I can still feel him. I can feel the ghost of his fingers, the rough grit of the salt he hadn’t washed off his hands, the way he filled me until I thought I’d break.
“Stop it,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
I back away, my hips hitting a velvet vanity chair. I sink into it, my legs falling open instinctively. I’m facing a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and for the first time, I see what Peter sees.
I’m a wreck. My hair is a bird’s nest, my lips are swollen and bitten, and my neck is marked with a dark, violent hickey that looks like a brand. I look like I’ve been hunted. I look like I’ve been taken.
And I’m so fucking wet it’s dripping onto the white fur.
A soft, broken moan escapes my throat. No one is touching me. Peter is downstairs, probably drinking bourbon and deciding who dies next, yet he’s still here. He’s in my blood. He’s in the way my muscles twitch.
I reach down, my fingers trembling as they find my ownheat. I’m slick, a mess of my own desire and his lingering scent. I touch myself, eyes locked on my reflection, and it’s like watching a stranger. I find my clit, my thumb circling it with a desperate, frantic rhythm that I learned from him.
“Peter,” I sob, the name a curse on my tongue.
I hate that I’m doing this. I hate that I’m playing with myself in his shrine of wealth while my best friend is locked in a library. But the ache is too much. The friction sends jolts of lightning up my spine, making my hips arch off the velvet. I’m opening myself up for the mirror, staring at the way my pink folds glisten in the soft LED light.
I shove two fingers inside, mimicking his brutal depth. I’m tight, screamingly sensitive, my walls clenching around nothing but air and memory. I start to move faster, my moans turning into low, animalistic whimpers that echo off the glass. I’m fighting not to need him, but every time I touch a bruise, a fresh wave of heat crashes over me.
I’m his.
The realisation hits me right as the climax starts to build. I’m not a captive; I’m a convert. I’m becoming the very thing he wanted—a creature of the dark who finds pleasure in the pain.
I hit the peak with a sharp, choked-off cry, my body convulsing in the chair. My fingers stay buried inside me as I shudder, my vision blurring with tears. I watch myself in the mirror—bare, ruined, and completely undone by a man who isn’t even in the room.
I stay there for a long time, my hand slowly sliding out of my body, covered in the evidence of my betrayal. The door doesn’t need to be locked.
The lock is inside me now.
I stand up, my legs shaky, and reach for a black lace gown. It’s time for dinner.
The heavy mahogany door to the suite creaks open just as I’m pulling a silk robe over my shivering, sticky skin. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat, expecting the sharp, clever silhouette of Peter.
Instead, a girl slips inside.
She can’t be more than nineteen. She’s breathtakingly beautiful, with skin the colour of honey and wide, doe-like amber eyes that look far too soft for a house built on bone and shadow. Her dark hair is pulled back into a prim, tight bun, but a few rebellious curls frame a face that belongs on a Renaissance canvas. She’s wearing a crisp, charcoal-grey uniform that looks like it cost a month of my old rent.
She stops when she sees me—sees the ripped emerald silk on the floor, the discarded coat, and the way I’m clutching the vanity chair for support.
“Oh, Miss Wendy,” she whispers. Her voice is like a chime, light and full of a pity that makes me want to scream.
She moves toward me, her footsteps silent on the mink rug. She isn’t carrying a tray or a duster. She’scarrying a professional-grade makeup kit and a small basin of warm water infused with lavender.
“My name is Elena,” she says softly, kneeling at my feet without being asked. “Mr. Hale said… he said you needed to be ready by eight.”
She looks up at me, and I see it—the flash of worry in her amber eyes. She reaches out, her hand hovering near my knee where a dark, mottled bruise is starting to bloom.
“Did he… is it very bad?” she asks, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial breath.
I look down at her, my mind still fractured, still humming from the self-inflicted climax that’s left me feeling hollow. “I’m fine, Elena.”
“You aren’t,” she murmurs. She dips a soft cloth into the warm water and begins to dab at my thigh. Her touch is feather-light, a sharp contrast to the brutal, possessive grip I’ve become accustomed to. “I’ve seen many things in this house, Miss. I see the way the North End men look at the gates. I see the way Mr. Hale looks at you. It’s… it’s like he wants to eat you alive.”
I let out a jagged, bitter laugh. “He’s already started.”
Elena flinches, her eyes welling with tears she’s clearly trained to hide. She opens the makeup kit, revealing a palette of heavy, theatrical concealers. With the grace of an artist, she begins to layer the cream over the marks on my legs, her fingers cool and steady.
“You have to be careful tonight,” she whispers, her eyes darting toward the door as if Peter might be listening through the wood. “The men downstairs… they aren’t like him. They don’t have his… wit. They are just hungry. If they see you are weak, they will smell it.”
