Peter shifts, leaning forward until his forearms rest on the table. His fingers lace loosely together; the veins in his hands look like rivers under pale skin. His eyes never leave mine.
“Say the word and I’ll get up,” he murmurs. “I’ll walk away. I’ll let you finish your drink in peace. You’ll never see me again.”
It’s a lie. I hear it in the steadiness of his voice. I see it in the way his pupils flare until his eyes are nothing but black pits.
I swallow hard, my throat dry as ash. “You’re my best friend’s brother,” I whisper, as if saying it aloud could save me.
“That’s the only thing keeping you safe right now,” he says. “But even that won’t last forever.”
The way he says it isn’t a threat. It’s a promise. And for one stupid, dangerous heartbeat, I want him to keep it.
His words hang between us like smoke. My throat burns with a reply that doesn’t come, because anything I say will sound like surrender. Peter doesn’t rush me. He never does. He just sits there, patient, unblinking, a wolf pretending to be tame while the whole table creaks under the weight of what he isn’t saying.
“Stop looking at me like you already know how this ends,” I mutter, though my eyes haven’t moved from his.
His mouth tips at one corner, that half-smile I hate more than anything. “Darling, I’ve always known how this ends.”
The name makes my skin crawl. Not because of what it is, but because of the way it feels on his tongue—like possession dressed up as endearment.
I grip my empty glass like I might throw it, like I might smash it against his perfect, smug face, just to prove I still have teeth.
His eyes drop to my fingers tightening on the stem, and for a split second I want him to flinch. He doesn’t. He leans in, slow and deliberate, elbows planted on the table, tattoos shifting across his hands as he threads them together.
“Go on,” he says softly. “Hit me. Scratch. Bite. Show me your little claws.”
“I’m not yours to play with.”
“You think I don’t know that?” His grin sharpens into something hungry, merciless. “You think that’s going to stop me?”
The air in the booth turns thick, syrupy, almost too heavy to breathe. My pulse skips and sputters, and I hate that he can hear it in my silence.
“I should leave.” I push the words out like glass splinters, jagged and thin.
“You should,” he agrees instantly, no hesitation, no fight. “But you won’t.”
My chest Map tightens. “You don’t know that.”
His laugh is low, dark, and so close to cruel it scrapes along my spine.
“Darling, I’ve been watching you longer than you’ve been watching me.”
My blood chills. “What the fuck does that mean?”
He leans closer, voice dropping until his breath grazes my cheek. “It means I already know what keeps you up at night. I know why you sit in this booth, in this dress, with that drink, pretending you’re invisible when you’re begging to be seen.”
My hand twitches. I want to shove him back. I want to claw at his smug fucking face. Instead, I sit there, frozen, nails digging into my palm so hard I swear I smell iron.
“Fuck you,” I whisper.
His smile widens, devastating, feral. “Not yet.”
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t move closer. He just sits there, letting the silence strangle me. The heat in his eyes feels worse than a hand around my throat. And when I finally drag my gaze away, when I stare down at the sticky table instead of him, his voice follows me, velvet over steel:
“You’re going to dream about this. About me. And when you wake up tomorrow with your thighs aching and my name stuck in your throat, you’ll realise what I already know—” He pauses, lets me look backat him, lets me fall straight into the trap of his eyes. “—that you’ve been mine longer than you’ll ever admit.”
My stomach knots so tight it hurts. My hand slips from the glass, shaking. The air feels thinner, like there’s no exit left to keep in sight. And the worst part?
I believe him.
