Peter
Ilead her into the ballroom, and the air in the room literally dies.
It’s the most beautiful slaughterhouse I’ve ever designed.
I spent three weeks on the lighting alone—thousands of floating candles suspended by invisible wires, casting a flickering, amber glow that makes the gold-leafed mouldings look like they’re dripping with liquid sun.
The scent of the lilies is even heavier here, mingled with the expensive perfume of the Council’s wives and the metallic, sharp tang of the champagne.
My hand is a permanent fixture on the small of her back, my fingers splayed over the obsidian-on-white lace of her gown. I can feel her trembling—not with fear anymore, but with a pure, concentrated fury that makes my blood sing.
She’s pouting.
It’s a magnificent, childish, and utterly lethal expression.
Her lower lip is thrust out just a fraction, stained purple from the wine and swollen from where I claimed her mouth in the chapel.
She’s staring straight ahead, her chin tilted up, refusing to look at the sea of vultures in black ties who are currently bowing their heads to us.
“Smile, Darling,” I murmur, my voice a low, viral vibration against the shell of her ear. “The world is watching. Don’t let them think I married a statue.”
“I hope they see exactly what you are, Peter,” she hisses, her voice a serrated blade.
She lifts her left hand, the gold chain between her wrists clinking with a rhythmic, accusatory sound.
The ruby on her finger—my brand—is still weeping.
A single, perfect bead of crimson escapes the band and tracks down her pale skin, dripping onto the white silk of her skirt.
I don’t look away. I grab her hand, lifting it to my lips in front of the head of the Moretti family. I kiss the blood. I taste the iron.
“What they see,” I say, looking Moretti dead in his cold, grey eyes while my lips remain on her skin, “is the only thing in this city that I value more than their lives. And they see a man who just made sure he’ll never have to look for her again.”
I lead her toward the throne-like chairs at the head of the long marble table. Every step she takes is a protest. She drags her feet, the tulle of her skirt hissing against the floor, her shoulders hunched in a way that says she’d rather be anywhere but here.
We sit, and I lean back, my arm draped over the back of her chair, effectively caging her in. A waiter appears instantly, pouring a vintage that costs ten thousand a bottle into a crystal flute.
“Eat something,” I command softly, nodding toward the plate of oysters and caviar in front of her. “You’ve had a long day, and the night is only just beginning.”
“I’m not hungry,” she snaps, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere across the room. She’s doing that thing again—the pout that makes her look like a bratty princess and a vengeful goddess all at once. “I want to go to my room. I want this… this thing off my finger.”
I let out a low, dark chuckle, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. I pull her head back just enough to make her look at me. The hatred in her eyes is so vivid, so beautiful, it makes my heart thud against my ribs like a hammer.
“You are in your room, Wendy,” I whisper. “This whole fucking city is your room now. And the ring stays. It’s part of you now. Just like I am.”
She lets out a sharp, frustrated breath, her chest heaving against the tight lace of her bodice. She looks so soft, so fragile in the centre of all this hard gold and cold stone, and yet she’s the only one in the room who isn’t afraid of me.
“You’re a sick man, Peter Hale,” she murmurs, her voice softening into a dangerous, sweet whisper.
“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” I correct, my thumb tracing the line of her throat where my grip had been minutes ago. “And I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to watch you hate me for the next fifty years.”
I pick up my glass, raising it to the room. The Council stands as one, a silent, terrifying tribute.
“To my wife,” I roar, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “May she never find the door.”
The roar of “To the Queen!” ripples through the ballroom, a hundred voices of the most dangerous men in the country shouting a toast to my captivity. They raise their glasses, the amber and crimson liquids catching the light of the floating candles like a sea of burning gasoline.
Beside me, Wendy’s face transforms. The pout sharpens into a look of such incandescent rage I’m surprised the lilies don’t spontaneously combust. She watches them celebrate her branding, and her hand—the one with the weeping ruby—clenches into a fist, the gold chain rattling a frantic, furious rhythm against the marble tabletop.
“They’re celebrating a kidnapping, Peter,” she hisses, her voice trembling with a hate so pure it’s almost holy. “They’re cheering for a crime.”
“They’re cheering for stability, Darling,” I murmur, setting my glass down with a final, heavy thud. “And for the fact that I’m in a good enough mood not to kill any of them tonight.”
I stand up, the movement fluid and predatory, and reach for her. “Our public awaits.”
“I’m not dancing with you,” she snaps, planting her heels into the floor. “I’ll sit here and rot before I give them that show.”
I lean down, my hand sliding behind her neck, my thumb pressing firmly into the sensitive skin behind her ear.
“You’ll give them the show, or I’ll give them a different one.
I’ll strip you out of this lace right here on the table and show them exactly why I’m so obsessed with you. Your choice, Wendy.”
Her breath hitches, her eyes wide and dark with the realisation that I’m not fucking joking. I never am.
I pull her up. She stumbles, the massive skirt of her gown hissing like a disgruntled ghost, but I catch her. I lead her toward the centre of the floor, the Council parting like the Red Sea. The air is thick with the smell of expensive tobacco and the ozone of impending violence.
Then, the music shifts.
The orchestra fades out, and a low, haunting cello begins the first few bars of “I Found” by Amber Run. It’s slow, visceral, and sounds like a confession whispered in the dark.
I pull her into my arms. I don’t hold her like a bride; I hold her like a prisoner of war. My right hand settles on the small of her back, crushing the tulle against my suit, while my left takes her shackled hands, the gold chain draped over our interlaced fingers.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispers, even as she’s forced to follow my lead.
“Too late for that, isn’t it?” I rasp, my hand sliding lower, my palm flat against the curve of her ass, pulling her hips flush against the hard, aching line of my trousers.
We move. It’s not a waltz; it’s a slow, grinding collision.
I lead her in a tight circle, my thighs sliding between hers, the friction of our bodies generating a heat that makes the floating candles seem dim.
She tries to pull back, her head tossing, but I only tighten my grip, my face buried in the crook of her neck.
“You’re shaking, Wendy,” I growl, my lips grazing the skin I marked earlier. “Is it rage? Or is it because you can feel exactly how much I want to take you back to that rug?”
“I hate you,” she breathes, but her hands—those small, shackled hands—are fisting in the lapels of my charcoal suit. She’s leaning into me, her body betraying her mind, her heart slamming against my chest in a frantic, syncopated beat.
I spin her, the gold chain between her wrists catching the light, a glittering reminder of the leash. I pull her back in hard, her spine arched over my arm, her face tilted up toward the thousands of candles. The blood from her ring has smeared onto my sleeve, a red streak across the grey wool.
It’s beautiful. It’s disgusting. It’s us.
I look down at her, my vision tunnelling until there’s nothing but her swollen lips and the wild, broken light in her eyes. I lean down, my breath ghosting over her mouth, the music reaching a swelling, agonising crescendo.
“You look like a queen, Wendy,” I whisper, my voice a dark, viral promise. “But we both know you’re just my favourite sin.”
I don’t kiss her. I just let her ache, let the whole room watch as the King of Chicago worships the girl he broke, until the last note of the cello fades into a silence so heavy it feels like a shroud.