Page 25 of Liar's Heart
Not just touch me—worship me. Love me. Heal parts of me he has no right to. Ender didn't just fuck me, he bowed me to his will under the force of his need.
And I loved every second of my downfall.
I don't know if I've ever felt so intensely possessed before—another betrayal I have to stomach somehow.
Ox and I were barely into adulthood, just learning what we wanted our lives to look like instead of mimicking the examples set for us growing up. We thought we had all the time in the world, so why rush? So we kept our relationship quiet, as most young Society members do, as a precaution against anyone who would oppose the merger of our families. But it meant our love always felt clandestine—a dirty, forbidden secret that made our passion burn hotter.
But Ender doesn't love me quietly. Ender loves me in the open, loudly and without shame. He marked me where he can always see the scar because he never wants his claim on me to be hidden, more permanent than any ring. I’m fairly confident his favorite words might be “mine” and “my wife,” as often as he says them. They're growing to become mine too.
I don’t blame Ox for not being able to do those things. I don’t. We were both adults, and we made that decision together. It was necessary, even. But there’s no ignoring the way my long-dead heart seeks out the warmth of Ender’s devotion like a flower bending toward sunlight. Not when it’s been starved for this long.
Soft, peach light filters in through the glass, the night almost fully yielded to the day. They never do get long enough together in those stolen moments where they collide. Maybe Ox and I were doomed from the start, too lost in each other to heed the warning right in front of us the whole time.
The door opens and closes behind me with a quiet snick before steady, slow footsteps pad toward me. I don’t turn to acknowledge him, but my body still does, singing in responseto sharing the same space again. Shame sours my stomach, but my heart still leaps.
Tattooed arms wrap around my shoulders from behind. Warm lips coast my jawline before playfully nipping at my ear. Ender's warm, sleep-scraped voice murmurs in my ear, “Good morning, wife.”
He straightens, circling to the front of me. Sleepy-eyed, he's wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, and despite how aware I am that he's beyond deadly, with his bare feet and sleep-mussed hair, he looks so… innocent. Younger, even.
Tugging on my blanket, he gets me to stand up so he can take my seat in the chair before pulling me down into his lap. I curl into my husband’s arms and let his warmth soothe me as he covers us both with the blanket. Settled against his chest, my head tucked by his neck, my lungs fill with his smoky citrus scent as I breathe him in, the nightmare melting away in the strengthening light of day. His chest rumbles under me. “Just wanted to catch the sunrise?”
I think of the look on Ox's face while I sat in his murderer's lap, just like I am now. His silent screams as blood poured from his chest. How cold it was the day we buried him. Cold enough to hurt. Cold enough I was certain I would never feel warm again.
But then yesterday happened.
I pull back to find my husband's eyes. They're pale silver in the early morning light, so different from the amber ones that haunt me. I snake a hand out from underneath the blanket and gently caress the small laugh lines that bracket his eyes. They make him more handsome, these little signs of maturity on his thirty-five-year-old body. Ox would have had them too. I know he would have. I would have given them to him after years of smiling and laughing together. These tiny little marks of our life together etched into his skin would have been well-loved and peppered with kisses often. “Something like that,” I whisper.
Unsurprisingly, he hums in acknowledgment as he tucks me back into his chest. Comfort washes over me as I melt into his arms. I hate it. I hate how easy this feels, how right. I hate how much it's going to hurt when he dies. Who will hold me after I wake up from nightmares filled withhissilent screams?
Maybe my penance will be that no one will.
We satin that chair together, listening to the world stir awake around us until we couldn't avoid reality any longer. Apparently, Roman quietly swooped in and cleared both of our schedules yesterday. Or rather, he handled what he could of Ender's, had Logan move the rest, and got in touch with Jules to deal with mine. Wingman duties look a lot like admin work and last-minute soloing of meetings in your thirties, I guess. I'm pretty sure Ender would manage it if I requested another day in bed together, but we both have things we really shouldn't put off.
And I need the space to figure out where I go from here.
By the time Ender leaves for the office, I'm feeling significantly more settled in my decision. Ultimately, nothing's changed. I knew I'd eventually have to fuck him. Hell, I looked forward to it. Attraction was never a concern on my part, and I might as well have a little fun before he dies, right? That's all this is. Part of the plan. Hell, I'm the one whomadethe plan.
Settling in at my desk for the day, a mug of coffee in hand, I scan through my emails. Looks like we are good to go with Mrs. Arnoult for next week. My cursor hovers over theforward button while I consider how difficult Ender will make my life if I conveniently forget to tell him about it. Except I already know there’s no point—he’d figure it out, show up anyway and probably punish me for the trouble. Which, now that I think about it, might be a lot of fun. I might not be able to sit on the plane ride home, but it could be worth it.
Picking up my phone, I unlock it and navigate to my contacts. Clicking on his name reveals an embarrassingly sparse communication history between us. To be fair, we've spent the last month either working or together, so there’s been almost no reason to call or text each other. Still, who the fuck sleeps with their husband before they've texted him? Me, apparently.
I compose my very first text message to him, typing out the relevant details he requested, and hit send. Before I can take another sip of my coffee, my phone's pinging with a new text coming through, then another.
Ender
Thank you. I'll get my schedule taken care of.
Miss you already.
My coffee mug does a great job of hiding my grin from my phone.
It’s been less than an hour since you left. How are you going to survive the day?
The message immediately changes to read as soon as it goes through. He must still have our thread open. Three dots bounce along the bottom of the screen, then disappear and reappear a few times before the texts come through.
Ender
By jerking off in my office thinking about how beautiful your sweet pussy looks overflowing with my cum.
