Rubbing my eyes as I exhale with satisfaction, I watch Lyla gift me a smile before she jumps out of bed and puts on her workout gear. A white sports bra and white leggings and fuck those leggings make my blood simmer.
Whoever invented them deserves a trophy and I sit up in bed to be able to see her better. This is what she does every morning, stretches before she hops into the shower. I watch her as she shoves her palms into the carpet and sticks her butt in the air, her cream colored g-string peeking out and I rub my mouth from thirst.
She twists and wriggles and pulses, having no idea that she’s putting on quite the show for her husband. She rolls her shoulders while simultaneously rolling her hips in the figure eight and I could watch her movements forever.
So fluid and graceful and sexual that she at times doesn’t even feel real to me. Even if she is my wife I still have a need to constantly be assured of her happiness, constantly be assured of that she’s sufficiently pinned down. That the thought of leaving me never crosses her mind.
I’m determined to be everything that she wants and needs, never give her the slightest inclination towards wanting to stray. Not that I will ever allow her to leave me. If she ever tries to leave me for someone else, I will kill him.
And I don’t say that metaphorically.
Thus far she seems more than content with me. Yesterday she came home from the studio, pirouetting her way into my office and exclaimed with starry eyes that she had been made the prima ballerina.
“Can you believe it?” she had cried. “Me? This is my dream come true!”
My wife has the prettiest smiles of all and as far as I’m concerned she deserves to be the prima ballerina. She deserves to have all her dreams come true. I played along, reveling in her happiness and I didn’t mention that the director and I had, had a little chat.
She doesn’t need to know about that. Besides all I did was to make a mere suggestion.
Hopefully, her being the prima ballerina now will take her mind off the human I still have chained in my basement. Sooner or later, I am going to have to let him go and explain everything to Lyla. She will understand, she will forgive me because I am her husband after all.
And a wife is always loyal to her husband.
Lyla will never be so furious with me that she tries to leave. She is an understanding girl, she will understand why I had to do it.
Lyla stops with the stretching and gives me one of her special looks. A docile one and the kind she always gives me when she wants to talk about something I don’t want to talk about.
“Have you found Trevor yet?” she says and I tense. Yesterday she was in on the brotherhood’s meeting even though she cannot understand a word we say. But I suspect that she’s trying to figure out whether we are talking about her friend.
We don’t. There are more important things to discuss.
With narrowed eyes, I reply, “I have. He is chained down in the basement as we speak.”
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops in a gasp before she lets out a tittering laugh that’s not much different from the sparrows tweeting outside the window. Still laughing she jumps on top of me, shaking her head.
“You have a sick funny side, husband,” she smiles, burying her face in my throat and I play with her tresses, letting the waves fall through my fingers and I breathe in deep the sweet, luxurious smell of the almond lotion that she uses.
“Do I? I wasn’t even joking. I am telling the truth.”
She sighs, swatting my bicep and she is not buying it and my heart starts hurting. She truly does think that I am good. She truly does think that the male sleeping beside her every night is not a monster. My Lyla is blind to my bad side, blissfully so and a part of me wants to keep it that way forever.
Never tell her what I’ve actually done. Always have her think the best of me. I am purely being selfish because her loving faith in that I am good feels like being dipped in a healing balm.
“Har har har,” she mutters. “But maybe you could wait with the dark humor until after I’ve had my breakfast?”
I don’t say anything and she trails kisses down my jawline. “I got a favor to ask,” she murmurs. “Can you meet me at the dance studio once you’re done with work?”
“Why?” I frown.
Lyla squirms. “There’s some stuff left at my place and I want to pick it up.”
When we got married, I had most of the things sent for and I tell her that I will send for the rest too but she protests.
“No way, I don’t want strangers to go through my underwear drawer...”
“Got it,” I snap quickly and she snickers, twirling hair that’s framing her face and she is the prettiest painting I own, “I will be there.”
****