Peter
The rhythmic click of her heels on the marble staircase is a countdown, and for the first time in my life, I’m not the one in control of the clock.
I don’t turn my head immediately. I want to savour the tension in the room. I watch Vane, Julian, and Torin. Their eyes track her descent like they’re watching a ghost—or a goddess—and the air in the room suddenly feels thin, pressurised by the sheer force of her arrival.
Then, she rounds the corner into the dining room.
She’s a vision in black lace, her skin glowing like moonlight against the dark fabric. Elena did a masterful job; she looks flawless, but her eyes are twin storms of grey fury. She isn’t the broken doll from the vanity chair. She’s a live wire, and she’s sparking.
She doesn’t walk to the empty chair. she stalks toward the head of the table, her face flushed with a rage that is so much better than fear.
“You arrogant, narcissistic piece of shit!” she screams, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
The lieutenants freeze. Vane’s hand actually moves toward his jacket before he remembers my warning and stiffens into a statue. Torin looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“Where the fuck were you?” she demands, stopping three feet from me.
“You lock me in that golden cage, you have your little pet maid dress me up like a fucking doll, and then you don’t even have the goddamn balls to come and get me?
You make me walk down those stairs alone into a room full of your… your fucking goons?”
She grabs a crystal water glass from the table—the Waterford lead crystal that’s been in my family for three generations—and hurls it at my head.
I tilt my head an inch to the left. The glass shatters against the wainscoting behind me, a spray of diamonds and water. I don’t flinch. I let out a low, delighted bark of laughter.
“Careful, Darling,” I say, my eyes dancing with a dark, unhinged joy. “That’s a 1920s original. Though I suppose the shards look quite nice in your hair.”
“Fuck your crystal!” she shrieks. She grabs a silver bread basket and flings it.
It clatters off my shoulder, rolls of brioche scattering across the obsidian table like fallen soldiers.
“I am not your centrepiece! I am not your guest! I am a human being you kidnapped, and you’re sitting here having a fucking tea party? ”
She’s panting, her chest heaving against the black lace, her eyes darting to the men at the table who are looking everywhere but at her. The fury makes her look alive. It makes her look like mine.
“Sit. Down. Wendy,” I say, my voice dropping into that smooth, dangerous purr. I’m still smiling, but the edge is there now—the razor beneath the velvet.
“Make me,” she spits, reaching for a porcelain side plate.
I stand up. The movement is so sudden that the chair screeches back against the marble.
In two strides, I’m in her space, my hand fisting in the black lace at her waist and pulling her flush against me.
The lieutenants all collectively look at their wine glasses, their faces turning various shades of stone.
I lean down, my mouth inches from hers, my breath smelling of smoke and expensive gin.
“I am enjoying this,” I whisper, loud enough for every man at the table to hear. “I love the fire, Wendy. Truly. But we have guests, and I have a reputation for being a very strict host.”
I slide my hand up to her jaw, my thumb pressing firmly into the bruise Elena tried so hard to hide.
“If you don’t fucking behave,” I hiss, a wide, terrifyingly beautiful grin splitting my face, “I will lift this black dress over your head and I will fuck you on this obsidian table in front of every single one of them. I’ll make them watch while you scream my name.
Do you think I’m joking? Ask Julian. He’s seen me do worse for far less. ”
Wendy’s breath hitches. Her eyes widen, searching mine for the lie and finding only the truth of my obsession. The silence in the room is absolute, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.
“Now,” I say, my voice returning to a witty, conversational tone as I pull out her chair with a flourish. “Would you like the lobster bisque, or should I clear the table for… other activities?”
She glares at me, her lip trembling with a mix of hatred and the heat I know is still throbbing between her legs. She sinks into the chair, her movements stiff and furious.
“Lobster,” she mutters through gritted teeth.
“Wonderful choice,” I smirk, sitting back down and nodding to the terrified server in the corner. “Gentlemen, please. Don’t mind the domestic bliss. She’s just a bit spirited when she hasn’t been fed.”
I pick up my wine, my eyes never leaving her face. I’ve never been more obsessed.
The bisque is served in a silence so thick it feels like we’re dining underwater. The only sounds are the rhythmic clink of silver against bone china and the heavy, terrified breathing of the server.
Vane is eating with the mechanical precision of a soldier, his eyes fixed firmly on his soup. Julian is sipping his wine, looking like he’s watching a particularly fascinating play at the theatre. Torin, poor boy, looks like he’s sitting on a live wire.
