Page 48 of The Marriage Debt

A moan escapes him as he buries his face in my neck. "Fuck," he murmurs, "you feel so good." It sounds like a curse and a confession in one breathless sentence. Then I feel his teeth sinking into my pulse point.

The dual nature of our relationship only makes the passion hotter. My groans and whimpers grow louder, especially when the elastic of my panties begins to rub me raw along the line of his dick thrusting into me, and when I get too loud, he clamps a hand over my mouth to silence me.

My eyes flutter open, meeting his, and I see the desire as he stares at me, thrusting into me. My hips will be bruised from the brick, but I ask him, “Harder,” and he obeys me, kissing me fiercely, rougher than before, like he's trying to prove something to himself or to me. I kiss him back with equal fervor, selfishly clinging to him as my climax crashes over me first. When I come apart around him, Mateo growls as his hips stutter against mine one last time, his fingers tangled in my hair.

"I hate you," I pant, my hands still shaking against the wall. "I hate you for doing this to us."

Mateo doesn't respond. He just leans his forehead against mine, catching his breath. His chest heaves against mine hard—so much harder now—evidence of his true desire for me. Finally, he shifts, pulling out, setting me down. My panties catch most of his cum that drains from my body, but I see it on his cock as he lets my skirt fall and tucks himself back away.

“Go inside,” he says, and I know enough not to question him.

“I said, I hate you.”

“I know,” he tells me. "You keep saying that.”

I back away, no more fight left in me. He’s been one step ahead of me the entire time, and I have to wonder if his marriage contract is just another prophecy I’ve yet to understand. He doesn’t get his feathers ruffled because he sees the end from the beginning.

Is that why he made me his wife?

24

MATEO

Bruno is buried on a plot of land that’s been in his family for three generations. It’s not far from the river, a quiet cemetery pressed between two hills with headstones that lean like tired old men. The turnout is small—just enough to look respectful without drawing attention. The right people came, and the rest knew better than to show their faces.

Lev stands beside me in a black coat that hangs too long on his arms. He tugs at the collar every few minutes, uncomfortable in fabric he’s not used to. But he doesn’t complain, not once. He insisted on coming. Said Bruno let him pet his dog once, gave him a cookie with powdered sugar that got all over his sleeves. I didn’t argue. Some things you don’t talk kids out of.

The priest reads a short passage, something about the soul and the return to dust, but all eyes stay on the casket, on the hole in the ground. On the framed photo balanced on a folding table near the front—Bruno in a gray cap, smiling like he didn’t know what was coming.

I keep one hand on Lev’s shoulder the whole time. Just enough pressure to remind him where to stand, how to stay in position. He’s quiet and respectful, watching the coffin like it might do something. I'm sure it's scary for a five-year-old, but Lila has trained him well so far. I can do a lot with him when he gets older.

Bruno was a foot soldier under Anton. Loyal, blunt, and just smart enough to follow orders without asking questions. He had a wife for a while—no kids. The dog’s still alive—I paid for the kennel myself, though I'm not sure who will adopt the poor mangy bastard.

He was on gate patrol the morning of the blast. Wrong place, wrong shift, wrong fucking day. None of it should've happened, and it's yet another reason I don't feel even a hint of guilt that Rafe gave it to Ricci the way I told him. The order may not have been his but he carried it out. We're all pawns in someone's game unless we play our own, and he got played.

The priest finishes. A handful of dirt gets thrown. I nod once to Bruno's widow and steer Lev toward the SUV parked just off the gravel. The drunken wake isn't a place for a child. Even I know that.

Rafe’s already there, engine running, eyes on the tree line. I don’t like keeping the kid out this long, even less with the last week still hanging over us. Every move feels like a gamble now. The Bianchis know too much. They’re too bold. There’s no telling how long it'll be until they make their next move. When they couldn’t use Lila as leverage, they escalated, and now I fear they'll kill her and Lev both.

Before I open the door, I glance back toward the gravesite. Rain’s coming in off the hills, wind picking up. One of the mourners adjusts their collar and turns to leave.

“Was Bruno a good guy?” Lev asks, voice small. He stares up at me with large brown eyes that want answers. I remember Anton staring at me like that once upon a time, when we were young, when we were naive. I thought I could protect him. I was wrong. Now he's dead. I have to protect his kid.

I pause with my hand on the doorframe. “He did his job.”

Lev frowns. “But was he nice?”

“He gave you a cookie, didn’t he?” I almost chuckle at the innocence of a child. This kid has gotten to me. It's not just a duty to my familial legacy now. It's personal. He's becoming my son in more than just name.

Lev nods.

“Then yeah. I guess he was.”

He climbs into the SUV without another word, and I follow. The door shuts behind us as Rafe closes us in and then climbs into the passenger seat. We drive out slowly, headed home.

Lev stares out the window as the raindrops get fatter and the sky gets darker. A clap of thunder here and there makes him jump in fright. He looks to me. I keep my face calm. It's like when he sees me in control, he feels less fearful. It's the way it should be. A boy should look to the men in his life for stability until within himself, he's able to do it without aid.

Women, on the other hand… Just thinking of Lila, I shake my head. There are women like her who at times seem so strong and stable, and at other times seem to be scatterbrained or erratic. I don't think she even knows what she wants. But I know what I want.

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