Hook stands over him, the rain washing the blood off his face as the man collapses, clutching his neck. Hook looks toward the front doors of the house, toward the altar where my wife is being held.
“Silas was right,” Hook calls out to the remainingguards, his voice booming through the storm. “I am in a terrible mood.”
I step up beside him, the cold weight of the ring on my own finger feeling like a brand. I look at the house, at the shadows moving behind the glass.
“Let’s go get her,” I growl.
Wendy
The room is a cavern of opulence and suffocating heat, smelling of expensive sandalwood, old money, and the sharp, chemical tang of the white powder that has become my only sun.
I’m on my knees. My skin is raw against the deep pile of the Persian rug, the intricate silk patterns biting into my shins. I am entirely, jarringly naked—a discarded thing in a room full of priceless artefacts. Felix doesn’t believe in clothes for his pets; he says silk and lace are just barriers between him and his property. He wants to see the way my skin flushes when he looks at me, the way my muscles quiver when I try to hold still.
Felix sits in the high-backed velvet armchair, the golden light of the fireplace dancing in his dark, predatory eyes. He looks like a king, and I am the hound at his feet.
“Eat, Wendy,” he murmurs, his voice a low, cultured thrum.
On the silver tray balanced on the arm of his chairsits a plate of thick-cut, honey-glazed bacon. The smell is intoxicating, making my stomach cramp with a hunger that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with survival.
He picks up a strip with his fingers, the grease glistening. He doesn’t offer it to me. He holds it just out of reach, high above my head. I have to arch my back, straining my neck, my breasts heavy and sensitive in the cool air of the room.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice a wrecked, thinned-out rasp.
“Please what, my little widow?” He smiles, and it’s a terrifying thing. He reaches out with his free hand, his fingers dipping into the small crystal bowl on the side table. He brings a pinch of the white dust to my nose. “Take your medicine first.”
I lean in, desperate, inhaling the bitter, numbing sting of the cocaine. It hits my system like a lightning strike, my heart rate exploding into a frantic, jagged rhythm. The world sharpens until the fire is too bright and the shadows are too deep. My skin feels like it’s vibrating, every nerve ending screaming for a touch I’m terrified to receive.
He drops the bacon. I catch it in my mouth like an animal, the salt and honey exploding on my tongue. It’s shameful. It’s delicious. I chew, my eyes rolling back as the drug and the food war for control of my senses.
“That’s a good girl,” Felix whispers.
While I’m still swallowing, his hand slides down. His fingers are cold against my heated skin, moving with agonising slowness over my stomach, down between mythighs. I’m already slick, a traitorous reaction to the constant, high-wire tension of this house.
He finds me, his thumb circling, a brutal, expert pressure that makes my breath hitch.
“Moan for me,” he commands, his voice hardening. “Show me how much you like being fed.”
I let out a low, broken sound—a mix of a sob and a gasp—as he slides two fingers inside me. He’s not gentle. He knows exactly how to make the pleasure feel like a punishment. I’m leaning against his knee, my forehead pressed against the expensive fabric of his trousers, shivering as the cocaine makes every stroke of his hand feel like a goddamn forest fire.
“Eat another,” he says, holding up a second piece of bacon.
I open my mouth, gasping for air, the salt of the meat and the wetness between my legs blurring into one sensory overload. I’m moaning into his palm, my hips bucking instinctively against his hand while I chew, the degradation of it settling into my bones like lead.
“You’re worth every cent, Wendy,” he breathes, his hand moving faster now, his fingers stretching me, claiming me. “Your husband is a ghost. This room is your world now. My hand, my floor, my white dust. You don’t need anything else, do you?”
I can’t answer. I’m lost in the white noise of the high, the firelight licking at my bare skin, and the crushing weight of the man who bought my life. I’m drowning in luxury and filth, and for a terrifying, drugged-out second, I can’t even remember why I’m waiting for the door to burst open.
Felix’s hand tangles in my hair, his knuckles draggingacross my scalp as he wrenches my head back. The world tilts, the ceiling murals spinning in a blur of gold and shadow, and then I’m being hauled upward. My knees scrape the silk rug before I’m hoisted onto his lap, my bare thighs straddling his charcoal-grey trousers.
I can feel him through the fabric—thick, rigid, and unrelenting. He’s already hard, a solid bar of heat pressed against my aching core.
“Move for me, Wendy,” he commands, his voice dropping into a guttural rasp that vibrates through my chest. “Grind. Let me feel how much that powder has opened you up.”
I’m sobbing, the tears hot and blurring my vision, but the cocaine is a frantic conductor in my blood. My heart is a trapped bird, and my body—this traitorous, drug-soaked cage—obeys. I shift my weight, my hips rolling in a slow, agonising circle. The friction of his expensive suit against my sensitive skin is a jagged spark. I let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, my fingers digging into the velvet upholstery of the chair until my nails catch in the weave.
“No… please, Felix…” I gasp, the words catching on a sob.
“Hush,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up my spine to the nape of my neck, forcing my face close to his. “You say no, but your body is screaming something else entirely.”