I take a spoonful of the lobster, savouring the saffron, and then I lean back, looking at Wendy. She hasn’t touched her spoon. She’s just staring at me, her knuckles white as she grips the edge of the obsidian table.
“You know, Julian,” I say, my voice conversational and light, “I was thinking about the North End’s proposal. They seem to think Wendy here is a ‘civilian liability.’ They suggested she might be more useful as a… bargaining chip. A piece of trade-in value.”
The table goes ice-cold. Wendy’s head snaps toward me, her eyes flashing with a fresh, jagged lightning.
“A bargaining chip?” she repeats, her voice trembling. “You fucking monster. You talk about me like I’m a crate of stolen whiskey.”
“Well, you are quite intoxicating, Darling,” I smirk, ignoring her outburst as I turn back to my lieutenants. “But I told Viktor that you aren’t for trade. I told him you were a permanent fixture. Like the art on the walls. Beautiful to look at, but ultimately, just an object of the estate.”
That does it.
“I am not an object!” she screams, her chair scraping back as she stands up.
She picks up her full bowl of bisque and hurls it.
It misses me by an inch, splashing orange cream across my silk shirt and the expensive wallpaper.
“You arrogant, deluded prick! I hate you! I hate everything about this house! I am going to find a way to kill you, Peter, I swear to God—”
I don’t even wipe the soup off my chest. I just laugh. It’s a low, dark sound that fills the room, making Torin flinch.
“She has such spirit, doesn’t she?” I say to the table. I stand up slowly, and before she can even blink, I’ve grabbed the back of her chair and yanked it across the marble until it’s slammed flush against mine.
She tries to bolt, but I catch her by the waist, pinning her down. “Sit. Down.”
“Get your hands off me!” she shouts, hitting my chest with her fists.
I ignore her. I look at Vane. “Vane, tell me about the shipment from the docks. I want details.”
Vane starts to speak, his voice a gravelly rumble, talking about crates and manifests. Under the cover of the table, and while the men dutifully pretend to be absorbed in logistics, I reach down.
I grab Wendy’s knees and force them apart.
“No,” she whispers, her face going pale then a deep, frantic red. She tries to squeeze her legs shut, but it’s like trying to move a steel vice.
I lean into her, my lips brushing the shell of her ear while Vane drones on about shipping lanes.
“I told you what would happen if you didn’t behave, Wendy,” I whisper, my voice a jagged, private rasp.
“Now, you’re going to sit here. You’re going to look at my guests.
And you’re going to pretend that the only thing making you gasp is the quality of the wine. ”
I slide my hand up the inside of her thigh. The black lace of the gown is thin, and the heat coming off her is staggering. I find the centre of her, already slick and weeping from her time in the closet.
I drive two fingers into her, deep and punishing, right as Vane mentions the customs agents.
Wendy lets out a sharp, choked-off sound—half-sob, half-gasp—and her hands fly to my wrist, trying to pry me away. “Peter, stop… please, they’re right there…”
“Shhh,” I murmur, my thumb finding her hood and grinding into it with a brutal, steady pressure. “They aren’t looking, Darling. They know better. Only I get to see you like this.”
I pick up the pace, my fingers curling inside her while she starts to squirm in the chair, her body betraying her with every frantic rub against my palm. She’s hitting my shoulder, her blows getting weaker as the friction takes over, her head falling back against my shoulder.
“Yes, Vane, continue,” I say aloud, my voice perfectly steady, even as I feel Wendy’s walls start to quiver around my knuckles.
She’s moaning now, a low, desperate sound she’s trying to bury in my neck. Her legs are wide, her heels digging into the marble, and she’s grinding against my hand with a frantic, rhythmic need.
“Stop,” she whimpers, even as she thrusts her hips harder against me. “Please, Peter, I can’t… not here…”
“You can,” I whisper, biting the lobe of her ear. “And you will. Show me how much you hate me, Wendy. Cum for me while they talk about blood and money.”
I hit her clit one last time, a sharp, flicking motion, and she loses it. She stiffens, her back arching off the chair, a muffled, shattered cry escaping her as she collapses into a jagged, messy climax.
I hold her there, feeling her pulse against my fingertips, while Vane finishes his report.
“Excellent work, Vane,” I say, pulling my hand away and reaching for my napkin. I wipe her onto the silk, a smirk of pure, unhinged triumph on my face.