I lead Wendy toward the private fitting rooms in the back. Dominique has already laid out a spread of silks inemerald, sapphire, and gold. I sit on the velvet sofa, a glass of crystal-clear gin in my hand, and watch as Wendy begins to shed the coat.
She stands there in my shirt, her legs long and pale, the bruises on her thighs looking like dark flowers. My heart does a strange, painful somersault. I want to fuck her until she forgets her own name, but I also want to wrap her in cotton wool and kill anyone who ever looked at her sideways.
“Try the emerald,” I say, my voice thick. “It matches the way you look when you’re about to break.”
She picks up the dress, her fingers trembling. “Why are you doing this, Peter? The clothes, the city… the North End. Why me?”
I stand up, walking over to her until I’m close enough to smell the salt still lingering on her skin. I tilt her chin up, looking deep into those storm-grey eyes.
“Because the world is a filthy, boring place, Wendy,” I whisper. “And you’re the only thing in it that isn’t a lie. I’d burn this whole city down just to watch the firelight dance in your hair. Viktor, the Council, Clara… they’re just noise. You’re the music.”
I lean down, kissing her softly—a rare, human moment of tenderness that feels more dangerous than a blow.
“Now, put on the dress. I want to see how beautiful you look when you’re mine.”
I lean back into the plush velvet of the settee, watching her through the rim of my glass. The gin is cold, but the sight of her is a slow-burn fever.
Dominique and her assistants flutter around like frantic birds, but I’ve frozen them out with a singleglance. In this room, there is only the rustle of silk and the sound of Wendy’s uneven breathing.
She pulls the emerald gown over her head. The silk is heavy, a liquid green that pours over her curves like a benediction. It clings to her breasts and nipped waist, the back plunging low enough to expose the faint, reddened ghost of where my fingers gripped her spine last night.
I feel a visceral, sharp pull in my gut. I remember her at seven years old, crying because she’d scraped her knee on the gravel of our driveway. I’d picked her up—this tiny, fragile thing—and told her that as long as I was alive, she’d never have to walk on gravel again. I’d spend my life laying down silk for her to step on.
I just didn’t tell her the silk would be stained with the blood of anyone who tried to take her from me.
“Peter,” she whispers, staring at herself in the triptych of mirrors. “I look… different.”
“You look like a queen waiting for a war to start,” I say, standing up. I walk behind her, my reflection looming over her shoulder—a sharp-suited devil haunting a saint. I place my hands on her shoulders, my thumbs tracing her collarbones. “The girl in the beige cardigans was a mask, Wendy. This is the truth. This is the woman who belongs by my side while I watch this city rot.”
I lean down, my lips grazing the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Do you know what I did for this dress? Not the money. The lives. Every stitch in this fabric is paid for by the fear I instil in men like Viktor. You aren’t just wearing silk, Darling. You’re wearing my power.”
The door to the private suite bursts open. Clara. Again.
“Peter, for the love of God, Silas is checking hisweapon in the lobby,” she snaps, but then she stops. Her gaze lands on Wendy, and her face softens into something heartbreaking. “Oh, Wendy. You look… stunning. But you look like you’re in a cage.”
“A gilded one, Clara,” I retort, not letting go of Wendy. I let my hand slide down to her waist, pulling her flush against my hip. “The best kind. The kind where you never have to worry about the rent or the wolves at the door, because the biggest wolf is already sleeping in your bed.”
Clara looks at me, and for a second, the sibling rivalry vanishes. She looks at me with a terrifying, piercing clarity. “You’re obsessed. This isn’t love, Peter. This is a sickness. You’ve been weaving this web since we were children. You’re not protecting her from the North End—you’re using them as an excuse to keep her chained.”
I laugh, a low, melodic sound that ripples through the quiet boutique. “Love is for people who can afford to be weak, Clara. I’m a Hale. We don’t love. We conquer. We occupy. We protect what’s ours with a ferocity that makes the gods flinch.”
I turn Wendy around in my arms, my eyes searching hers. I want her to see the monster. I want her to love the monster.
“Is it a sickness, Wendy?” I ask, my voice a velvet caress. “Or is it the only honest thing you’ve ever felt? The way your heart stops when I enter a room. The way you can’t breathe until I tell you it’s okay. Tell my sister the truth.”
Wendy looks at Clara, then back at me. Her hand reaches up, her fingers trembling as she touches the silklapel of my suit. “I don’t know who I am without him anymore,” she whispers.
The victory tastes better than the gin.
“There,” I say, looking at Clara with a mocking tilt of my head. “The lady has spoken. Now, Dominique! Pack it all. Every colour. Every scrap of lace. And find something in white. For the funeral of her old life.”
As we walk out, the North End SUVs are still there, idling like predators at the edge of the light. I don’t hide. I lead Wendy right past them, my hand possessively on the small of her back, a smirk plastered on my face.
I want them to see. I want the whole world to know that the prize they’re hunting is already home. And I’m just waiting for an excuse to start the fire.
Wendy
The emerald silk feels like a second skin, but not a soft one. It feels like scales. It feels like a beautiful, shimmering cage that cost more than my father’s soul.
