Breaking them is breaking her.
I was a scary person when you peeled back the flesh of my skin and saw what was underneath. My mommy issues probably had a lot to do with me wanting to control women the way I do. Edging them until they could no longer take it was enough to fulfill my sexual urges.
My blood tingles at the image. It's a high, an adrenaline haze when I tie the knot a little tighter, executing the curves of her body, or around someone's throat, commanding their every breath. Their life is in my fingers. They've let their guard down because I know how to make them orgasm, not knowing that if I wanted to, I could kill them.
I wouldn't of course. Necrophilia was a step too far, even for me. What can I say, I'd rather be fucked up than fucked.
That is how I enjoyed my life. Secluded, away from prying eyes, isolated. Now with Emerson constantly stumbling inside, it reminded me more than ever how much I enjoyed my alone time.
I couldn't exactly read while he was attempting to scramble an egg, banging around in my kitchen like a toddler. Then I would have to trudge down the steps with Cerberus on my heels to make him food so he didn't starve.
"What the hell are you three doing out here? What a minute, is that beer?"
We all turn, me a little slower than the other two, until we are all face to face with Nico's ball and chain.
Aurelia Riggs, with her petite frame and icy blonde hair. Her features are sharp, hardened expressions, but she looks delicate with a bundle of blankets in her arms as she rocks back and forth with the baby.
Riggs stomps over to Emerson, grabbing the beer from his hands as he complains, trying to reason with her, but she quickly tosses it into the trash can glaring at him.
"If I wasn't holding my niece right now, I'd kick your ass, Emerson."
She was the epitome of my type. Tiny but curvy in all the places I liked, blonde, successful, bitchy, however, pain recognizes pain.
We both belonged to the childhood trauma club, proud founding members. So that would never work out. How would I help her overcome her parents when my childhood still nips at my heels?
And Nico would've killed me if I made a move. The guy has been a lovesick puppy since he met her. Even though he never said it out loud, the bro code was laid down.
"Is there a reason why Bishop's best friends are outside while he gets ready for the biggest day of his life?" she scolds.
Nico moves toward his girlfriend wrapping his arms around her small waist, looking down at the small life in her arms.
"You look good with a baby."
"Don't get any ideas, no kids for us, not yet anyway."
"Babe, I've got all kinds of ideas on how I want to put a baby inside of you. I've already tried out a few of them."
Nico peers down at Valor and Bishop's daughter, Dalia. She's only a few months old, and she is a perfect balance of them both. Her short strawberry-blonde hair is proof enough of that.
I didn't like kids, but Dalia was cute.
"Barf," Emerson says interrupting their conversation drawing attention back to him and his flask that he is pulling from his suit pocket.
"Do you ever listen? Or do you just enjoy pissing me off?" Riggs says as Emerson takes a sip of whatever is inside the silver container.
He shrugs. "Better than drugs."
I scoff, "Hardly. Come on, let's get back inside. We've gotta make sure he gets down the aisle."
Bishop Maverick was a lot of things.
He was one of the best hockey players to ever touch the ice. He was sensible, poised, humorous, a dick sometimes, but he was never nervous.
I'd played with him most of my NHL career and seeing him nervous was unsettling. He'd barely broken a sweat in tied games or Stanley cup finals, but right now, he was a shaking mess.
This is why Nico needed to be standing next to him because he would've said something romantically inspiring to calm him down, and all I'm coming up with is what they are serving for the reception.
I'm turning into fucking Emerson.
So I think, I think quickly about all the pages I've ever read. Every book, every quote, and try to pull the best one. Something that will say everything without me needing to explain it.
Who else better than Leo Tolstoy.
I reach up, grabbing his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly as guests fill in their seats.
"Seize the moments of happiness, love, and be loved. That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one thing we are interested in here,” I say lowly, just for him to hear.
He nods, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
He shouldn't be nervous. He acts like Valor isn't going to come down the aisle. Like she'll bail on him.
Even someone as cynical as me can realize when a couple is meant to be together. I hadn’t been to a lot of weddings, because let’s face it, I’m not very friendly.
His best friend was about to walk down the aisle and pledge to live the rest of her life with him. I’m not romantic. I feel like it would be a contradiction for someone like me to believe in romance. I never understood that the universe puts you with one person for the rest of your life, never really found any truth in soulmates, but Bishop and Valor.
What could their love be besides an otherworldly connection?
I’d never found Valor attractive, not that she was ugly, she just wasn’t the kind of girl I went for. But Bishop looked at her like she held the answer to every question he wanted to ask. There was no point where he started and she began. They were a constant being. They looked at each other and you could tell there was a secret conversation going on without words.
The leftover snow laid a sheet of white on the ground, and the white covered mountain caps sitting on a lake of pure turquoise set the backdrop of their ceremony. The wooden arch I stood beneath beside the person I’d consider to be one of my best friends. I’d fucked around and landed into a hallmark movie.
From the frozen icicles hanging off Valor’s family’s cabin to the pops of green foliage they added to the aisle and chairs, even the looming pine trees seemed to have snow laying perfectly, just for them.
The strumming of a guitar began over the speakers, smooth, repetitive. The women in the chairs were already tearing up at the sugary harmony. I stand with my hands behind my back as the sound of a raspy, yet tender voice starts singing.
I recognize the lyrics. I hate this song. It’s the anthem for every coffee shop I’ve ever been to. I lean toward Bishop. “Is she walking down the aisle to Van Morrison?”
He smirks, “My girl has an old soul.”
“Not your girl anymore, about to be your wife, pal. Ball and chain forever,” Nico says from behind me.
The October air outside was crisp, but I’d grown up in Russia and I played hockey. The cold was second nature. Riggs appears from the cabin, taking her time to walk down the aisle in her dark green dress. I peek behind me, seeing Nico practically salivating over her.
Human connection.
Something that can heal a broken heart and scar an innocent mind. It's odd watching all of these connections from an outsider's point of view.
I'd be naive to think if I wasn't curious what it was like to look at someone the way my friends look at their partners.
“It’s not too late, we can bail,” Emerson says humorously. I refrain from slapping him. I didn’t want to make too much of a scene, even if he was just being an idiot.