Peter #2
I step out of the car, the rain having turned into a fine, ghostly mist. The house is silent, a stone gargoyle watching over the lake. I walk through the front door, the marble echoing my arrival, and head straight for the stairs.
Every step is a beat in a song she doesn’t know the lyrics to yet.
By the time I reach the bedroom door, my heart is a steady, lethal thrum. I turn the key in the lock—the sound of a world ending—and push the door open.
I push the door open. The room is a tomb of shadow and sandalwood, the only light provided by the weak, silver moon filtering through the heavy velvet drapes.
She’s there.
She’s curled on her side in the centre of the vast, dark bed, a pale ghost against the charcoal sheets. The zip-tie marks on her wrists are angry red bracelets in the dark. She looks fragile. She looks like a secret I haven’t finished telling yet.
I don’t turn on the light. I don’t need it. I could find every inch of her in a sensory blackout.
I strip slowly, tossing my clothes onto the floor until I’m as bare as the day I decided the world owed me everything.
My skin is still buzzing from the warehouse, the phantom screams of the scout a dull hum beneath my ribs.
I climb onto the mattress, the springs not making a sound, and hover over her.
She’s breathing deep and rhythmic. She thinks she’s safe because she’s unconscious. She thinks the night is over.
I lean down and press my mouth to the shell of her ear. I don’t whisper. I just let the heat of my breath hit her skin until she stirs.
“Wake up, Darling,” I murmur, my voice a low, jagged rasp. “The monsters are home.”
She flinches, her eyes snapping open, wide and wild with a terror that instantly turns to heat the second she realises it’s me. She tries to sit up, but I pin her down with the weight of my body, my hand sliding up to her throat, not squeezing, just reminding her who owns the air she’s breathing.
“Peter,” she gasps, her voice a wrecked thread. “You… you smell like…”
“Like work,” I finish for her. I take her hand—the one that isn’t pinned—and bring it to my face. I lick the palm, slow and deliberate, and then I press her fingers against the drying blood on my jaw. “Taste it, Wendy. Taste the reason you get to sleep in silk while the rest of the world bleeds.”
She whimpers, her pupils blowing out until her eyes are just two black holes of need. She hates that this turns her on. She hates that the smell of iron and violence makes her legs fall open for me.
I don’t give her a chance to process the shame. I flip her onto her stomach with a violent jerk, shoving her face into the silk pillows. I grab her wrists and pin them to the small of her back with one hand, my other hand sliding down to the raw, weeping heat between her thighs.
“You’re still wet,” I growl, my mouth pressed against the nape of her neck. “Even in your sleep, you’re waiting for me. You’re a fucking addict, Wendy. And I’m the only one with the needle.”
I don’t use fingers this time. I take the heavy, cold glass of bourbon I brought up from the nightstand and pour a slow, amber stream over her ass, letting it run down into the crack of her cheeks.
She shrieks as the alcohol hits the micro-cuts from the mirror, the sting making her back arch and her muscles seize.
“Does it burn?” I mock, my teeth nipping at her shoulder blade. “Good. I want you to feel every second of what you are.”
I set the glass down and replace it with my tongue.
I lick the bourbon off her skin, the taste of smoke and oak mixing with the salt of her sweat.
I move lower, my tongue finding the places where the glass bit deepest, cleaning her with a terrifying, rhythmic intensity that has her sobbing into the pillow.
“Peter, please… it’s too much… I can’t—”
“You’ll take exactly what I give you,” I snap, biting the back of her thigh hard enough to leave a mark she’ll see for a month.
I reach for my nightstand and pull out a fresh set of ties. I don’t want her moving. I want her to be a statue of my desire. I cinch her wrists together, the zip sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.
I climb back over her, my cock thick and throbbing against the curve of her hip. I don’t enter her. Not yet. I just tease the entrance, the head of my cock dragging through the mess of bourbon and slick.
“You thought the car was the end?” I whisper, my hand fisting in her hair to pull her head back so she has to see my reflection in the dark window. “That was just the audition, Wendy. This? This is the performance.”
