I don’t sink in. I just rub the head of myself against her, a slow, agonising slide of friction that has her screaming into my neck.
“Please, Peter! Now! Fuck me! Just fucking fuck me!”
She’s frantic, her heels digging into my back, her pussy pulsing against me with a life of its own. She’s a wreck of desire, her mind finally, truly gone, replaced by a singular, animalistic craving for the man who destroyed her.
“Ask for it,” I snarl, my hands squeezing her ass, my thumbs stretching her open. “Tell me who owns this.”
“You do!” she shrieks, her voice breaking. “It’s yours! I’m yours! Just put it in, Peter, please, I’m begging you, fuck me!”
I don’t give her a choice. I slam into her, a single, violent thrust that bottoms out with a wet, heavy thud.
The sound she makes isn’t human. It’s a shattered, ecstatic wail that echoes off the marble. I start to fuck her with a feral, unhinged intensity, the water splashing around us, our skin slapping together in a brutal, rhythmic symphony. I’m hitting her deep, my cock a hot, hard intruder that’s claiming every inch of her territory.
“That’s it,” I pant, my voice cracking as I lose my own legendary grip. “Take it all, Wendy. Take my cock.”
I can feel her pussy clenching around me so fucking hard and fuck me, it feels like fucking hell. “Don’t…stop.” She gasps clinging to me like I’m her last lifeline.
Her nails drag down my back and the feeling her losing control makes my cock throb harder. “That’s a good girl, your fucking body was made for mine.” I rasp. Thrusting harder inside of her pussy. “Your fucking pussy was made to broken by mine.”
“Peter.” She screams. “I can’t…it’s too much.” I can feel her heart pounding against my chest.
Lifting her ass in my palms I slam her up and down against my cock, her moans and words turning into desperate gasps, I can feel the heartbeat of her pussy and her body jolts against mine as a scream rips through her throat.
She’s cumming instantly, her body slamming into mine in a series of violent, electric spasms. She’s clawing at my back, her teeth sinking into my shoulder as she loses herself in the red, wet dark. I’m right behind her, my vision blurring as I spill into her, a guttural, animalistic roar escaping me as I pour everything I am into the only thing in this world that matters.
I hold her there as the world stops spinning, our hearts thudding together like war drums. The water is cooling, the steam is fading, but the chains?
The chains are permanent.
I carry her through the steam, my boots leaving wet, heavy prints on the white marble floor. She’s a ghost in my arms, her skin pale and translucent, draped in a thick, black silk robe that feels like mourning clothes. Her head is lolling against my chest, her grey eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind the veil of the physical world.
I’ve hollowed her out. I’ve taken the wit, the fire, and the defiance, and I’ve replaced it with a heavy, leaden silence.
I lay her down on the unmade bed—the sheets still smelling of our violence and the honey I licked from her skin. I move with a terrifying, clinical tenderness, the kind a boy might show a butterfly whose wings he just pinned to a board. I pull the heavy duvet up to her chin, tucking the edges around her shoulders until she’s cocooned in the expensive, suffocating luxury of the Hale estate.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, my hand trembling—just a fraction, just enough to hate myself for it—as I brush a damp curl away from her temple.
“Sleep now, Darling,” I whisper, my voice a jaggedshadow of its former arrogance. “The world is gone. There’s just the room. Just the rules.”
She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t move. She looks like a porcelain doll left out in the rain. But then, her lips move. A tiny, fractured sound, so soft I have to lean in, my ear almost touching her mouth to catch it.
“Peter?” she breathes.
“I’m here,” I say, my chest tightening with a sudden, localised pressure I don’t recognise.
She turns her head toward me, her eyes finally focusing, but they aren’t filled with the hate I expected. They’re filled with a hollow, devastating pity.
“You’re so lonely,” she whispers, her voice a fragile thread that cuts through my armour like a serrated blade. “You’re so fucking lonely that you had to build a graveyard just to have someone to sit with.”
The words hit me with the force of a physical blow to the sternum. I freeze, my hand still resting on her cheek, the air in my lungs turning to ice.
I want to laugh. I want to tell her she’s delusional, that I’m the King of the North End, that I have everything. But the laugh dies in my throat. Because in the wreckage of the night, in the silence of this blood-soaked room, she’s seen the one thing I’ve spent thirty years burying.
“I’m not lonely, Wendy,” I growl, the lie tasting like ash. “I’m chosen.”
“No,” she murmurs, her eyelids fluttering as the exhaustion finally drags her under. “You’re just… the only one left in the dark. And now… I have to stay here… so you don’t have to be…alone.”
She slips into sleep, her breathing evening out into a slow, rhythmic crawl.
