The sound that rips out of him isn’t human. It’s a high, keening wail that bounces off the walls. I don’t let go. I grind my hand into the wounds, feeling the salt crystals grate against the raw muscle and the edges of the severed skin.
“Does it burn?” I ask, watching with a clinical fascination as the blood turns a strange, frothy pink. “It’s supposed to. It’s supposed to remind you that some things are sacred. She is the only thing in this world that is off-limits to you. And you looked.”
I pull my hand away, my skin stained red, and pick up a fresh handful. I move to the other side, where Silas has opened up the kid’s thigh.
“Please… God, please… I didn’t know!” the kid sobs, his head thrashing.
“You didn’t need to know,” I say, my voice turning into a razor. I dump the salt into the deep cut on his legand use my thumb to shove the crystals deep into the meat. I go slow. I want him to feel every individual grain searing into his nervous system. I want him to understand that my mercy is a myth.
He vomits then—a bitter, yellow spray that hits the concrete. I don’t flinch. I just keep my thumb buried in his leg, twisting it, feeling the wet crunch of the salt.
“Who sent you?” I ask, my voice dropping to a deathly quiet. “One name. And I’ll let Silas end this quickly. Otherwise, I’m going to spend the next four hours making sure you taste nothing but salt and your own blood.”
My phone buzzes again.
I’m calling the police, Peter. I mean it. Tell me where she is.
I look at the blood on my hands and think of Wendy’s pale, soft skin. The contrast is the only thing that makes me feel real.
The kid chokes out a name. A rival syndicate head from the North End. A man who thinks he can test my borders.
I pull my hand back and wipe the blood onto the kid’s shirt. “Thank you for your honesty,” I say, stepping back. I look at Silas. “Take his tongue. I don’t want him sharing my secrets with the devil.”
I walk out of the room, the kid’s renewed screams muffled by the heavy steel door. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t feel anything but a crushing, desperate need to be back in my bedroom.
I get into my car, the interior smelling of expensiveleather and the faint, lingering scent of Wendy’s perfume from the ride over. My pulse finally begins to settle.
I’m a monster. I’ve always been a monster. But as I drive through the quiet streets toward my estate, I know one thing for certain.
She’s the only thing that makes the monster want to stay in the light. Even if I have to keep her in the dark to do it.
I pull the black sedan out of the warehouse lot, the tires crunching over gravel that sounds too much like the kid’s bones. I don’t turn on the music. I prefer the hum of the engine and the ringing in my ears—the aftermath of a scream is the only silence I ever truly trust.
My phone vibrates on the passenger seat. Persistent. Annoying. Like a fly buzzing against a windowpane it doesn’t realise is closed.
Answer me, Peter. I went to her apartment. Her window is broken. There’s glass everywhere. If you’ve done something… I’ll tell the Council. I’ll tell them you’ve lost it.
I glance at the screen, a ghost of a smirk pulling at my mouth. The Council. A collection of old men in silk suits who think they control the tide. They don’t realise I amthe tide. And I’ve already washed over Wendy Darling, pulling her deep into the undertow where the light doesn’t reach.
I think about that broken window at her place. I didn’t break it. She did. Three years ago, when she thought she could lock me out. She’d climbed out onto the fire escape because she saw my car idling at the curb. I watched her—this slip of a girl in a white nightgown, looking like a haunting. She’d tripped, her elbow shattering the glass, and I’d been up those stairs before she could even gasp.
I remember the way I’d pinned her against the brick of the building, the city of Chicago breathing down our necks. I’d taken her bleeding arm, licked the copper tang of her skin, and whispered that the next time she ran, I’d take her legs.
She hadn’t run since. Not really. She just invited the fire in and pretended she wasn’t warming her hands by it.
Another buzz.
You always wanted to ruin her. Even when we were kids. I saw the way you looked at her across the dinner table. Like she was a meal. You’re sick, Peter. You’re fucking sick.
“Sick,” I mutter to the empty car.
It’s not sickness. It’s devotion. The world out there—the neon, the filth, the men I just left in that basement—it’s a meat grinder. Wendy is too soft for the gears. She’s all silk and grey-storm eyes and a heart that still beats with a rhythm that isn’t dictated by fear. I’m not ruining her; I’m preserving her. I’m the cage that keepsthe wolves away, even if the bars are made of my own sins.
I drive past the North End, my territory. Every corner is a reminder of what I’ve built. The shops that pay for my protection, the alleys where my shadows move with silent, lethal efficiency. This city is a kingdom of rot, and I am its crown prince.
I think of her back at the estate. My bed is a fortress. The sheets are Egyptian cotton, the scent of my sandalwood and her lilies and the metallic smell of the night’s work all tangled together. I can almost feel her skin under my palms—the way she shivered when I used the zip-ties. She hates the restraint, but she loves the certainty of it. She loves knowing that for the first time in her life, the choice has been taken away.
She doesn’t have to wonder what comes next. I am what comes next. Always.
