My pulse is a heavy, rhythmic thrum against my eardrums—a drumbeat of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. I look at her, standing there in the middle of my sanctuary, the light from the tall windows catching the tears on her face and the trembling of her hands.
She broke the fucking rules.
I knew she would. I felt it in the way she looked at the door when I left; I felt it in the jagged, electric defiance she carries in her marrow like a secret. A smaller man would be angry. A lesser man would feel betrayed.
But I? I’m fucking ecstatic.
Seeing her surrounded by the maps of her own life, by the photos I’ve curated like a holy text, makes my blood boil with a heat that has nothing to do with the skirmish at the North Gate. She’s staring at the charcoal sketch of her own ruin, and for a second, I’m back in that rain-slicked alley six months ago.
I remember the exact moment it happened. I wassitting in the back of the blacked-out sedan, watching her through the glass. She had tripped over a loose cobblestone, dropping a bag of oranges. She didn’t cry. She didn’t look for help. She stood there in the pouring rain, shouted a string of filth at the sky that would have made Vane blush, and then systematically crushed every single orange under the heel of her boot, one by one, with a look of such pure, focused rage that I felt my heart restart in my chest.
She wasn’t a victim of the world. she was its enemy. And I knew then—I knew—I had to have that rage directed at me.
I push off the doorframe, my boots heavy and slow as I close the distance. I can smell the fear coming off her, sweet and sharp, but there’s something else beneath it. A spark.
“You know the rules, Darling,” I purr, my voice a viral, low-frequency rasp that fills the space between us. “And you fucking broke them. Before the sun is even fully up.”
“Go to hell, Peter,” she spits, her voice shaking but her eyes flashing with that orange-crushing fire. “I’m not your fucking pet. I’m not a trophy to be cataloged.”
I laugh, a low, dark sound that echoes off the shelves of leather-bound secrets. “Oh, but you are. You’re my masterpiece. And every masterpiece needs a frame.”
I step into her personal space, the scent of gunpowder and the metallic tang of the men I just put down clinging to my skin. I reach out to grab her, to remind her of the weight of my hand, but she moves.
She’s fast. Faster than she was in the bath.
In a blur of lace and desperation, she lunges. Shedoesn’t run; she attacks. Her hand flies to the desk, snatching the silver letter opener—a sharp, antique blade I use to tear into the lives of my enemies. Before I can blink, she’s slammed her body against mine, the cold, serrated edge of the steel pressed hard against the pulse point of my throat.
“Don’t touch me,” she snarls, her face inches from mine. “I’ll do it, Peter. I’ll carve your fucking throat out right here in your little shrine. I’ll paint your precious photos red.”
I don’t move. I don’t even flinch. Instead, I feel a grin spreading across my face, wide and manic. My cock thrums against my trousers, hard and demanding. This is it. This is the girl I saw in the rain.
“Look at you,” I whisper, the blade stinging as I deliberately lean my weight into it, feeling the first tiny trickle of blood hit my collar. “Holding a knife to a monster’s throat while you’re shaking like a leaf. You’re fucking magnificent, Wendy.”
“Shut up! Stop talking!” she screams, her knuckles white on the handle. “I hate you. I fucking hate that I care if you’re hurt. I hate that I’m here. I’m going to kill you and then I’m going to burn this whole fucking house down.”
“Then do it,” I growl, my hands coming up to grip her waist, pulling her flush against my cock, the knife still biting into my skin. “Show me you have the stomach for the Hale legacy. Kill the only person who truly knows what you are.”
I see her eyes flicker. The steel tremors against my jugular.
“You broke the rules, Wendy,” I murmur, my handsliding up to her throat, mirroring the blade’s position. “And now, I get to punish you. But tell me… are you going to kill me before or after I make you scream my name again?”
The silver edge bites.
I feel the sharp, stinging heat of the blade slicing through the skin of my throat. A thin, hot line of crimson spills over the collar of my shirt, soaking into the white silk like ink on a blotter. I don’t move an inch. I just stare into those wide, fractured eyes of hers, my pulse hammering against the very steel she’s holding.
“That’s it,” I rasp, the vibration of my voice humming against the blade. “Draw the map, Wendy. Show me where the monster lives.”
She’s shaking so hard I can feel her heart thudding through her chest, slammed hard against mine. Tears are streaming down her face, hot and silent, carving tracks through the dust and salt on her cheeks. Her fury is a living thing—fragile, jagged, and utterly beautiful.
“I hate you,” she snarls, her voice a broken, wet thing. “I hate you so much it’s rotting me. I want to watch you die. I want to watch the world forget you ever breathed.”
I let out a low, dark chuckle, even as the blood starts to pool in the hollow of my collarbone. My cock is throbbing, a heavy, aching weight in my trousers that demands the very violence she’s offering. I’ve never been more turned on in my life than I am with her hand on the hilt of my death.
“Oh, Darling,” I whisper, my voice dropping to a sweet, mocking purr. “You say you hate me. You scream it at the ceiling. But all I can see in those gorgeous,shattered eyes is love. You’re looking at me like I’m the only light left in the world.”
“I don’t love you!” she shrieks, her voice cracking. “I don’t fucking love you! You’re a butcher! You’re a fucking animal!”
To prove her point, she presses the knife deeper. The pain is a sharp, white flash. More blood flows, hot and sticky, running down my chest. I can feel the tip of the steel nicking the muscle.
