Housewife
: Chapter 8

‘Let’s have some fun.’ I declared.

‘Come on man I didn’t do shit,’ he whimpered, his lips quivering with fear as snot dribbled down his beaten face.

I sighed, stretching my neck until it cracked, relishing the feeling of bones popping back into alignment. Tonight was going to be a long one.

‘Don’t play dumb, Andrew,’ I chided, nonchalantly tapping his cheek with the sharp edge of my knife.

Never did I imagine I’d be standing here, ready to take a life over something so trivial. My drunken wife was tied up, powerless to stop the unfolding scene. Our marriage was already on the rocks, so what’s a bit of madness to throw into the mix?

As I meet Irena’s gaze, I can feel her fear radiating off of her like a palpable energy. It’s a heady sensation, like the rush of adrenaline before a dangerous game. Her features contort as though she’s been dealt a physical blow, and I can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

This is what I want. I want her to fear me like the boogeyman under her bed, to shiver with the knowledge that I could cause her pain and pleasure in equal measure. And oh, she will feel it. Every single moment of it. She’ll writhe under my touch, begging and pleading for more no matter how much it hurts.

Right now, Irena probably hates me. But soon enough, that hatred will turn into something else entirely.

Something dark and terrifying, yes. But also something immaculate and beautiful. Something that’s going to rock her world to its very core. Because there are some things that are destructive in the best way possible, and Irena is about to discover just how true that is.

‘Saint you can’t do this!’ Irena’s voice echoes in the room, but I am deaf to her pleas. My eyes are set on the task at hand as I yank Andrew’s hand, the very hand that touched her. The blade glimmers menacingly in the dim light as I press it against his flesh, drawing it slowly across his skin. An arc of crimson blooms in its wake, staining the air with the sickly sweet scent of blood.

It is the colour of passion, of power.

The sight would have filled anyone else with remorse, but for me, it’s a work of art – a canvas splashed with my favourite colour, deep red.

The sight of his blood gushing out like a river sends shivers down my spine, but it’s a feeling I revel in. I watch in satisfaction as Andrew’s features twist in agony, his eyes bulging out of their sockets.

‘Noo!’ Irena’s desperate cries fill the room as she struggles against her restraints. Andrew’s gaze meets mine, his eyes filled with disbelief and fear.

Sweat beads are trickling down his forehead, and his body trembles with the pain and the sheer terror of the moment.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I know,’

I confess with a sly smile, as his voice crackles with fear. Drawn to his ear, I whisper, ‘But I relish the sight of you writhing in agony. Surely, you’re a hero for sacrificing yourself to brighten up this forsaken honeymoon.’

‘My wife will call the police once she realizes I’m missing,’ he groans, his face contorted with pain. ‘Your wife is too busy fucking the bartender,’ I retorted “You’re least of her worries as another man is accomplishing your job by fucking her the right way,” not surprised given his reputation for flirting with every woman on the resort, including my wife Irena lying on the bed.

Her caramel skin glistens, barely concealed under a loose towel that exposes her ample cleavage.

As Andrew’s eyes dart to Irena, a fierce possessiveness ignites within me.

I grab his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. ‘Don’t you dare look at her again, or I’ll gouge out your eyes,’ I threaten, my words sharp as a knife. He swallows hard, realizing the gravity of my warning.

My eyes lock onto Irena’s trembling figure. ‘This is what happens when someone dares to touch what’s mine.’

With a swift movement, I seize Andrew’s quivering hand and slice off each finger, crimson blood spurting into the air. A heart-wrenching scream escapes his lips, and Irena stands frozen, mouth agape and glimmering tears welling in her eyes.

Releasing Andrew’s destroyed hand, he col apses to the floor, writhing in agony amidst a pool of his own life fluid. I approach Irena slowly, her eyes fixated on mine with a mixture of terror and bewilderment.

The blade, previously stained with crimson, glints as I raise it, pointing it menacingly in Irena’s direction. She recoils, biting down on her lip to stifle the coming sobs. I run the tip of the knife along her smooth skin, leaving a glistening trail of red droplets from her cheekbone all the way down to just above her breast, stopping precisely where I want it to. The sharp reek of iron washes over me, filling my lungs and spilling into my stomach like hot, bubbling lava. The twisted expression of a ghost smile dances across my lips at the smell of the rich fluid; Irena’s lips part as she takes slow, measured breaths to control her terror.

