Page 51 of Love on the Run

Eventually we doze like this with me holding her, cherishing her as she deserves. As sleep stealthy moves in the terror I felt earlier doesn’t fade all the way but it’s manageable. I know I can handle it. I can conquer anything as long as Flower is by my side. Soon she will know that together we can face anything. I will show her that she need never hide anything from me ever again. I am her refuge as she is mine.

I know we will prevail over this just as we did our previous separation and child loss. The road ahead is long, but we will endure. Our love is not one easily vanquished.

From the moment I saw Flower having the time of her life on the nightclub’s dance floor between her two taller friends dancing around her like bees to a camellia rose, I’ve been drawnto her. Like the flower she’s so aptly name she doesn’t have to do anything to have me cleave to her but exist. She is my Flower, my Hana, my wife, my forever love. My everything.

She ran.

I followed.

I always will.

It’s my life’s mission now to make sure she feels she never has to.

EPILOGUE ONE

Flower (6 months later)

The rapper turned flutist’s music fills the tranquil space as I move into another asana.

Ignoring the door sliding open, I slide into the next pose.

Slowly and with careful precision I move through another and another pushing my body, giving it grace as I lengthen my poses and hold my positions longer.

Sweat clings to me. The valley between my breast feels like a swamp. Part of the practice is not to let little distractions like this or the door opening stop me.

One thing that’s helped me get better maintain my focus is practicing with my eyes mostly closed but that does nothing to stop me from knowing who’s entered or my body’s response to the cool citrus and menace of my husband.

Now, another area lower and between my legs is just as drenched. Not that it matters. In the last six months after the yacht Akchiro hasn’t touched me but in the most vanilla and gentle ways.

Therapy has made our marriage better in every way — except this. He hasn’t made love to me in the way we both like.Joint and individual therapy sessions has led to open and frank dialogue between us and tears, so many tears. I been left raw and so has he but we’ve healed so many wounds. Yet, this is my only complaint and I finally broke down and told my therapist my fears — my husband the big bad ass billionaire doesn’t find the broken, fragile girl attractive; he wants the fun effervescent baddies when I needed to be sex kitten hot, not me, not the real the Flower, her he’s scared to bruise and break.

I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want anyone other than the mean motherfucker he presented from day one. But that’s the problem with pretending you think everyone is in on the con. You think that everyone is wearing a mask. So when you come upon the real deal like Akchiro Motherfucking Tekada you don’t know how to act. He’s square dealing with you so you try to keep up the façade for as long as you can only you can’t. That’s the problem with being inauthentic — you play yourself. Eventually it all falls apart. You’re left tout in the cold looking stupid, striped of everything that made you look like the confident bad bitch you never were. Heart cratering at the thought I know I can’t delay the inevitable reckoning any long.

Pulling out of my last asana I turn to face my husband reclining in one of the plush chairs.

“Hi,” I say. My breath catches in my throat when I see the unrelenting anger etched in his face.

Seconds tick by as his hard gaze rakes my sweat slickened body. I squeeze my thighs tight hoping he doesn’t see the effect he has on me even in his anger. An epic failure if the flare of his nostrils is any indication.

Tense silence envelopes the room and he regards me like a feral predator. I attempt take a step back, but he slowly shakes his head stopping me.

I can feel the pulse in my throat, the speed of my heartbeat.

Now that I’m not activity moving the cool air caresses my body. My nipples bud, I feel the prickle of the raised flesh on my exposed skin. I feel more exposed than ever as I try to figure out what I’ve done to bring this about.

Akchiro is blindingly angry with me for the first time in months.

Crossing my arms over my breast, I tilt my head and try again, “Umm, is everything okay?”

He crosses one leg over the other scrutinizing me as if I’m some equation he can’t figure out.

“You tell me, Flower-chan. How much of my face will satisfy you?” cupping his chin he regards me with unmitigated fury.

“W-what?” My heart plummets straight into my tummy as I shake my head taking another step back.

He’s on me in seconds, snatching me into his body.

“No you fucking don’t,” he grits through clenched teeth.

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