Peter
She looks like a soft, bruised little thing sitting there, and it’s doing something to my sanity that no amount of bloodshed ever could.
The firelight catches the gold thread of her gown, making her shimmer like a coin at the bottom of a well.
I spent three hours and a small fortune picking that dress out.
It’s a deep, obsidian velvet that plunges dangerously low, clinging to the curves I’ve spent the last few weeks mapping with my tongue.
On any other woman, it would be a costume.
On Wendy, it’s a shroud for the girl she used to be.
Looking at her, even as she sits there with those fractured, grey eyes, makes me want to fuck the sadness right out of her. I want to drive into her until she forgets the smell of smoke and only knows the taste of me.
“You aren’t eating, Darling,” I say, my voice a low-frequency hum that cuts through the silk-thin notes of the cello music playing from the corner.
The room is dripping in the kind of luxury that feels like an insult to the war raging outside our gates.
The table is a slab of rare black marble, set with heavy silver and crystal that catches the flicker of a hundred beeswax candles.
We’re dining on Wagyu beef seared in bone marrow and truffles that cost more than most people make in a year.
It looks like a romance. It feels like a funeral.
Wendy looks at the crystal glass of wine—a vintage as red and thick as the blood I’ve spilled for her—and her lips curl in a tiny, suspicious sneer. God, I love that sneer. It’s the only thing keeping me honest.
“What is this, Peter?” she asks, her voice steady despite the way her collarbone trembles. “The final meal? Are you fattening me up before you put me on the wall?”
I let out a low, dark chuckle, leaning back in my chair. I take a slow sip of my own wine, watching her over the rim.
“It’s an anniversary,” I lie, the words tasting like sweet poison. “Twelve years since the fire. Six months since I found you. One day since you realised you’re never leaving.”
She flinches, but she doesn’t look away.
She looks magnificent in that gown—the obsidian fabric making her skin look like polished alabaster, the sleeves long and tight, ending in delicate lace that brushes her knuckles.
I want to rip it off her. I want to see that velvet crumpled on the floor while I worship the marks I left on her thighs.
“You’re trying too hard,” she whispers, her eyes darting to the shadows where my guards are stationed just out of sight. “The music, the food, the dress… it’s all just more paint on the cage.”
“Everything is a cage, Wendy,” I murmur, standing up and walking slowly around the table.
The floorboards don’t even creak under my boots.
I stop behind her, my hands resting on the back of her chair, my head leaning down until my lips are brushing the shell of her ear.
“The only difference is that mine is made of silk and gold. And it comes with a King who would burn the world just to see you smile.”
I reach out, my fingers ghosting over the delicate line of her shoulder, feeling the heat radiating off her.
She’s terrified, yes, but she’s also hungry.
I can see it in the way her pulse jumps under her skin, the way her breath hitches as I move my hand lower, my palm flat against the small of her back.
“Eat your dinner, Wendy,” I whisper, my voice dropping to a guttural command. “Because once the music stops, I’m going to remind you why you’re wearing that dress. And I’m going to make sure you’re too exhausted to ever think about the fire again.”
I see her swallow, her eyes closing for a brief, flickering second. She hates the luxury. She hates the attention. But she’s realising that the cage doesn’t just keep her in—it keeps the rest of the cold, lonely world out.
I don’t wait for her to finish the wine.
I reach down, my hand sliding under her chin, forcing her head back until she has to look into the dark, viral heat of my eyes.
I see the suspicion there, the sharp edge of the girl who survived the flames, but I also see the awe.
She’s drowning in the opulence, and I’m the only thing keeping her head above water.
“Come with me,” I growl, pulling her out of the chair.
She doesn’t fight. She lets me lead her through the labyrinth of the estate, her obsidian velvet gown hissing against the marble like a predatory cat. We ascend a spiral staircase made of wrought iron and glass, climbing higher into the belly of the house until we reach the observatory.
The room is circular, filled with the scent of old parchment and expensive brass. It’s silent up here, the war at the gates feeling like a memory from someone else’s life.
“What is this?” she whispers, her voice echoing in the hollow space.
“The only place in this city where the light doesn’t lie,” I murmur.
I reach for a heavy, silver lever set into the stone wall. With a low, mechanical groan that vibrates through the soles of our feet, the massive, domed ceiling begins to split. The heavy lead panels slide back with a rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum, revealing the sky.