As I gaze upon the fragile, trembling form of Irena, a dark desire stirs within me. My body responds with a twitch of my pulsing dick, eager to claim her for my own. I envision caressing her soft skin, tracing every divine curve with my hungry lips and fingertips. And when I finally mount her, driving her into ecstasies that she’s never before experienced, I know that I’ll be the only person who she can turn to for release.

The sound of Andrew’s cries snaps me out of my lustful trance, I step away from Irena’s quivering form and walk towards him with a deadly look in my eyes. Grabbing him by the collar, I give him a brutal punch that sends him reeling. Blood gushes out of his mouth as he spits out a solitary tooth.

I’m relishing every moment.

Dragging him over to the dresser, I yank the lamp from the socket and smash it against the edge, the sharp tinkling of broken glass.

My eardrums shook violently as Andrew’s raucous outburst shattered the stillness of the room. His voice was like nails scratching a chalkboard. His presence was downright irritating.

I spun around to face Irena, who looked like a frightened, enraged, and bewildered animal. I made myself clear to Andrew, pointing the shattered remnants of a lamp at him: ‘If anyone dares to touch you, look at you, threaten you, even make you giggle, they will meet their demise at my hands. And it will be all because you let it happen.’

With a swift and calculated thrust, I plunged the sharp end of the lamp into Andrew’s stomach, slicing through his vital organs. I twisted it further and further, relishing in the sound of Irena’s throaty screams, and the sight of her tear-filled eyes.

It was like music to my ears.

Demonstrating to her that she belongs to me is an art, and woe to any soul dares to come too close to my possession. Those who do will pay the price of a lifetime of terror.

My grip on Andrew’s neck strengthens, letting go of the lamp that still skewers his flesh. My hand moves to the blade, forcing him to lay supine before removing his left hand from his body, stretching it wide open. His shrieks are stifled by my foot pressing down on his face.

Irena’s sweet cries of shock blend with the violent cries of pain from Andrew, forming a symphony of sorts. Final l Andrew’s entire hand is separated from his body. I stand tall, examining the severed limb in my grip.

A sense of satisfaction pulsates in my stomach, reassured that the bastard who laid hands on my wife will never touch her again. The hand – and its owner – serve no purpose.

With a swift toss of my hand, I yank him towards me – gripping his hair tightly. I bring his ears closer to my lips, so he can hear my final words before he meets his maker.

‘Your wife will receive a gift, wrapped in delicate paper with fragments of your flesh inside,’ I whisper, before slitting his throat. His blood splatters on my face before cascading down his neck like a violent waterfall. His piercing screams were silenced as his eyes bulged from their sockets.

I release him, watching his lifeless body fall to the ground.

The room is now devoid of sound, except for the soft cries of Irena.

My grip falters as the glinting blade falls from my fingers and clatters onto the floor. Irena’s tear-streaked face meets mine, mascara smudged and smeared down her cheeks like war paint.

Trembling with a mix of fear and anger, she tries to scoot away, her voice quivering as she cries out. ‘Don’t you dare come near me!’

But I cannot stop myself. My heart beats in time with my slow, methodical steps as I approach her, my eyes fixated on the twisted emotions painted across her face. She wriggles and twists, trying to escape, but I am too quick for her.

With deliberate care, I untie her arms and legs, ignoring her kicking and screaming. And when she raises her hand to slap me, I catch it with a fierce grip.

‘Kick and claw all you like. Scream. Hit me. Curse the fuck out of me. You are mine and nothing is going to change that and I will kill any man who dares to come near you, look in your direction, touch you, or dare to even put a smile on your face.” Every single word I spoke to her was filled with sincerity.

‘I. Don’t. Share.’ My warning is laced with a ferocity that matches the fiery intensity blazing in my eyes.

As Irena recedes from my grasp, I give her one last look before striding out of the room with a sense of purpose.

Fishing out my phone from my pocket, I dial my brother’s number and wait with bated breath. After three monotonous rings, Abel finally picks up.

