Silva and the Stars

2 | we're using each other

It isn't long before Rachel joins me on the balcony. "Why are you back so early? Didn't you enjoy the motorbike course that I signed you up to?"

"Not exactly," I reply, my eyes running over the soft waves of her black hair, the sharp edges of her face. She has a slender nose, and beautiful hazel eyes, while her skin is an irresistible chocolate brown.

She's shorter than me, and I remember how I used to lord it over her as kids. But all it does is feed into her illusion – you think she's the type of girl you can wrap your arms around and serenade with kisses, but in actuality, she's the kind of girl who would bite you if you tried to shower her with affection.

Rachel doesn't understand how to give affection. Perhaps it's because her father was a bitter old man until the day he died. He certainly didn't trust that she would find someone of her own volition, hence our marriage. As Rachel pointed out when I returned from my travels, even in death he was trying to control her.

He was very into stoicism. He would make Rachel sleep outside for a week at the closure of every financial year so that she remembered what it's like to survive without the creature comforts.

I think he did care in some way – as he only made her do it in the heat of summer. If he tried that in winter, she probably would have died of hypothermia.

As Rachel was the only child he had with his wife before she died, he seemed to take out his frustration for not being a boy on her. It was like he couldn't decide if he wanted to raise her like a son or a daughter, so instead, he did a mixture of both. Rachel's childhood consisted of a strange dichotomy – cadet camps, track and ballet.

As such, she's a natural athlete that I might have feared taking on if my own family hadn't enforced a strict sporting regimen on me. God forbid their only son put on an ounce of extra weight – I was doing squad swimming and rowing throughout boarding school.

But my family had never allowed me to do motorbiking, or white-water rafting, or skydiving, or taking me up in a helicopter to snowboard down the slopes. Nothing that would ever put my precious, million-dollar life in danger. Yet these were all things that I had done at Rachel's behest for our 'honeymoon'.

I'm starting to think this is the honeymoon from hell.

Rachel narrows her eyes at me. "Why not?"

I show off the massive graze on my arm and knee, where I scraped myself landing on the dirt ground. It had taken a while for the nice woman there to individually pick out each small rock that had embedded itself into my bleeding skin.

"I decided to call it a day after I got these."

My eyes are keyed on her face, and I see a glimmer of emotion there, as her gaze flickers down to assess my injuries. Is that a hint of guilt?

Then her alluring gaze meets mine and I'm reminded that those hazel eyes didn't shed a single tear at her father's funeral a mere week ago.

So I doubt she'd feel any guilt for sending me on the motorbike-death-course.

"I see," she says, before turning and walking away.

Is that all the reaction I get?

I deserve more from my wife than that.

I step toward her retreating form. "Rachel, wait."

She halts and faces me reluctantly.

I stride just in front of her until I can feel the heat of her breath on my collarbones. I watch her gaze slip up to the edge of my jaw, before lifting higher to meet mine.