The roof doesn’t just open; it vanishes.
Wendy gasps, her hand flying to her throat as the cold, crisp air of the Chicago winter rushes in.
But it’s not the cold she’s reacting to.
It’s the stars. Away from the glare of the North End, perched atop the highest point of my fortress, the universe looks like it’s been spilled across a black velvet cloth just for her.
Thousands of diamonds, sharp and brilliant, burning with a cold, ancient fire.
She stands in the centre of the room, her face tilted upward, the starlight catching the tears that are already starting to well in her eyes. The obsidian of her dress seems to drink in the darkness, leaving only her pale, glowing skin.
“It’s… it’s beautiful,” she breathes, her voice fracturing. She looks small. She looks like the girl who walked out of the fire, but for the first time, she’s not looking at the smoke. She’s looking at the light.
I step up behind her, my chest pressing against her back, my arms wrapping around her waist to anchor her. I can feel her heart hammering a frantic, rhythmic beat against my forearms.
“I bought this estate for the view,” I whisper into her hair, my lips grazing the nape of her neck. “Most people look down at the city and see power. I look up and see the only thing I can’t touch. Until now.”
She leans back into me, her head resting on my shoulder as we both stare into the abyss. I feel her hand come up, her fingers trembling as she covers mine, interlacing our digits. It’s a slow, quiet surrender.
“You’re trying to make me love the cage, Peter,” she whispers, a tiny, sad smile touching her lips.
“No, Darling,” I mutter, my grip tightening, my cock beginning to ache with a heavy, worshipful throb as I feel her warmth through the velvet. “I’m trying to show you that when you’re with me, the cage is the only place where the stars actually shine.”
She turns in my arms, her eyes wide and filled with a shimmering, terrifying awe. For a second, the suspicion is gone. The hate is a ghost. There is only the hunger, and the realisation that the man who stole the world from her just gave her the galaxy.
I’ve spent a lifetime orchestrating every movement, every breath, and every shadow in this city, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the way she turns in my arms.
The awe in her eyes isn’t for the stars anymore. It’s for me.
She reaches up, her fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of my neck with a sudden, violent hunger that catches the air in my throat.
Before I can draw a breath, she pulls me down.
Her mouth crashes into mine, and it’s not the tentative, broken kiss from before.
This is a claim. This is a flag being planted in the dirt of my soul.
It’s fucking scorching. She tastes like the vintage wine and the cold winter air, and she’s kissing me with a desperation that says she’s done fighting the gravity of us.
I let out a low, guttural growl, my hands finding her hips to pull her flush against the ache in my trousers, but she’s already moving.
Her hands leave my hair and fly to the buttons of my shirt, her movements frantic, her knuckles brushing against the skin of my chest. She’s ripping at the silk, her breath coming in hot, jagged gasps against my lips.
I find myself doing something I haven’t done in years. I laugh.
It’s not my usual dark, chuckle. It’s light. It’s genuine. It’s the sound of a man who just realised he’s been outmanoeuvred by the very thing he sought to conquer.
“Easy, Darling,” I chuckle against her mouth, my hands coming up to catch her wrists, though I’m not doing a damn thing to stop her. “The dress cost more than a penthouse, and you’re going to give yourself a heart attack before we even get to the good part.”
“Shut up, Peter,” she snarls, finally popping the last button. She shoves the shirt off my shoulders, her eyes roaming over my ink and the scar on my neck with a predatory glint. “You wanted me to admit it? Fine. I’m the girl from the fire. And right now, I want to see you burn.”
I throw my head back and laugh again, the sound echoing up into the infinite black of the open roof. God, she’s magnificent. She’s small and soft and covered in obsidian velvet, and she’s currently stripping the King of Chicago bare under the gaze of the universe.
“You’re a menace,” I grin, my hands sliding down to the zipper of her gown. “A beautiful, terrifying little menace.”
I pick her up, her legs immediately locking around my waist, her hands fisting in my hair as she pulls my head back down.
She’s claiming me—every inch, every secret, every drop of blood.
And as I carry her toward the massive silk-covered lounger in the centre of the room, the stars above us seem dim compared to the fire she’s finally letting me see.