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, the shouting 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.
I vow to be the wall that keeps the world out, his voice echoes in my skull. I vow to burn every bridge you ever thought about crossing.
I shake my head, a sob breaking out of my chest so hard it aches. “It’s not love,” I choke out, the words disappearing into the smoke. “It’s not love. That’s not why I’m crying. I’m just scared. I’m just a girl in a fire again.”
I reach out with my right hand, my fingers trembling as they touch the cold, diamond-encrusted band. The moment my skin brushes the metal, the pins embedded in my finger thrum, a sharp, stinging reminder that I am physically tethered to his soul.
More tears fall, splashing onto the ruby, making the red light fracture and bleed across my skin.
I tell myself I’m crying because I’m shackled.
I tell myself I’m crying because I’m cold and traumatised and covered in the scent of a man who just took me against a railing while his world burned.
I tell myself I hate him. I repeat it like a mantra, a prayer to a God who abandoned this house a long time ago.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
But then, a thought—sharp and cold as a shard of the shattered chandelier—slices through the denial. It strikes me with such force that I stop breathing.
What if he doesn’t come back?
The air leaves my lungs. The thought doesn’t bring relief.
It doesn’t bring the taste of freedom. It brings a hollow, cavernous vacuum that threatens to swallow me whole.
If he dies in there, the leash doesn’t break.
It just stays attached to a corpse, and I’m left alone in the dark, wearing his name and his blood, waiting for the next monster to find the balcony.
What if the last thing I ever felt was his hand on my heart? What if the last thing he ever said was that I was his favourite sin?
“Peter,” I whisper, and this time, it’s not a protest. It’s a plea.
I touch the ring again, burying my face in my bound hands, the gold chains biting into my forehead. I’m a Queen in a ruined palace, a bride in a blood-stained gown, and as the house groans under the weight of the assault, I realise the most terrifying thing of all.
I’m not crying because I’m his prisoner. I’m crying because I don’t know how to exist in a world where he isn’t the one holding the keys.