‘How’s the honeymoon, big brother?’ he greets me with a tease, the glee in his voice palpable. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

‘We’ve got a problem,’ I state simply.

I enter the spare bathroom and place my phone on the counter, activating the speaker and running the faucet to drown out unwanted listeners. Abel heaves a sigh on the other end.

‘I’ll be there soon,’ he resolves before disconnecting.

Staring into the mirror, I survey the damage. Blood drips down my face, staining my once-cream flesh with crimson droplets. My dark hair obscures my vision, but my tongue darts out to lick my lips.

Within me courses a blazing flame, a gift and a curse intertwined. A constant craving to ignite, whether for virtue or vice, consumes me.

IRENA

His gaze pierces through me with an eerie emptiness, and I’m frozen in fear. The crimson liquid pools at my feet, its metallic scent invading my senses. He lies there, lifeless, his body oozing with blood and pain etched onto his face. The echoes of his shrieks reverberate within me violently, refusing to subside.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the memory of his body being violently cut up flashes before my eyes, making me shudder. I’m tormented by his tortured gurgles and the sight of blood spewing out of his lifeless form while he gasps his final breaths. It is a suffering that I wrought upon him with my foolish choices, and now I’m left to bear the weight of his demise. The guilt gnaws at my very soul, and the irreversible consequences of my actions loom heavily on me.

I felt a glittering mist form in my eyes, as I tried to keep the remorseful sobs from escaping my lips. Guilt came crashing over me like a ruthless tsunami, obliterating everything in its path like a ravaging city. I took a deep breath, trying to stay composed despite the overwhelming emotions vying for my attention. My jaw clenched as I felt my throat knotting up, and my heartbeat thumping in my ears. The weight of his demise rested heavily on my shoulders, and it was all my doing.

The word that strikes fear into the hearts of all who hear it, is ‘murderer’.

Its syllables echo endlessly in my head, like the melody of a sinister hymn.

No matter how much I try to silence its haunting chorus, it persists, growing louder and more relentless by the minute. It’s as if the very word itself is reaching out to me, tearing at the fabric of my mind with its insidious claws.

And yet, despite my best efforts to escape its relentless grip, the word persists, taunting me with its cold, deadly certainty. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer!

The chant goes on and on, a never-ending nightmare that I cannot escape.

Enveloped by a shroud of darkness and the heavy burden of shame and guilt, I replace myself haunted by the memory of a past deed. A deed that, at the time, left me feeling anything but remorseful. No, at that moment, all I could think about was the fiery rage and unquenchable thirst for revenge that consumed me. And so, I allowed myself to believe that the object of my fury deserved far worse than simply an end to his miserable existence. No, he deserved to suffer – to feel the same pain and torment that he had inflicted upon me behind closed doors. And so, I gave him what he deserved – a slow, agonizing death. Was it just? Perhaps not. But at that moment, it was the only justice that I could fathom.

This situation is unlike any other. He’s innocent, untouched by malice, and yet he’s labelled the villain. I can attest that he never hurt anyone, myself included. Yes, he may have boasted about his infidelity and womanizing, but no one was ever physically harmed by his actions. What truly sickens me is that both Saint and I are culprits in this grotesque play. I stood idly by, watching as danger loomed in the background, complicit in my inaction.

Saint may have executed the dirty work, but it was my permission, my silent nod that set it all into motion.

And for what? I knew the consequences of my actions, and yet I did nothing. Am I worse than Saint, the so-called villain? Am I the true perpetrator, the one who willed it all into being? I replace myself lost in thought, staring into the abyss of those eyes, for what feels like an eternity as I grapple with the five stages of grief.

I pry my heavy eyelids open and heave myself from the plush bed, my feet making contact with the frigid floorboards. A chill runs down my spine, causing me to shiver involuntarily. My senses are overwhelmed as a nauseating sensation begins to wash over me. My head spins as though caught in a cyclone, and my ears start to ring. I bolt for the bathroom, but my body betrays me, and I crash into the toilet seat, sinking to my knees. The acrid taste of bile prompts me to retch until my stomach is empty. The sound resonates in the eerie silence. Finally, I expel the last of the cursed alcohol, and my mind clears at last.

