression. And in that moment, Johnny’s plans became apparent…

That day, I didn’t agree to be his wife. No. That day—unbeknownst to me—I had agreed to just be his.

Never did I get the chance to wear my lingerie.

Chapter Three

Adonis

Present Day

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

The shower makes an annoying squeak as I turn off the water to deal with the unnecessary pounding on my door

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

What the hell? Give me a minute, would ya? The robe that hangs loosely on the hook by the bathroom door is yanked violently until it’s in my grip. The silver locket, a gift from my brother Christopher, snags on the robe’s silky material. A regular annoyance but I hardly take the pendant off, so I deal with it.

I really hate unexpected visitors!

The wild mane of hair on my head is saturated, dripping down the length of my back in a cascade of uncomfortable lukewarm droplets. What’s even more frustrating is that I have no time to dry it, thanks to the impatience of whoever is playing the bongos on my front door.

The sash ties tightly around my waist, closing the lavender robe across my naked front as my body scampers through my home, prancing swiftly about like an angry fairy, in a rush to sprinkle poisonous pixie dust on the unwanted visitor.

Wet imprints from my footsteps appear on the hardwood in a frenzied patter. They trail close behind, mocking me and my inherited clumsiness as if they know I’ll likely face plant on my way back in.

With my hand gripped tightly on the door’s handle, I fling it wide open. My frustrations fly free in the breeze that is created by the vicious swing of the composted wood before connecting with the inside of the wall.

There stands the neighborhood’s slightly awkward and incredibly persistent postman, trembling on the stoop, a handful of mail shaking ferociously in his gloved hands. Frustrated, I wait as patiently as possible as he musters up the courage to speak.

H-Hi, Mrs. Cruz. He says in a bewildered trance. The words combined with the cold air send puffs of clouds in my direction.

U-um, your mailbox, umm—well, it’s not there…

Two petrified eyes scan the length of my recently showered body as the words catch in his throat like flies to a spider web. From one foot to another, he shifts uncomfortably, clearly unsure of what to do with my attire.

It’s just a robe for God’s sake. Surely, he has seen a woman in a robe before.

Quick to disprove my theory is the slowly rising bulge in his tightly fitted navy blue postal boy pants. The—almost too young to be working—kid before me, holds a stack of parcels forward, a task I imagine was the sole purpose of this midmorning feat.

The nervous tremors of his extremities only seem to increase in conjunction with the plummeting temperatures whereby the shaky exchange sends my mail flying directly into the winter air.

Please, it’s fine. I’ll get them. Fed up and freezing, I hold my hand up to stop him from fumbling around my yard like a decapitated chicken and take on the task of collecting the scattered correspondence myself.

Bending forward, I begin to snatch up each fallen envelope one by one, in hopes that this part of my day can finally be over. The cold smacks against my bare chest with a force that almost knocks me off my feet. It has the lapels of the silk gown shifting drastically and sending a taut pink nipple straight into the frozen atmosphere.

Really, I don’t have to look at this guy’s face to know that his eyes are wide open in shock. It’s not hard to imagine the crimson hue creeping up the freckled flesh of his neck.

Yep, seems the poor little post-boy has just gotten a glimpse of the girls. The sight of his ever more present package (no pun intended), is all the proof needed to verify his minimal exposure to the female anatomy. I can’t help but grin impishly, though I know I shouldn’t. I guess the idea of having any man—barely legal or not—nervous around me is comical even to my own mind.

Thanks for bringing these for me. I hold up the stack and offer a reassuring smile. It seems like the fair thing to do when you consider I’ve less than formally introduced him to Thing One and Thing Two.

For several uncomfortable seconds, Boner Boy stands motionless, eyes gleaming like an antiquated movie projector, a triple-X feature blasted in high definition straight onto the screen. Eww! My hands work diligently on their own accord, pulling my robe more securely around my body.

Okay. Well um, have a good day. I take a step back to the doorway; my feet void of feeling from prolonged exposure to the frigid air.

As if the credits to his mind-porn have started to roll, he does this weird gulp-y thing with his throat, turns, then heads back down the walkway, without as much as a word.

The image of what is about to go down in that mail truck does not settle well. Then again, the possibility of store ads and utility bills all stuck together in old Mr. Stevenson’s mailbox kind of makes the perverse picture jump from repulsive to highly entertaining.

The time to think about sperm-coated mail is long gone when I take in the deep-seated indents and crushed snow rocks that have magically erupted across my yard.

Seriously? Where the hell is my mailbox?

Seeking the warmth of my home, I make my way back into my house when the answer to my previous question smacks me in the face.

Son of a bitch!

At the breakfast bar, I pick up my cell, my anger evident by the grip that’s now blanched my knuckles white. Tossing the pile of mail down to where my cell phone had just been, I find the letter P in my contact list and press send.

The persistent ringing drives me out of my mind. It’s especially aggravating because I know this guy is home and likely avoiding the call on purpose, per his usual song and dance.

Well, times up buddy. Time to pay the piper. Doesn’t he know that I will ring his phone until it spontaneously combusts if I have to?

