8. Rourke
Rourke
The doors barely budge. Light trickles in through the crack, followed by the disheveled and heavy-breathing pixie.
I track her from my spot on the large window’s ledge, high above her and overlooking the front gardens.
She doesn’t notice me as she scurries away, down the long hallway toward the belly of Hollowbrook.
I caught her scaling the walls from her room the night before, attempting to escape before nestling under a bush, cuddled up with a raccoon, and drifting off to sleep.
I’ve never enjoyed my added bits, the scaly and jagged edges attached in an attempt to repair what was stolen from me.
But the crocodile eye provides night vision, allowing me to make her out in the shadows.
Only now I wish I’d acquired the ears of a more hearing-attuned animal so I could have listened to what Peter said to her.
Whatever exchange they had rattled her, causing her shoulders to tremble before she fled.
My stomach soured once I caught the beginnings of their interaction, cursing myself for not taking the pixie when I had the chance.
I should have plucked her from the garden with the cover of night.
It would have been easy, but I was too hypnotized by her actions—curious what she would do next. Plus, I love the chase.
I worried my chance was gone with Peter’s ill-fated arrival back to Hollowbrook from his night out with his Lost Boys.
But I reminded myself that Peter had more control and less bloodthirst than I did.
He didn’t have the stomach to take the pixie and seize the throne.
He seemed to care for Father’s favor as little as he cared for me.
As a boy, I yearned for his companionship—for attention.
My mother barely noticed me, which led to my attack and her grotesque attempts to keep me alive through the sick magic of her crew’s healer.
Once she married Lord Pan, I received a new and unusual dose of interest from him, usually flavored with his wrath when my violence simmered too low for his liking, but I craved the attention too much to mind.
Peter cared for me as little as my mother did.
Almost pretending I didn’t exist. Probably better that way now, as I’ll need to do whatever it takes to win the throne.
If he wanted to, he could have seized the pixie already, but chose otherwise.
Perhaps he’s playing a game. He sure seemed joyous before she fled from him.
No matter, it’s my time to strike. I may not earn the crown by bloodright, but I’ve proven time and time again I’m deserving of my father’s place, of his pride.
Once the pixie has disappeared out of sight, I scale the heavy green drapery, dropping softly to the floor. I remain in the shadows of the pillars lining the halls as I track her, led by the scent of her fright and her frantic, untrained footsteps.
She glances behind her shoulders, still clutching her found vermin, before ascending the winding staircase that leads to her rooms.
I can practically hear the quickening pitter-patter of her heartbeat.
She hasn’t caught me trailing her, but she knows she’s being followed.
I’ve always enjoyed the chase. Usually, Father brings me my victims to the confinements of our dungeons, but sometimes, when I’m bored, I toy with them—allowing them to scamper in the dark, giving them the illusion of hope before I pounce.
I could have taken the pixie in her room while she slept.
It would have been easier that way, but this is much more exciting.
It sends electricity through my veins and blood to my cock.
I just hope I can keep my ever-growing lust in check and not let it end in swallowing her whole.
I need her in one piece to bear my offspring.
She is about to reach her doors. The Shadows have gone, sent away with my father when he departed for the summer estate, his quiet signal that the games have begun. Of course, there are still Shadows all throughout Hollowbrook, but their presence is newly sparse.
Before her hand grasps the handle, I leap, catching her other arm and swinging her against my chest. She doesn’t scream, disappointing me at first, but the feeling quickly melts to intrigue.
The furry pest struggles in her arms, against me, and she seems more determined to hold onto it than to get away.
Her efforts are lost as he claws his way out of her arms and flees down the hallway.
“Damned weasel!” she yells after it before bringing the spotlight of her sky-blue eyes to me. Weasel? I guess they refer to the furry beasts under a different name where she comes from.
I’m thrown off kilter by her scent. It’s always this way with women.
I savor every sensation—their softness, the clean light smell of their skin, their dainty bones under my grasp.
Father warned me to tend to myself before attempting to claim the pixie, and I did—multiple times—but it couldn’t prepare me for her—the beauty of Hollowbrook bottled into a physical form.
Now that the pest is out of the way, I pull her flush against me, leaning down to smell her hair, trailing the invisible line from her ear down her neck. My human hand finds the small of her back, pressing her against me. I’m stiff already, and the small friction only makes me more ravenous.
She yelps, and perhaps I’m blinded—delirious—but it sounds breathy, as if maybe her mind also rushes with heated thoughts.
I roam lower, feeling the plump curve of her arse, intending to rub her harder into me.
Her head lolls back the tiniest bit, allowing me to nuzzle into her further, losing control of my teeth as they press into her jugular.
She pushes back, catching me off guard, and reaches for something at her chest, fidgeting before she pulls a dagger, holding it in front of her. “Stand back!” she orders.
I laugh. I didn’t even realize I could make the sound, but it feels nice to let it escape my mouth.
Her face reddens before she grunts and attempts to slice me with the blade.
She’s frozen in the midst of her attack, of course.
I may miss much of the comings and goings in others' conversations, but I know she has a Darling on. I could never ignore the black collars.
I swipe my hook at her forearm, sending the dagger to the floor and slicing her porcelain skin.
I’m hypnotized by the line of red, pursing open and spilling onto my hook.
It takes her a moment to realize my assault, allowing me to watch the beautiful crimson saturate from the metal, to my skin.
She gasps, pulling her arm back and covering the wound with her other hand.
I’m the object of her attention now, the pain I’ve caused bringing her true understanding.
The fear I’ve craved from her soaks her hypnotizing features, except something is different.
I stare down at the blood seeping into my pores.
I’m soaking her in; the sensation can’t be ignored.
There’s always been a buzzing at the back of every thought, an insistent cry that muddies my reasoning.
I’ve grown used to it, but now, it dims. The pain from my scales, my hook, my eye, it’s never left me.
Just like the buzzing, it’s a part of me that I’ve learned to live with, even if the living requires so much bloodshed to form any semblance of peace.
Now, the pain is apparent, but only because it lessens, sending something like pleasure—something addicting—through my nervous system.
I’m too busy examining all the parts of me that feel so utterly different that I don’t notice the pixie has reached for the door handle. “Stay the fuck away from me!” She yells, glaring at me before she slams the door in my face.
Belle. I remember the name my father spoke at dinner the night before. I suspect I blocked it out to make her conquest more palatable. Belle. The word covers my brain like a balm, like her blood soaking through to the jagged edges of my soul.
Red. It’s all I’ve craved, and even now, I need more.
More of her red, to wash not the world, but all of me, to heal the tattered pieces of my being.
I could demand it now, but I’ll wait. Despite the healing powers of her blood, her rejection leaves a confusing sting, halting me from my violence.
Perhaps it’s a new part of myself the red is uncovering.
I’ve always seen red at the edges of every image, but now, blue orbs light the way ahead. Blue. Her blue.
Yes, I need her blood. I need more of her to replicate the sensation that already fades with her absence, still burning bright, but lessening. But the blue—it might just become the hue of my deepest adoration.