I enter her in one long, agonisingly slow thrust, my eyes locked on her face in the glass. I watch the moment her soul breaks. I watch the moment she forgets Clara, forgets the light, and becomes nothing but a vessel for the dark.
“There she is,” I murmur, my pace picking up, a rhythmic, heavy thud that sounds like a heart failing. “My beautiful, broken Darling.”
I don’t go for the kill. I go for the soul.
I stay buried deep inside her, the heat of her internal walls clenching around me in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that’s trying to swallow me whole. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest through her back, a bird trapped in a cage of bone and silk.
“Look at you,” I hiss, my breath scorching the shell of her ear. “Stretched out and shaking in my bed while the world thinks you’re missing. You aren’t missing, Wendy. You’re finally found.”
I pull out, slow enough that I can feel every ridge of my cock dragging against her velvet heat, then I slam back in. The sound is a wet, heavy crack—the sound of skin meeting skin with a violence that makes the headboard groan.
“Fuck, Peter!” she screams into the pillow, her voice a shredded, beautiful mess.
“Tell me,” I growl, my pace picking up until it’s a rhythmic, lethal slaughter. “Tell me whose pussy this is. Tell me who owns the blood in your veins.”
“Yours! It’s yours!”
I don’t stop. I reach around, my hand fisting in her hair to yank her head back even further, forcing her spine to arch until she’s a bow ready to snap. My other hand slides beneath her, my fingers finding her clit and grinding down with a brutal, steady pressure that makes her vision go white.
I’m fucking her with a primal, focused rage, my cock hitting her cervix with every thrust, a blunt-force trauma of pleasure that has her sobbing. The smell of the room is intoxicating—bourbon, sweat, the metallic tang of the warehouse, and the floral scent of her undoing.
“You’re a fucking addict,” I pant, my jaw locked. “And I’m the only one who can fix you. I’m the only one who gets to ruin you like this.”
The friction is building, the heat between our bodies turning into a localised sun.
I can feel the sweat dripping off my forehead onto her back, mixing with the spilled alcohol.
I’m pushing her higher, faster, the pace becoming animalistic.
I’m not just a man anymore; I’m the darkness she’s been running from her entire life, and I’m finally catching up.
“Please! Peter, I’m going to—”
“Go then,” I roar, my voice a feral bark as I shove her face back into the pillow. “Explode for me, Wendy. Break into a thousand fucking pieces so I can pick them up and keep them.”
She hits the peak with a high-pitched, keening shriek that rings in the rafters.
Her body goes rigid, her muscles seizing around me in a vice-grip that almost brings me to my knees.
She’s vibrating, the orgasm ripping through her like a tectonic shift, her bound wrists straining against the zip-ties until the plastic bites deep enough to draw fresh blood.
I don’t let her down. I keep thrusting through her climax, my own control finally shattering into dust. I let out a low, guttural groan, my teeth sinking into the meat of her shoulder as I bottom out one last time.
I dump everything into her. Every ounce of my obsession, every drop of the darkness I’ve been carrying, all of it flooding into her until she’s heavy with me. I stay there, pinned to her back, my lungs burning, the silence of the room returning like a heavy shroud.
I stay buried in her for a long time, listening to her broken, hitching sobs turn into soft, exhausted whimpers. I reach up and snap the zip-ties with the knife I left on the nightstand, letting her arms fall limp.
She doesn’t move. She just lies there, a ruined masterpiece on my charcoal sheets.
I roll off her and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. My pulse is a steady, victorious thrum. I look at my hand—the one that’s still stained with the scout’s salt and her tears.
My phone on the nightstand lights up again. One last message from Clara.
I’m at the gate, Peter. Open it now or I’m calling the police.
I look at Wendy’s sleeping, battered form. I look at the blood on the sheets. I look at the monster in the mirror.
“Welcome home, Clara,” I whisper, a cold, sharp grin cutting across my face. “Come see what I’ve done to your best friend.”