Phantom

September 18, 1944

My diary sits on my lap, the blank page glaring at me. I have so much to say, yet I’m unable to string together an intelligible sentence when my thoughts are racing.

It’s been over a week since Ronaldo visited, and I’ve all but convinced myself that either he’s lost interest or something terribly wrong has happened.

Throughout the five or so months he’s been coming around, I’ve gotten used to going days and days without seeing him. Yet there’s a persistent feeling in my gut that something has happened.

I’ve had my pen poised over the paper for the past five minutes, and just as I touch the metal tip to it, the front door opens.

My heart stalls, and my muscles freeze into solid ice.

Then I hear the familiar cadence of my phantom’s footsteps, and it’s like adrenaline has been injected into my veins. I shoot up from my chair, the journal and pen scattering across the checkered floor. I pay them no mind as I barrel toward the infuriating man who’s somehow stolen my heart.

My arms are around his neck in seconds while his palm warms my lower back instinctively. Instantly, his sandalwood, orange, and tobacco scent brings me comfort. But before I can bask in the relief of seeing him again, a pained grunt slips past his lips.

Pulling back, I gasp, instantly noticing the purpling skin beneath his right eye and several gashes along his cheekbone.

“What happened to you?” I ask, setting a gentle palm on his cheek, my fingers lightly brushing over the discoloration.

“It’s nothing, my love,” he assures, warming my hand on his face with his own. The touch is affectionate, but I’m unable to appreciate it when I’m nearly choking on my concern.

“It doesn’t look like nothing!”

“It’s nothing I didn’t deserve.” What a cryptic answer. No less from a cryptic man. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long. I didn’t want you to see me like this but . . . I couldn’t endure another day without you.”

His words ease my tightened throat like warm honey, though I can’t let go of my concern. Someone hurt him, and that hurts me.

“At least tell me who did this,” I whisper, my brows crinkling as I study every bruise, every cut.

“My boss. He was unhappy with a decision I made.”

None of his responses gives me any idea of what happened, but I let it go for now. This man is like a snow globe that has frosted over. It doesn’t matter how hard I shake him; he will show me nothing unless I crack him open and his contents spill out.

However, I can be patient. But he can only keep me in the dark for only so long before I’ll grow bored with his mysteriousness. I have a husband that has excelled at the craft, and I certainly do not need another man with that skill set.

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” I ask quietly.

A simple question, yet I feel like it will open a door that leads to many complications.

His pale eyes trail over my face and down to my throat, where my pulse thunders beneath my flesh.

Can he see it? How deeply he affects me. How strongly I feel him.

Tension gathers in the surrounding air, embracing the two of us like a warm blanket.

His fingers slide along my cheek and into the depth of my curls while my hand drops from his face down to his chest. I inhale a sharp breath, shivering from his gentle touch.

He tugs me closer, pressing his chest into mine. He stands several inches taller, and if I lift onto my toes just a bit, it would be so easy for him to . . .

Nothing could have prepared me for his lips crashing into mine. He wastes no time twirling his tongue around my own in a sensual dance.

While every other kiss was electrifying, this one encapsulates a storm beyond earth’s capabilities.

It’s cosmic, cataclysmic.

A tinge of copper blooms on my taste buds where the pressure has irritated his split lip. It does nothing to deter me. Rather, our kiss only deepens, just as I fall deeper into the cosmos.

My hands glide down his chest and tear his button-up out from his trousers before diving beneath the fabric. He groans as I familiarize myself with his chiseled stomach and then his defined chest muscles, which are covered in a thin layer of hair.

My pointer finger whispers over his nipple, earning me a deep growl. Invigorated, I fasten his bottom lip between my teeth, nipping sharply and drawing more blood.

I scarcely register his walking me backward until my back slams against a wall. The force of it causes a heavy breath to expel from my lungs. I’m granted one last sip of oxygen before his mouth demands more from me. I’m eager to oblige, giving him every ounce of me I have to offer.

Fingers close around my throat, and he brings me away from the wall an inch just to slam me back against it. He rips his mouth away from mine just as I gasp when he releases my throat. Then he drags his nose along my neck, inhaling deeply.

“You’re brave, mia rosa. But I’m curious to know how brave,” he ponders, his tone devilish.

His voice against my throat coaxes goose bumps to rise across my flesh like an evening tide.

“You’ve never scared me the way you should’ve,” I breathe, my chest heaving and heart pounding. “Whatever gave you the impression that I was a scared little mouse?”

He clicks his tongue as if chiding me. “I would guess the moment I make you squeal like one.”

A moment later, his teeth are sinking into the soft spot beneath my ear. I’m unable to control the sound that bursts from my throat. High-pitched, just like a damned mouse.

However, he wastes no time gloating and instead thrusts his hips into mine. His hard length presses into my stomach, expressing a different type of hunger than his teeth did.