With an exhausted sigh, I rise from my seat and make my way to the gleaming sink. My dainty toiletry bag nestled snugly in the palm of my hand as I retrieved my trusty toothbrush from its depths. A dollop of toothpaste soon coated the bristles, as I began to scrub away the bitter stench of alcohol permeating my mouth. With each brush stroke, the minty freshness seemed to seep through my teeth, clearing away any remnants of the chaotic night. As soon as I was done, I moved on to the ritual of washing my face, diligently removing any trace of makeup. Finishing up my nightly routine, I stepped back feeling fresh and renewed, but the sight that greeted me left me paralyzed with horror. My footsteps faltered as my eyes landed on the lifeless body, blood pooling beneath it. Guilt clawed at my insides, my chest heavy with the weight of my actions.

Shaken, I made my way across the room, my suitcase calling out like a beacon from its perch, beckoning me closer. With trembling hands, I reached for the zipper, eager to bury myself in familiar fabric. Heart racing, I rifled through the contents until my fingers brushed against the sumptuous silk of my robe. The cool material cascaded down my skin as I wrapped it around myself, securing it tightly.

Exiting the room, I pull the door closed behind me and make my way towards the kitchen, lost in my thoughts. But my footsteps come to a sudden halt when I catch sight of Saint’s bare, inked back, facing me. My eyes are immediately drawn to the imposing tiger, the bold ink slashed with a scar across its face, staring back at me. Deep in the background, I see a hidden forest of trees casting shadows, the vibrant Oleander flowers blooming in all their lethal beauty.

As I stare in awe, a small voice in my head reminds me that the Oleander is one of the most lethal plants there is, the mere slightest touch is enough to kill. Yet, here it is, thriving and blooming, showcasing its deadly prowess in a mesmerizing display.

But before I can fully take in the sight before me, the voice of another interrupts my thoughts:

‘Nirali is pissed enough that I left her in the middle of the night.’

Nirali? Who’s Nirali?

As I silently listened in on their conversation, Saint suddenly froze and cast a wary look over his shoulder. His dark eyes were obscured by the dim lighting, leaving me to wonder what had caught his attention. A familiar sense of apprehension settled in the pit of my stomach.

Uncertain of my next move, I chewed nervously on my lip. But before I could decide, a cheerful French accent rang out. It was Abel, Saint’s brother.

My gaze turned to him as he lifted himself from the plush couch, holding a glass of bourbon in his hand. Abel was dressed in a crisp white tee, topped off with a sleek black jacket and jeans, completed by a pair of polished black shoes. A chain dangled from his neck.

A grin spread across his face as he came to a halt a few feet in front of me.

‘Well, well, well, look who it is,’ Abel quipped, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips before taking a sip of the amber liquid. ‘I’d say hello like a proper gentleman, but I remember you’re a bit of a germaphobe.’

Without sparing him a second glance, my eyes lock onto Saint’s. ‘What’s he doing here?’ I demand an explanation. Saint casually leans against the counter, his sculpted muscles flexing and veins rippling up his arms. ‘I invited him,’ he replies in a calm, cool tone. Confused, I furrow my brow.

‘Why?’

As he moves closer, Abel steps back, giving him space to approach me.

‘Because, Doe, he’s taking you home,’ Saint declares, his voice sending shivers down my spine. Meanwhile, Abel leers at me with a sly expression, clearly relishing in the moment. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you,’ he says, his words dripping with insinuation.

My throat burns with a fiery ache as Saint’s watchful gaze meets mine.

‘You’ll be spending a few days with Abel, and when I return, I’ll personally show you our new mansion,’ he explains, before shrugging nonchalantly.

‘I’ve got to take care of a few things…clean up my mess,’ he adds. “Behave, while I’m gone.” he cautions, his eyes morphing into a somber shade. ‘You have no right to lecture me on behaviour, not when you’ve unleashed a bloodbath right in front of my eyes,’ I retort, my blood boiling with fury. He strides towards me, his scent reminiscent of the earthy outdoors. Our gazes lock, an electric charge igniting the air between us. A chime resounds, but I refuse to avert my eyes nor does…

‘Ready the boat, Abel,’ Saint grumbles. ‘She’ll be out shortly.’ His voice trails off as Abel scurries away, leaving us in a cloud of dust.

