Peter
The smell of her sex and the cold night air is shattered by a sound that rips the sky open.
BOOM.
The shockwave hits us a split second later, a physical wall of pressure that shatters the floor-to-ceiling glass of the ballroom behind us. Crystal shards rain down like diamond hail, and the screams—sharp, jagged, and filled with the realisation of death—erupt from the men I left inside.
I’m moving before the echoes die. I yank my trousers up, my hands steady despite the adrenaline roaring through my veins, while Wendy stands there, shivering, her white gown torn and stained, a ghost in the smoke.
“Stay here,” I bark, my voice the cold, hard steel of the King of Chicago. I reach for the heavy, concealed holster I keep beneath the balcony’s stone vanity. “Get behind the marble pillar. Do not move until Vane comes for you. Do you understand?”
“No,” she whispers, her eyes wide, the pupils still blown from the orgasmI just tore out of her. She lunges for me, her shackled wrists clashing, the gold chain catching the orange light of the fires starting below. “Peter, no! You can’t leave me here! Not after… not after this!”
“Wendy, stay the fuck down!”
“No!” She grabs my lapels, her fingers trembling against the charcoal wool. The ruby on her finger—the brand that connects her heart to mine—is glowing a frantic, rhythmic red. “You can’t go out there! They’ll kill you, and I’ll be left in this… this gilded cage alone! You can’t fucking leave me!”
I stop. The chaos is rising—the chatter of automatic gunfire, the wet thud of bodies hitting the floor inside—but I look at her. I step into her space, my hand coming up to grip her jaw with a bruising, desperate intensity. I slide my thumb against her bottom lip, dragging it over the swollen skin, forcing her to look into the abyss of my eyes.
“I am a lot of fucking things, Wendy,” I rasp, my voice a guttural snarl that vibrates through both of us. “I am a monster, a kidnapper, and a king. But I am not a man who loses you. Not today. Not ever.”
I pull her in, my mouth crashing into hers in a kiss that tastes like copper, salt, and the end of the world. It’s a violent, starving collision—a promise written in saliva and teeth. I drink her fear, and she drinks my madness, our tongues dancing in the ruins of the evening. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever felt, a flame that makes the burning estate look like a guttering candle.
I pull back just an inch, our breaths mingling in the frigidair.
“Please,” she begs, her voice a broken, beautiful sob. “Please, Peter, don’t go. Stay. Hide with me.”
I look at her—really look at her—and for a second, the King wavers. But then I hear the heavy boots of the North End hit the ballroom floor.
“I will be back, Darling,” I whisper, my voice dropping to a low, lethal promise. I reach out and press my palm flat against the centre of her chest, right over her thundering heart. I can feel the vibration of her life beneath my hand.
“You have something of mine,” I murmur, my fingers splaying over her skin. “And I always,alwayscollect on my debts.”
I shove a backup piece into her shackled hands, my eyes locking onto hers one last time. “If anyone who isn’t me or Vane walks through those doors, you empty the clip. Do you hear me?”
I don’t wait for her answer. I spin towards the shattered glass, my gun drawn, the darkness of the house swallowing me whole.
Wendy
The silence on the balcony is more violent than the noise.
I am curled in a ball against the freezing marble, the massive, ruined skirts of my wedding dress flaring out around me like the wings of a broken bird. The cold air is a physical weight, but it’s nothing compared to the sound coming from inside.
Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
The staccato rhythm of gunfire is a heartbeat I don’t want to hear. And then, cutting through the chatter of lead and the crashing of crystal, I hear it. A roar. A primal, jagged sound that tears through the smoke and settles in my marrow.
It’s Peter. He isn’t just fighting; he’s screaming. It’s a sound of pure carnage, the voice of a man who has finally let the monster off the chain.
I press my palms against my ears, my gold shackles clashing together with a frantic, rhythmic clink, but I can’t shut it out. I can’t shut out the wet thuds, theshouting in Italian, the high-pitched whistle of another incoming shell. I squeeze my eyes shut, and the tears slide down my face, hot and stinging, carving tracks through the dust and the dried wine on my cheeks.
“Stop it,” I whisper into my own knees, my voice a shattered splinter. “Please, just stop.”
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely keep them pressed to my head. I look down, my vision blurred by the salt and the terror, and the light catches it.
The ring.
The ruby is pulsing—a steady, rhythmic red beat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It’s synced to my heart, a glowing brand that says I belong to a man who is currently wading through a sea of blood for the right to keep me in a cage.