Finally, after much longer than necessary, there are signs of life.

Hello? Shit…

Yea, shit is right because that’s what this man is in as far as I’m concerned and he’s in it deep at that. Chaotic sounds continue to clack and bluster for several seconds after the call’s reception. Pure pandemonium speaks volumes in its travels from his end of the line to mine. It’s such a frequent occurrence, it’s not hard to picture the phone falling right out of his highly hungover hands.

Hello? Uh—Hello? Can you hear me? Charlie?

Jesus Christ, Pete! I scream into the receiver. You got something you want to tell me?

Oh, how ideal it would be to say this is the first time such a conversation has transpired. Lovely, to never have spoken such words in the past. Well, wishful thinking gets you nowhere fast as far as I’m concerned. Truth is, ideologies are meant for sissies and weaklings and regarding the here and now, I have lost count of such familiar rhetoric with the man on the other end of the line, long ago.

I was gonna fix it, I swear. Just gotta get movin’, that’s all. Clean up a little and all that.

The silent plea for immediate forgiveness sits firmly in the pockets of his barely awake voice. Subliminal begging is his specialty and unfortunately, like so many times before, I bite back my redundant lecture and offer up the over used olive branch, even if I’d rather shove the damn thing down his throat. After all, blessed are the merciful, right? For aren’t they the ones that shall obtain mercy?

What? You didn’t think Jesus was my homeboy, did you? Well, think again. My relationship with the Son of God, goes far beyond the beatitudes. My faith—sometimes non-existent—resembles nothing but a plea for better days. Because when I do pray, my only hope is that somewhere out there, greener grass does exist and that somehow, someway, the Lord will see me to it.

Contrary to many others, I’ve never asked that my life be easy. I can handle getting kicked a bit. Being roughed up just enough by the Powers That Be is definitely doable. That’s the kind of stuff that keeps a person grounded, in tune with the realities of the world, appreciative of what they have no matter how much or how little it may be.

It’s the constantly getting stomped on part that often has me begging the Big Guy or anyone who’ll listen for imminent reprieve. Getting kicked a bit? Well, that’s one thing. But getting run over constantly, trampled on like a warthog being crushed and asphyxiated by a stampede of wild rhinos? That’s what makes living unbearable. Theoretically, I can handle a sprained ankle, but a severed limb is another story.

For that reason alone, I simply cannot give up on the man that waits for me on the phoneline because if there truly is a God, I don’t want to take the chance that one day he’d give up on me.

You’re lucky no one saw you, Pete. You really have to get a handle on this mess. I hate to be the bearer of bad news here but you’re getting kind of old for this shit. Enough is enough already.

I know. I get it. I’m sorry, Charlie... He pauses. Johnny didn’t see it, right? He’ll probably call the cops. That son of a bitch doesn’t give a shit what happens to me.

Johnny? I let out a small laugh. He hasn’t been here since yesterday, he’s ‘working.’ My free hand adds air quotes to emphasize the last word.

Besides, I continue. I think it’s fair to say Johnny and law enforcement are like oil and water. They can sit in a jar together, but they don’t mix. Get yourself cleaned up, I’ll make you something to eat, and then you can put the mailbox back where it belongs before he does get home.

Okay, he mumbles down the line.

Uncle Pete?

Yea, Charlie?

I love you, you know that, right?

Yea Pip, I know.

Good, now clean yourself up and I’ll see you in a few.

There you have it folks, Peter Cole is my uncle. My dad’s brother, if anyone cares to take notes on my genealogy. He and my dad had a falling out after my grandfather died and I’ve since been the only family member to stay in touch. Of course, that’s partly because he lives three houses down from me but more so, because I’ve always had an innate sense of sympathy for those with emotional problems.

I always root for the underdog and when you meet Pete, you’ll soon realize he’s not only the President but also a client of the infamous underground club.

Hardly finished getting dressed when another knock sounds from the front of my home. The door is barely opened before Pete stalks his way inside.

Shoes! I bark, pointing at the mat to the left. Rolling his eyes, he kicks his work boots off into the designated spot then makes his way to the kitchen.

Don’t roll your eyes, Pete. It’s terribly unbecoming. Come and eat, I made you eggs and toast.

Settling himself in at the counter, my uncle grabs his plate first, then his mug, and proceeds to dump four heaping spoons full of sugar into his coffee.

Want some coffee with that sugar? I toss the morning paper in front of him.

No thanks, Mother.

So, do I dare ask what happened? I sip my bubbling glass of cola, savouring the flavor and basking in the tingling sensation that’s been handed over by my good friend carbonation.

You still drinkin’ that crap? He avoids my question, trying to change the subject.

How many times have I told you, that shit right there is garbage. Might as well drink rat poison.

Surely, this man didn’t mean to use such poor choice of words, considering his current quandary. At least when I drink this… I gesture to the fizzy liquid. ...I’m not running over other people’s lawns and waking up in my own regurgitation.

You win. Pete throws his hands up in surrender before opening to the Sports section of the paper.

Nestling himself into a position that allows for leisurely reading and easy-going coffee-sipping, the man that defaced my home looks quite cozy. In