Page 41 of Mortala
Gently cradling her face now, I press a faint peck between her brows, then one over each eyelid.Moving down, it’s my goal to cover her in invisible smooches her demons can’t deny.
Sadie smiles when I move to the corners of her mouth followed by her jawline close to her ear.Chill bumps jut down the bare arm draped over my torso, as the fine hairs on her forearm stand at end and she tightens her hand on my side.
There’s not a woman in this world who comes close to Sadie—she is wholeheartedly unmatched.If there’s one thing about the way she’s changed me thus far, it's that she's made me greedy.I’ll take everything she gives and demand more, because I know there are things she fearfully locks away.I’m not afraid of it, I’m not afraid of her or the things haunting her memories—after a lifetime of war, Sadie Wilson is my spoils; her demons our enemies.
Stealing another glimpse of her, I catch the emerald I locked around her neck sitting at her hollow.A delicate mark that will hold its secret meaning while existing as an inconspicuous piece of jewelry.
I’ve never considered myself a man interested in the BDSM community, but I’d be a fucking liar if I said I haven’t done a little research and found interest in a few things.Like the power play from earlier, having her at my will, commanding her, the vulnerability in her being completely bare while I remained fully clothed.
She took to it as well as I did—both of us losing ourselves to the moment without having to overthink or be strategic.I gave her an order, and like my personal soldier, she followed.One day, when she’s ready and willing, I’m going to leave real marks on her.Bruises, bites, faint scruff burns up the sides of her neck—anything to remind her who comes home to her.
Leaning in, I give her bottom lip a slight nip and watch her smirk.
“I know you’re in there, open those pretty eyes.”
“Mmm.”
My face splits in a grin.I nibble on her lip again, then softly scrape my teeth to pull blood into her flushed skin.Squirming, she pops free and finally pries her eyelids open—her pupils flex to account for the darkness and the slight flashes of lightning.
“That’s better.Thirsty?Hungry?Think I saw some orange juice in the fridge earlier.Your leftovers are still on the counter too.I can heat them up.”
Unfurling from her, I roll to the edge of her bed and on my feet seconds later.There’s an illusion of free will we are all victims to, her more so since I’m getting her something to drink and food regardless.If she wants to fight about it, we can go down to the gym again and she can work off the frustration there—after she’s eaten.
Out of her room and into the kitchen, the flooring sends spikes of cold up through my feet and calves with each step.Though I take care of myself as much as possible, beating the hell out of your body when you’re younger doesn’t help when you’re in your fucking fifties.Most days I wake up in pain only to end the day with something else hurting—usually my back and shoulders.
The flashbacks and memories are agony by themselves; I manage them mostly.While it’s not her business—no, scratch that, it’s not her burden—her manic episodes set me off, too.She could be in the middle of a meltdown and next thing I know, I’m spiraling as well.Vividly, might I add.At times, I can feel the hard press of a gun barrel at the back of my neck, or hear explosions when she slams things, but I tamp it down.
Coaxing Sadie back to reality and out of her spell is more important than me freaking out and being weak because I chose the military over some other boring white-collar job.
PTSD is a terrorist in its own way.It rips you apart from the inside out then glues you back together with the sweat you’ve dumped because you couldn’t stop seeing, hearing, or feeling the lie it’s feeding you.
Sure, there’s therapy and medication, but I do my part in throwing everything in the closet with the rest of my skeletons, pretending it’s not there.Then the VA?A joke.It’s hard to get the coverage needed to see one of these illusive therapists, let alone finding one willing to take on a combat vet, or working your way through the list before you try to eat gunpowder and spit a slug.
Unpacking Sadie’s leftovers, I dig a clean plate out of her dishwasher, dump the contents onto it, and slide it in the microwave.The low hum almost masks her muted footsteps as she saddles up behind me while I lean against the island with my arms crossed—a comfortable posture, guarded and relaxed in one go.Tilting my head, she shifts into my peripherals in a baggy shirt with the last fading pieces of some SEGA gaming logo.Guess she wasn’t lying about hitting up every Goodwill between here and New York, because that shirt has seen better days.
The fridge pops open, spilling light into her still-dark kitchen—the domestic aches and pains of home life existing between us.Like the untamed thing she is, she unscrews the top to the orange juice and drinks straight from the container instead of using a cup like a civilized individual—I’d do the same thing.
Three, two, one.
Before the microwave can beep, I press the button to pop it open and grab her food—the eighties left its mark—within seconds I have her food on the marble island.Nodding to it, I dig a fork out of the silverware drawer and hand it to her before she can protest.Ravenous, she digs in.Satisfied, I locate my glass from earlier, bring it to the sink, rinse, and refill with another two fingers of whiskey.
“Hmph, how long do you plan on staying?”
Her question has my brow arching as her clinking fork assaults the tense atmosphere with bone-shivering scrapes across the ceramic plate.Taking a slow drink, eyes focused on her, I assess my answer before speaking.I’m going to catch heat from her, like always—surprise surprise.
“Morning.”
Sadie’s fork stalls at her mouth, a glare descends upon her sharp stare.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.I’m staying until morning.It’s two a.m.and I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.”
The fork from before?She nearly swallows it when her chewing becomes aggressive.
Here we go.
“Got something to say, Sunshine?”I prod her.
