He reaches out, his fingers hooking under my chin to tilt my face up. He studies the ruin he made of me with a clinical, hungry eye. “You’re bleeding again.”
He leans in, his tongue flicking out to catch the bead of blood on my bottom lip where his teeth broke the skin. It’s a slow, filthy gesture that makes my stomach flip.
“Clean yourself up, Darling. We have an audience.”
He nods toward the mouth of the alley. The black SUV carrying Clara and Silas has pulled to a halt, blocking the exit. The headlights are blinding, cutting through the shadows like twin suns.
Peter doesn’t even flinch. He just helps me slide back into the passenger seat, his hands lingering on my bare waist a second too long. I scramble to pull the shredded pieces of the Valentino dress together, my face burning with a shame so hot it’s physical. I wrap the cashmere overcoat tightly around me, buttoning it to the chin, but I can still feel the wetness of him on my skin, the weight of him in my bones.
The car door of the SUV slams. Clara is running toward us before Silas can even put the vehicle in park.
“Wendy! Peter, if you—” She stops dead at the side of the car, her eyes darting between my flushed, tear-stained face and Peter’s disheveled shirt. She sees the torn silk peeking out from under the coat. She sees the way Peter is casually zipping his fly as if he just finished a light jog.
“You’re a fucking animal,” Clara whispers, her voice shaking with a revulsion that makes me want to disappear into the leather. “In the middle of the street? Like she’s a whore?”
Peter turns his head, giving his sister a look so cold it could freeze the lake. “She’s not a whore, Clara. She’s my future. And as for the ‘middle of the street,’ I believe this is a private alleyway. Accuracy is important.”
“I’m taking her. Right now. I don’t care about your men or your North End bullshit.” Clara reaches for the door handle.
“Clara, stop,” I say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
She freezes, her hand inches from the chrome. “Wendy?”
“I’m… I’m okay.” I don’t look at her. I can’t. I look at the dashboard, at the expensive silver dials, at the phantom chains I can feel tightening around my lungs. “Just… let’s go home.”
Peter’s grin is audible in the silence. “You heard her. We’re going home. Why don’t you follow behind? I’d hate for you to miss the arrival.”
He puts the car back into gear, the engine purringlike a satisfied cat. As we pull past a devastated Clara, Peter reaches over and takes my hand. He doesn’t squeeze it; he just laces his fingers through mine, forcing me to feel the strength of his grip.
I realise then, with a terrifying clarity, that the door isn’t the problem.
The problem is that I’m starting to wonder what I’d even do if I found the key.
The drive back to the estate is a blur of high-speed curves and the suffocating scent of sex and expensive leather.
Peter doesn’t speak. He just drives, his hand still clamped over mine, his thumb drawing slow, rhythmic circles on my palm. It’s not comforting; it’s a pulse check. He’s feeling the way my blood is still racing, the way I haven’t come down from the ledge he pushed me off.
When we pull up to the limestone steps of the house, the sun is beginning to dip, casting long, bruised shadows across the manicured lawn. The estate looks like a fortress. Or a tomb.
“Out,” Peter says, his voice back to that crisp, commanding snap.
He doesn’t wait for me. He’s around the car in three strides, hauling me out of the passenger seat before mylegs even have a chance to remember how to function. I stumble, the shredded remains of the emerald dress rustling under my coat like dead leaves.
Clara’s SUV screeches to a halt behind us. She’s out of the car before Silas has even killed the engine, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.
“You aren’t taking her back into that room, Peter! I’m calling the Council. I’m calling everyone! You’ve finally lost your goddamn mind!”
Peter stops at the bottom of the stairs, still holding me by the elbow. He turns slowly, and the look he gives her is so devoid of humanity it makes the air turn to ice.
“Silas,” Peter says, his voice dangerously low.
“Boss?”
“Take my sister to the West Wing. Lock her in the library. If she tries to leave, or if I hear so much as a squeak of her voice before dinner, you can tell her exactly what happened to the last person who interrupted my afternoon.”
“Peter, you can’t!” Clara screams as Silas steps toward her, his face a wall of immovable stone. “Wendy, tell him! Tell him you want to leave!”
I look at her, my best friend, the girl who represents everything good and normal in my life. And then I look at Peter. He’s watching me, his eyes dark and expectant, his hand tightening on my arm. He’s not even worried. He knows.
