The North End.
I swallow the last of the eggs, set the plate in the sink with a dainty clink, and pick up the device. I slide the answer bar just as the sound of Clara screaming Wendy’s name muffled by the upstairs door hits my ears.
“You’ve reached the Hale residence,” I drawl into the receiver, my voice dropping that playful sibling edge for something much sharper. “If you’re calling to apologise for the mess in my driveway, you’re a little late. If you’re calling for the boy I have in my basement, you’re far too optimistic.”
“Hale,” a voice rasps. It’s Viktor—a man who sounds like he’s been gargling glass and bad intentions for fifty years. “You have something of mine. One of my scouts. And I hear you’ve taken a little prize for yourself, too. A civilian.”
I walk over to the window, watching a lone crow pick at the gravel by the gate. “A prize? That’s a bit dehumanising, don’t you think, Viktor? She’s a guest. A permanent, very satisfied guest. And as for your scout… he’s currently a science experiment in the properties of sodium chloride. He’s been very educational.”
On the other end, there’s a sharp intake of breath.
“You’re crossing a line, Peter. The girl… she’s the daughter of?—”
“I know exactly whose daughter she is,” I snap, the wit evaporating. “I know her bloodline better than she does. I know the scent of her skin, the way she tastes when she’s terrified, and the exact frequency of her scream. Which is why you’re going to listen very carefully.”
Upstairs, a door slams. Then another. Clara’s muffled sobbing starts to mix with a low, melodic murmur that I recognise as Wendy’s voice. My heart gives a sickening, possessive thrum.
“If I see another one of your flies buzzing around my estate,” I continue, my voice a whisper that could cut diamonds, “I won’t just salt them. I’ll find the hole you crawled out of and I’ll bury you in it. I’ll make sure the last thing you see is me burning everything you’ve ever touched while I hold your ‘prize’ by the hair.”
“You’re unhinged,” Viktor spits. “The Council won’t allow a war over a girl.”
“Then don’t make it a war,” I say, my smirk returning, cold and lethal. “Make it a funeral. Yours. Have a lovely morning, Viktor. Do try the eggs somewhere else—I hear the ones in the city are far less salty.”
I end the call and toss the phone back onto the counter. It slides across the marble, coming to rest near the knife block.
I can hear them now. The footsteps are coming back down. They’re slower this time. Heavier.
I reach into the fridge and pull out a bottle of chilled Champagne. Veuve Clicquot. If we’re going to have adomestic meltdown, we might as well have bubbles. I pop the cork—a soft, expensive pouf—and pour two glasses.
Clara appears in the kitchen doorway. She looks like she’s aged ten years. Behind her, leaning against the doorframe for support, is Wendy.
She’s wearing my black silk dress shirt. It swallows her, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the red, angry marks on her wrists. Her hair is a chaotic halo, her lips swollen, her eyes wide and haunted. She looks like a beautiful ruin, and the sight of her in my clothes, in my kitchen, makes my blood feel like liquid fire.
“Peter,” Wendy whispers.
I ignore my sister entirely. I pick up a glass of Champagne and walk toward Wendy, my gaze locked on hers. I can see the memory of the car, the mirror, and the bed flashing in her grey eyes. I can see the moment she realises that even with Clara right there, she’s still mine.
“You’re late for breakfast, Darling,” I say, stepping into her space until she’s forced to tilt her head back. I hold the glass to her lips. “Drink. You need the sugar. You worked very hard for it.”
Clara looks like she’s going to vomit. “She’s leaving with me, Peter. Right now.”
I don’t even look at Clara. I just brush a stray curl away from Wendy’s forehead, my thumb lingering on the bruise I left there. “Is she, Wendy? Are you going back to your little apartment? Back to the beige walls and the broken window and the life where nobody really sees you?”
Wendy’s hand shakes as she reaches out, taking the glass from me. Her fingers brush mine, and a jolt ofelectricity snaps between us. She takes a sip, her eyes never leaving mine.
“I…” she starts, her voice trembling.
“Tell her, Wendy,” I murmur, leaning down so only she can hear me. “Tell her you’ve finally found someone who knows how to handle the dark inside you.”
“She isn’t in any state to be making life-altering decisions, Clara. She can barely keep her head up, let alone navigate a daring escape in your vintage death-trap of a car,” I say, my voice light and airy, as if we’re discussing the merits of a houseplant rather than the systematic dismantling of a human soul.
I guide Wendy toward one of the velvet-lined barstools. She sinks into it, her legs trembling so violently the silk of my shirt shivers against her skin. She looks like she’s drifting somewhere between a panic attack and a sensory blackout.
“Get your hands off her!” Clara lunges again, grabbing Wendy’s arm to pull her away.
Wendy lets out a soft, sharp whimper—the sound of raw skin rubbing against raw skin.
I don’t move fast. I move with the terrifying efficiency of a man who has spent his life winning fights before they start. I catch Clara’s wrist, twisting it just enough to make her gasp and go still.
