She moves up to my neck, her breath warm against my skin as she works to hide the brand Peter left. “I try to help the girls he brings here,” she says, her voice so low I almost miss it. “But there has never been a girl like you. He doesn’t just want to keep you, Miss Wendy. He wants to live inside your head.”
I shiver as she blends the concealer into my skin, erasing the evidence of the car, the bed, the alleyway. In the mirror, I watch my bruises disappear, replaced by a flawless, porcelain lie.
“Why do you stay?” I ask, looking at her beautiful, haunted face.
Elena pauses, her fingers lingering on my collarbone. She gives me a small, sad smile that breaks my heart. “Because where else would a girl like me go? The world outside is just as dark, Miss. At least here, the monsters have good taste.”
She stands up, smoothing the front of her uniform. She reaches for the black lace gown I’d picked out—a backless, floor-length piece that looks like spun midnight.
“He is waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs,” she says, her professional mask slipping back into place. “Don’t let them see you’re afraid. If you look like a queen, they might forget you’re a prisoner.”
She helps me into the dress, the lace scratching against my sensitive skin, reminding me of the friction from earlier. When she zips me up, the sound is like a blade being sharpened.
Elena steps back, looking at me with a mixture of awe and terror. “You look beautiful, Miss Wendy. May God have mercy on whoever tries to touch you tonight.”
She leaves as quietly as she came, leavingme alone in the golden light of the closet. I look in the mirror one last time. The bruises are gone. The tear-streaks are washed away.
But as I turn to leave, I feel the dry, sticky ache between my thighs, a secret Elena couldn’t cover. I take a deep breath, push the doors open, and prepare to walk into the lion’s den.
Peter
I’m leaning against the cold, mahogany wainscoting outside the library, a crystal tumbler of Macallan 25 resting in my palm. I should be downstairs. I have three capos from the North End sitting in my dining room, sniffing the air like stray dogs and wondering if I’ve finally gone soft enough to be bitten.
But I’ve always found my sister’s mental breakdowns to be far more entertaining than business.
Inside the library, Clara is pacing. I can hear the frantic, uneven thud-thud-thud of her heels on the Persian rug. It’s the sound of a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage made of its own heritage.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up…” she mutters. Then, a sharp gasp. “Mum? Oh my god, Mum, finally.”
I take a slow, appreciative sip of the scotch. The peat hits my tongue, smoky and dark, much like the conversation about to unfold.
“Mum, you have to listen to me,” Clara’s voice is an octave higher than usual, vibrating with a delicious sortof hysteria. “Peter has lost it. He’s completely gone. He kidnapped Wendy. No, Mum, listen—he didn’t just ‘take her on a date.’ He snatched her. Her window is broken. She’s… she’s covered in marks. I saw them.”
I tilt my head back against the wood, a ghost of a smirk playing on my lips. Covered in marks. Such a pedestrian way to describe a masterpiece of ownership. I didn’t just mark her, Clara; I redesigned her.
“No, she’s not ‘going through a phase’!” Clara shrieked into the phone. I can practically hear our mother on the other end, probably lounging on a deck in Amalfi, sipping an Aperol Spritz and wondering why her daughter is interrupting her tan. “She’s not choosing this! He’s using that… that thing he does. That way he talks. He’s twisted her head around until she doesn’t know which way is up. Mum, he’s a sociopath! He’s exactly like Dad, only he’s funnier and that makes it worse!”
I let out a soft, silent huff of a laugh. Funnier. I’ll have to remember to put that on my tombstone. Peter Hale: Exactly like Dad, but with better timing.
“He’s going to start a war,” Clara continues, her voice dropping to a frantic whisper that carries perfectly through the heavy door. “The North End is outside the gates right now. Viktor is pissed. Peter is treating this like a goddamn game of chess, but Wendy is the only piece on the board. He’s going to get us all killed just because he has a fetish for grey eyes and broken spirits.”
I swirl the ice in my glass. A fetish? Please. It’s a vocation.
“Mum, please, you have to call the Council. Tell them he’s unfit. Tell them he’s compromised.” There’s apause. Clara’s breath hitches. “What? No. No, don’t tell him I called! Mum, if you tell him, he’ll?—”
“He’ll what?” I murmur to the hallway, my voice a silk thread in the dark.
“He’s terrifying, Mum!” Clara’s voice breaks into a sob. “He looks at her like… like he wants to unmake her. And the worst part? I think she’s starting to like it. I saw her look at him in the kitchen. It was… it was sick. It was Hale sick.”
Hale sick.I like that. It has a certain ring to it. We’ve always had a unique way of expressing affection—usually involving high-stakes ransom and psychological warfare. Our mother knows this. She’s probably rolling her eyes, wondering why Clara hasn’t learned to appreciate the drama of it all.
“I’m going to get her out,” Clara vows, her voice hardening with a desperate, futile courage. “I don’t care what he does to me. I’m going to wait until he’s distracted with those North End thugs and I’m taking her. I’ll burn this whole estate down if I have to.”
I finish the scotch, the burn in my throat a pleasant reminder that I’m still very much alive. I check my watch. Seven forty-five.
“Lovely monologue, Clara,” I whisper, straightening my cufflinks. “Solid B-plus for effort. Dreadful for execution.”
I start to walk away, my boots silent on the marble. I don’t need to stop her. I don’t need to take her phone. She can call the Pope for all I care. The North End thinks they’re the threat, and Clara thinks she’s the hero.