Standing there, I gazed up at the ominous silhouette looming before me.

His voice was low, menacing. ‘Careful now, don’t forget what happened when you decided to open that pretty mouth of yours.’

With a flash of defiance, I shot back, ‘I suggest you remember the repercussions of trying to push my buttons.’ My eyes flickered down to the light scar that marred his rugged features, the one that carried a hint of danger. He brushed his finger over it, a devilish grin curling his lips. My heart stuttered at the sight of the one dimple, visible on his right cheek.

But my anger flared up, a blaze that threatened to consume me. Taking a step forward, I surprise even myself. ‘Just because I’m your wife doesn’t mean I won’t stab you in your sleep,’ I warned, my tone deadly.

One eyebrow cocked up as he studied me, but his words sent shivers down my spine. ‘Oh, is that a threat, Doe?’ he taunted. ‘Because I’ll let you in on a little secret – the thought of you covered in my blood is my dirty little fantasy.’ His breath was hot on my neck, searing a path all the way down to my bones.

“You’re a psychopath.” I snarl. “I prefer creative.” He shrugs.

I express my disbelief with a scoff.

I choose to ignore him, and as I leave the house, I resist the urge to turn back and face Saint, walking away with my back towards him.

The haunting image of Andrew’s brutal death continued to play on repeat in my mind like a macabre reel. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was him – his desperate eyes beckoning me to set him free. My heart ached at the thought of his wife’s reaction when she learned that her beloved husband vanished during their honeymoon. The mere mention of Saint’s twisted plan to deliver Andrew to his grieving bride in pieces turned my stomach with disgust.

But as I look out the plane window, sipping on a glass of crimson red wine, I know that Saint is capable of carrying out his monstrous plan. Though I should be abstaining from alcohol, it’s the only refuge I have as I try to keep myself together. Even the thought of food turns my stomach, unable to shake the image of Andrew’s blood mixing with the red liquid swirling around in my glass.

The ghastly image of his hand being severed and his throat being slit continues to torment me. It’s etched in my mind so vividly that it refuses to fade away.

But then there’s Saint – a man whose life seems to have been swallowed by darkness. He’s got a knack for making hellish places feel like home, drenched as he is in the stench of blood and death. I can’t help but wonder what kind of horrors must have haunted him to turn him into such a heartless man.

As I mull over these thoughts, Abel appears and sits across from me. We haven’t exchanged a word since we left the water house, far too occupied with our own tumultuous emotions. And then, as if the universe couldn’t throw any more curveballs at me, a worker approaches with a black dress, heels, and a lace panty – all my size. Without hesitation, I slip into the outfit before we jet off, determined not to let my beat-up soul show.

My lips delicately graced the rim of the glass, savouring the rich taste of the wine as I stole a small sip. Abel’s intense gaze locked onto mine as he took a slow, measured sip of his bourbon, his eyes never leaving mine.

Could I trust him with my questions about Saint’s past? Maybe understanding the root of his behaviour would put my mind at ease.

‘You’ve been quite the silent one lately,’ he remarks. ‘Considering the trauma your brother put me through, I would think that you, of all people, could relate to my quietness.’ I retort, noticing a smirk spread across his face as he takes another swig of his drink. A weighty pause looms between us.

My eyes fixate on the spiralling wine in the glass, avoiding his probing gaze.

‘When did you start indulging in liquor?’ Abel probes. I lift my head to meet his inquisitive stare.

Suppressing the bitter recollections of my past, I gulp and speak my truth.

‘When I turned 16.’ I divulge, opening up a part of myself in hopes of gaining his trust and easing the tension.

If only he’d loosen up a little, conversations like these would be a walk in the park. Abel’s brows furrow. ‘Care to elaborate?’

I settle into my seat, bracing myself to share a vulnerable piece of myself with Abel. As I part my lips, my story begins to unfold.

“My teenage years were marked by intense bouts of panic attacks, so severe they sometimes resulted in total blackout. I tried confiding in my uncles, but their response was less than supportive. Desperate for a reprieve, I snuck into one of their studies one day and stumbled upon an open bottle of scotch.