“I think you can squeal louder than that, no?” he purrs, his voice dipping impossibly deeper. My mother spoke of a voice like that—said it belonged to the ruler of hell. She warned me of this being’s dangerous pull over our will and made me swear to find God during these moments.

She’d be disappointed to know that I’m so delirious from Ronaldo’s touch, I wouldn’t be able to locate where the hell God is, let alone how to reach Him. I’m convinced she was a silly woman.

How could Ronaldo rule hell if he makes me see heaven?

“Ronaldo,” I moan, feeling constricted in the clothing covering my body. It’s too much, and I need it off.

As if hearing my silent plea, his hands shred at my blouse, tugging it out from under the waistband of my skirt before ripping it apart, sending the pearl buttons flying. The bite of metal from my zipper coming undone sounds a moment later, and the clothing sluices off my skin like water, leaving me in my undergarments and black heels.

He takes a second to rake his heated gaze over my body. The black bra containing my aching breasts and the matching girdle slimming my waist, holding on to my sheer black stockings, the tops rimmed with lace. It’s a different set than I wore last time—a more risqué one. While the other had lace detailing, this one has sheer panels highlighting my curves. Silk conceals the parts of me that are most fun to uncover.

I wore it in hopes that Ronaldo would come, just like I’ve been wearing other scandalous sets for the last couple days. Until today, they went to waste.

I had bought this one for an anniversary that John forgot to celebrate with me.

And now, I’m glad for it.

It feels right that Ronaldo’s the first to see me in these undergarments, especially when they were intended for a husband that never seemed to appreciate me.

Which is the exact opposite of what my visitor is doing. His stare ravishes my body, his eyes darting over me like he can’t get enough. Like he’ll miss a vital part of me if he doesn’t scour every inch.

“You . . . are exquisite, mia rosa,” he rasps, his darkened gaze finally lifting to mine. “I am undeserving.”

I lift my chin haughtily. “I believe that’s for me to decide.”

There’s very little in life that I’ve had control over. My dad was too busy breaking his back as a section hand to notice me, and my mother feared God more than she loved me. When she wasn’t berating me about my rebellious attitude—which would surely prevent any respectable man from marrying me—she was hammering God into my head with a vengeance crueler than the spikes that were nailed into Jesus’s hands.

But the harder she tried to coerce me into following in her footsteps, the less I wanted to. I didn’t want to submit to a vengeful God any more than I wanted to submit to a man.

Yet somehow, I fear that’s almost exactly where I’ve found myself. I may not read the Bible as a bedtime story, but I am an ant ensnared in a circle of salt. I’m trapped in the confines of these walls while my husband leaves me here to wander aimlessly.

I have a life, yet I’m no less a prisoner than the ghosts that haunt these hallways.

Ronaldo—he’s a choice. Maybe a terrible one, but one all the same. He’s the first selfish decision I’ve made for myself, and I can’t deny how thrilling it feels.

I gather every morsel of courage in my throat, then say, “You should know, this ensemble is just as beautiful on the floor as it is on me.”

He nods slowly as if assessing the situation and passes his stare over my form one more time before locking eyes with me. Then one corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk and he . . . he walks away!

My mouth falls open, shock paralyzing me as I watch the infuriating man saunter toward the door. The only thing missing from his gait is a carefree tune whistling from his lips as if he simply does not give a damn about what he’s turning away from.

Oh, he will not get away with leaving me like this! If he does . . . I swear he will never see me in such a state again!

Just as my feet unglue from the floor, I chase after him. But before I can give him the worst tongue-lashing he’s ever heard, he pivots toward the staircase. Craning his head over his shoulder just enough to catch my gaze, he winks, then turns and continues up the steps.

Confused but now more intrigued, I follow him. By the time I reach the top, he’s halfway down the hallway.

The click of my heels across the wooden floorboards echoes as I slowly trail after him. He faces my bedroom, flicks one last stare my way, then enters.

Heart pounding, I pass a spare bedroom, glimpsing another figure standing within. The sudden intrusion has the erratic muscle in my chest flying up into my throat. Instinctively, I whip my stare toward the doorway, finding it empty.

It was just a flash, but I know something was standing there.

Likely judging me for my careless decision. Even more so now that I’m willing to entertain another man in my marital bed.

Let the ghosts judge. Unlike them, I have a life to live, and I might as well enjoy it before I join their miserable souls in the afterlife.

Swallowing down the residual fear, I reach my bedroom and find Ronaldo sitting on the edge of the chest at the foot of the bed, staring blankly at the wall before him. My vanity is directly in front of him, offering him a perfect view of himself through the gold-framed mirror. To the left of him and directly opposite me is a full-length mirror, which offers me an uninterrupted view of myself.

Two souls staring into our own eyes, unable to hide from the choice we’re both going to make.

I look away from my reflection, and my stare clashes with his.

Neither of us dares change our minds.