“Clara, darling, I know you think you’re the protagonist of a very gritty young adult novel right now,” I say, leaning over the counter and flashing her a grin that is all teeth and zero warmth. “But in the real world, the screaming sidekick just gets a migraine. Sit. Down. Or I’ll have Silas put you in the guest room. And unlike Wendy’s room, that one doesn’t have a view. Or a handle on the inside.”
Clara freezes, her eyes darting to the door where Silas is likely standing like a stone gargoyle. She sinks into the stool next to Wendy, vibrating with a rage so pure it’s almost impressive. “I am calling Mum. I am calling the police. I am calling everyone.”
“Do it,” I shrug, turning back to the stove. I crack two more eggs into a fresh pan. “Mum’s in Tuscany with her third husband, the police are on my payroll, and ‘everyone’ usually calls me when they need a problem solved. You’re shouting into a void, Little Bird. It’s bad for the vocal cords.”
I start a fresh batch of eggs for Wendy. I make these even more indulgent—truffle oil, a shaving of parmesan, and a pinch of that salt the scout found so stimulating.
“You’re making her breakfast?” Clara shrieks, her voice hitting a register that could shatter a wine glass. “You shredded her clothes! You marked her! You probably have her on a goddamn leash, and you’re acting like it’s a Sunday brunch!”
“Presentation is everything, Clara,” I say, sliding the eggs onto a plate and garnishing them with the precision of a Michelin-star chef. “Just because I’m a monster doesn’t mean I’m a boor. Wendy, eat. You’ve had a lot of protein lately, but you need the fats.”
Wendy looks at the plate like it’s a bomb. She looks at me, her eyes clouded and wet, then at Clara. She’s too weak to even find her voice, her body still humming from the way I broke her open on that mattress.
“Wendy, please,” Clara begs, grabbing Wendy’s hand. “Look at me. We cango. I have my car. He won’t stop us if we go together.”
I let out a short, bark-like laugh as I lean over the island, resting my chin on my hand. “Oh, she’s adorable. Clara, I could catch your car on foot. And even if you made it to the gate, where would you go? Her apartment with the broken window? My men are already there ‘fixing’ it. Her parents? They think she’s on a retreat. She’s in the Hale bubble now. It’s very cozy. Very exclusive.”
I slide the plate closer to Wendy, the silver fork clinking against the porcelain.
“Eat, Darling. Or I’ll have to feed you myself. And we both know how much you liked it when I forced things into your mouth last night.”
Clara’s jaw literally drops. She looks like she’s about to have a stroke. “You… you’re disgusting. You’re a pig. You’re a sociopath.”
“I prefer ‘high-functioning enthusiast,’” I say, pouring myself another glass of Champagne and taking a long, crisp sip. “Now, Clara, if you’re quite finished with your monologue, you can either sit there and watch Wendy eat, or you can go into the living room and cry into the Hermès pillows. They’re very absorbent.”
Wendy finally picks up the fork, her hand shaking so much the silver chatters against her teeth. She takes a bite, closing her eyes as the warmth hits her tongue. She looks pathetic. She looks perfect.
I reach across the counter and run the back of my hand down her bruised cheek. She doesn’t pull away. She leans into it, a tiny, involuntary movement that makes Clara let out a strangled sob of betrayal.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
I look at my sister, my eyes sparkling with a dark, witty triumph. “See? She’s already settling in. Now, Clara, be a dear and find a coaster for your glass. We aren’t savages.”
Clara doesn’t just sit; she vibrates. It’s like watching a teakettle reach its boiling point, the little whistle starting to scream behind her teeth.
“You’re eating?” Clara’s voice drops to a pitch that’s honestly impressive. It’s the sound of a woman watching her reality disintegrate in real-time. “Wendy, look at me. He has you in a costume. He’s feeding you like a goddamn house pet after what he did! He’s a psychopath, he’s a criminal, he’s?—”
“He’s also a very good cook, Clara,” I interject, sliding a piece of perfectly crisped sourdough toast onto Wendy’s plate. “And ‘psychopath’ is so mid-2000s. I’m a nuanced individual with a very specific hobby. Don’t be derivative.”
Clara ignores me, her hands slamming onto the marble again. “Wendy! Say something! Scream! Throw the eggs at him! Do anything besides sit there and look like you’re enjoying the garnish!”
Wendy doesn’t throw the eggs. She doesn’t even flinch. She just swallows another bite of the truffle-infused yolk, her eyes fixed on the plate. She looks like a beautiful, broken doll that’s been reassembled by someone who didn’t follow the instructions. Her hand—still trembling, still ghosted by the red of the zip-ties—moves the fork with a mechanical, heartbreaking precision.
“It’s good,” Wendy whispers. It’s the first thing she’ssaid, and it sounds like she’s speaking from the bottom of a well.
“It’s good?” Clara shrieks, finally losing the last thread of her composure. She grabs the edges of her hair and actually jerks on it. “It’s good?! He kidnapped you! He ruined your favourite dress! He literally has your blood under his fingernails right now, and you’re giving him a Yelp review?!”
“I’m hungry, Clara,” Wendy says, and for the first time, she looks up.
The look in her eyes is what does it. It’s not just fear; it’s a deep, exhausted hollow. It’s the look of someone who has finally stopped fighting the tide and decided to see where the current takes them.
I feel a sharp, sudden pang in my chest—a flicker of something that isn’t just possessiveness. It’s a weight. I look at the bruise on her cheek, the one I put there, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, I want to apologise. I want to tell her I didn’t mean to go that far.
But then I remember the way she tasted when she gave in. I remember the way she looked when she realised the light was gone. I don’t apologise. I just lean over and refill her water glass with a steady hand.
“She’s in shock, Clara,” I say, my voice losing its bite for a moment. “She’s been through a lot. Your screaming isn’t helping. It’s just making the marble feel crowded.”
“I am going to kill you,” Clara says, and this time, she isn’t shouting. She’s sobbing, the big, ugly, snotty kind of tears that make her look exactly like she did when she was six and I broke her favourite doll. “I’m going to find a way to destroy you, Peter. I don’t care if you’re my brother. I hate you. I fucking hate you.”