Driven by my curious nature, I poured myself a couple of glasses. The taste was wretched, but the way it eased my anxiety was undeniable. And so began my toxic relationship with alcohol.”

Abel’s eyes remain glued to mine, his expression one of rapt fascination.

‘You’re a complex person, Irena,’ he murmurs. I tilt back my wine glass and savour the velvety liquid as a mysterious smile curves onto my lips.

There’s a lot more to me than meets the eye, Abel.

As I inquired, his voice cut through the smoky air like a knife, sharp and unapologetic. ‘I’m just in it for the high. No hidden depths, no secret angles.’

His words wavered in the fading light of the bar.

But then, Abel’s eyes flicked to mine in a moment of distrust. ‘And what of Saint?’ I pressed on, my curiosity piqued.

There was a moment of silence, a beat of hesitation. ‘Curiosity kills the cat,’

Abel growled, his words laced with warning. But I couldn’t resist the pull of the mystery.

‘Well,’ he began, his voice trailing off as if unsure. ‘Let’s just say that Saint’s past is darker than a moonless night. His secrets are his own to tell, though.’

My mind raced with possibilities, my heart beating fast with the thrill of the unknown. It was like being on the edge of a cliff, peering down into the abyss.

We sat for a moment longer in the dim light, exchanging nothing but glances and silence. It was then that I blurted out the question that had been nagging at me all night.

My eyes are drawn to the gleaming ring on his finger and I can’t help but blurt out my burning question: ‘Do you love her?’ Abel meets my gaze, intrigued. ‘Who?’ he asks, and I point to the precious band on his finger.

‘Your wife,’ I clarify. ‘Do you love her?’

Abel’s fingers twist around the ring as he looks off into the distance, lost in thought. Finally, his eyes soften and he whispers, ‘More than anything.’ My heart melts a little, but I can’t help but press further. ‘Is she your first love?’ I inquire.

Abel nods, a gentle smile playing on his lips. ‘It’s a blessing to have your first love turn out to be the love of your life,’ I muse, my mind drifting to Saint.

Could it be that his heart was once consumed by a blazing passion, scorching it into a pile of heartache that turned him into the cold-hearted person he is today? Or were the cruel ways always ingrained in him from the start?

As I take a sip of my fragrant wine, I can’t resist mentioning his name.

‘Saint…’ I murmur cautiously.

‘Has he ever been in love?’ I asked, my voice soft and vulnerable. Perhaps, in the depths of Saint’s darkness, there lay a sliver of light. A glimmer of hope, of something softer and sweeter than the sharp edges of this world.

A chuckle escapes Abel’s lips, as though I’d just uttered the funniest joke in existence. ‘Sorry to burst your bubble, Irena, but Saint isn’t wired for love,’

he quips.

I can feel a frown tugging at the corners of my mouth, as I set my wine glass down with a thud. ‘Surely love is something everyone is capable of,’ I protest. But Abel only shakes his head.

‘It’s not a matter of can or can’t. It’s just not in his nature,’ he explains. And suddenly, I replace myself wondering about the depths of Saint’s soul. What kind of person is incapable of love? Is there a vast emptiness inside him that’s destroyed his capacity for affection? The thought alone is enough to send chills down my spine.

“Envision if Saint were to fall in love, how would you describe it?” I pondered.

‘He’s not like other people,’ he responds thoughtfully. ‘If Saint were to love, it wouldn’t be the sunshine and rainbows type of love. No, his love would be as unpredictable and tumultuous as his own soul. Picture a tornado ripping through a forest, chopping down everything in its path. That’s how I imagine him expressing his affection. And if you were the lucky one to catch his attention, be warned – it’s not for the faint of heart. His love is possessive, dangerous, and all-encompassing. He becomes an unpredictable storm, and whoever is standing in his way better brace for impact.’

I can’t help but shiver at his words. ‘You’re making it sound like a nightmare if Saint were to love someone,’ I murmured.

He nods solemnly. ‘It’s worse than that, Irena. Saint falling in love with someone is like signing a death warrant.’

He traces the rim of his glass with a fingertip, lost in thought. I’m left with a sinking feeling in my chest, wondering what it would be like to be on the receiving end of Saint’s twisted love.