He Won't Stop Kissing My Skin

On our wedding night, my husband wanted to play a game.

"Trade secrets," Rafferty said, swirling his whiskey by the fire. "Real ones. The kind that would destroy you if they ever got out."

Outside, the blizzard had buried every road off the mountain. The glass walls of this mansion made it look like we were floating inside a snow globe—beautiful, sealed, no way out.

Rafferty Hale. Heir to Hale Pharma. The kind of man who believed everything had a price, including me.

Marrying me had baffled everyone he knew. An art restorer with no name, no family, no connections. His mother called me "the project." His friends bet on how long I'd last.

He went first.

"I hurt someone once. At a party, years ago." He said it the way you'd confess to a parking ticket. "A girl. She didn't want to be there. But we were young, we were wasted, and..." He waved his hand, like he was brushing off a crumb. "Things got out of hand."

He watched my face. Waited for the flinch.

I didn't give him one.

"Your turn," he said.

I touched his cheek. Traced the sharp line of his jaw. My beautiful, monstrous husband.

"I killed someone," I said. "Do you believe me?"

Rafferty burst out laughing. Deep, real, head-thrown-back laughter that bounced off the glass walls and came back hollow.

"God, I love you." He wiped his eyes. "Are you trying to out-shock me? You win, darling. You always win."

"I'm not joking."

"Then who?" He was still grinning. Amused. The way you'd watch a kitten try to be fierce.

"My stepfather," I said. "I was sixteen."

His grin faded. Not completely—just enough for curiosity to leak through. He settled deeper into the sofa, whiskey balanced on his knee.

"Tell me everything."

So I did.

My mother married Graham when I was nine.

He was a contractor. Big hands, thin smile. Held doors open in public, held you underwater in private.

It started small. A grabbed wrist. A shove into the wall. He never hit my face—always the ribs, the arms, places a long-sleeved shirt could cover.

My mother pretended not to see. Graham paid the rent. In her math, a few bruises were an acceptable trade.

"Don't provoke him," she'd say when I showed up with finger marks on my arm.

The worst was winter. Graham had this thing he did when I really crossed him. He'd fill the bathtub with ice water, grab my neck, and shove my face under. Hold me there until my lungs burned and my legs stopped kicking.

Then he'd pull me up, watch me choke, and say: "Are you going to behave now?"

I always said yes. Because the alternative was going back under.

Rafferty's jaw tightened. I could see it—the rescue fantasy forming behind his eyes. The broken girl. The tragic past. It confirmed what he already believed: that I needed him.

"Where was your mother during all this?" he asked.

"Standing in the doorway," I said. "Watching."

It went on for three years.

I survived by disappearing into art. My teacher got me a volunteer spot restoring pieces at the local church. That basement workshop became the only place I could breathe. Chipped saints and cracked angels. Hours fitting fragments with plaster and patience, making broken things whole.

The only kind of fixing I had any control over.

Then one Christmas Eve, my mother packed a suitcase while Graham was at work. No note. No phone call. No forwarding address.

She got out.

She didn't take me with her.

Graham came home that night and found her closet empty. He drank through a bottle of bourbon alone. I stayed in my room with the door locked, listening to glass break, furniture overturn, his voice getting louder.

Then it went quiet. That was worse.

His footsteps came down the hall. Slow. Deliberate. He tried the handle.

"Open the door, sweetheart." His voice was different. Soft. The kind of soft that made my skin crawl.

One kick. The lock gave.

He stood in the doorway. Belt already off. Eyes glassy, not with anger this time, but something else. Something I'd never seen aimed at me before.

"Your mother's gone," he said. "Guess that makes you the woman of the house now."

He stepped forward.

My hand found the chisel on my nightstand. Brought it home from the church to sharpen. Eight inches of tempered steel, honed to a point fine enough to scrape centuries off marble.

Fine enough to punch through skin.

He grabbed my hair. I swung.

The chisel went into his neck below the ear. A wet sound. His grip loosened. His eyes went wide—not angry anymore. Surprised.

Like he couldn't believe the girl who always said yes had finally said something else.

He dropped.

Blood pooled fast on the linoleum. It reached my bare feet before I could step back.

I stood there, chisel dripping, waiting to feel something. Horror. Guilt. Relief.

Nothing came. Just silence, and snow falling outside, and Graham bleeding out on my bedroom floor.

I was sixteen years old, alone in a house with a dead man on Christmas Eve.

And the only thought in my head was: Now what do I do with him?