Harmony's POV
Heat. Hands wrapped around my waist. Hot air blew on my skin as warm softness pressed against my neck. My eyes rolled to the back as pain accompanied by pleasure overwhelmed me.
A hand wrapped around my waist another against my back, and yet there were still two more hands to slide over other parts of my body.
My eyes widened in panic.
***
-- Have you read the book? Does she have talent?
I sighed and opened the book again. It had been absolute torture to read the book but my sister wouldn't back down.
I wanted so badly to tell my sister that her daughter had no talent and that she should never pick up a pen to write again in her life.
However, I was supposed to be that cool aunt who supported my niece's dreams. It was cute that I became an inspiration to her however the girl's imagination was beyond comprehension.
-- I'm still reading. I will email you when I am done.
I could almost see my sister's disappointed look after she sent the message. The book was sent to me more than a month ago already. I had begun reading it but gave up with every new chapter I completed.
"Aren't you sleepy?" my husband, Jace asked. The man walked to me and squatted beside my sofa.
He looked up at me his dark blue eyes sparkling like a cat eager to play.
"I am sleepy but I must finish this book this night or my sister will come over to watch me read it," I sighed looking down at him. I stretched my hand and casually brushed his hair backwards in a gentle stroking motion. Each strand slid softly against my finger.
"I will wait with you then," he replied his deep voice soft and warm. This was how it was supposed to be. Men were to treat their women, warmly with love.
How could a girl who had lived her whole life in a matriarchal society write a story about a patriarchal society? Especially in such light.
A society where women were without rights, controlled and mistreated by men. And other women are the biggest enablers of such actions.
It was so difficult to read. It was quite imaginative for a child whose mum was a CEO. Whose aunt was a renowned award-winning writer and owner of a publishing house.
My husband slipped my indoor shoe off my feet and massaged it as I continued reading. Warmth spread across my feet with every light pressured touch.
It would have been a peaceful enjoyable read if the protagonist of the novel had not been abused and nearing her death. The lawlessness was nerve-wracking.
My husband remained by my side into the night quietly refilling my glass of warm tea, covering me with a blanket, and attending to my needs.
Finally, I stretched. I placed my tablet down on the armrest of the chair and sighed tiredly.
I wondered what my response to my sister's question would be.
I had just pushed myself to complete a story about abuse, forced intimacy and murder. A story written by my supposedly innocent college niece.
The story had been an intense emotional rollercoaster forcing me to drift between worrying about my niece's mental health and being angry at such a world that demeans women.
"You don't look happy," my husband observed, lifting his head to look at me.
I met his blue eyes and smiled warmly. "I might have to be brutally honest about how horrible my niece writes," I said firmly.
"You could coach her," my husband murmured his warm palms covering my ankle.
"I could but I won't," I replied even more firmly. I knew from the way the girl wrote that she knew how to use words aright without any major error that could not be easily corrected.
She was not without talent but if such a writer gets exposed to the world with such writing skills, it would be accept but at what cost?
The last thing I wanted was to be recognised as the mentor of someone who writes about the patriarchal world in such light.
It was a story about a pitiful protagonist whose life was filled with abuse from family and strangers alike. She chose a drastic means of survival—drugging a powerful man with the hope that she would have his child and be under his protection.
The young lady changed her mind but it was too late. Her target and his twin brothers both wanted her. It was an insult to their masculinity. Her sincere apology came to them as being tagged victims of sexual abuse so she lost her life to their male ego.
It was enough that she was abused and mistreated compared to her step-siblings. The girl's life was too sad for me to keep reading.
In a world where women supported each other and helped each other grow, it was sickening to read about women fighting each other for the affections of men.
I pulled my feet away from my husband's hand and rose up. I walked to my work desk and began typing a professional response to my sister.
I was a bit satisfied with the writing skill and the imagination needed to write something like that but I was not in support of such stories spreading.
A few thousand years ago, men went against the law of nature. They had oppressed women, killed, abused and enslaved them. It took centuries of fighting and a few more centuries of reformation to bring the peace the world now enjoys.
It was a world where women could grow to the highest potential under the mentorship of successful women. Where women were allowed to dream, sleep in peace, walk outside at night, and enjoy freedom.
Such freedom has lasted for a century now and the only books that were allowed to remind people of the evil the patriarchy had plagued the world with were those of history. And I would not be the mentor of someone who doesn't understand that.
It scared me that the future generation would ruin what many women lost their lives fighting for.
As my fingers flew across the keyboard, I wanted so badly to suggest that my sister send her daughter to therapy but remembering I was supposed to keep it professional, I completed the email and sent it.
"It is so late," I sighed glancing at the digital clock on my desk. It was already 2:00 a.m. I sighed making a mental note to never read another book from my niece.
"You look so tired," a warm voice perceived.
I smiled as I raised my head to meet his gaze. "So tired I can't move," I murmured weakly adjusting myself into the chair after shutting down my computer.
I could easily guess what he was thinking so I waited for him to act. He approached my chair and lifted me up in his strong arms. I buried my face in his neck. It smelled divine.
He tucked me in bed under the covers before joining me on the side of the bed. I rolled towards him and allowed him to wrap his arms around me.
This was it. A peace that came from knowing I was save in his arms, that he could never hurt me, that every woman was save. A world where every life mattered, with almost zero crimes and zero wars.
"I love you," I murmured.
"I love you more," his deep sleepy voice responded.
"Thanks for waiting for me to finish working."
"You're welcome."
I quickly drifted off wrapped in the familiar warmth of my husband.