10. Peter
Peter
Madness and Hollowbrook are synonymous, and it seems that no amount of alcohol can drive out the current spell taking control.
A fog darkens my consciousness as I stumble down unlit halls, ripping at the buttons of my blouse to make room for my heaving lungs.
I burst through the set of double doors.
Of course, they’re not locked or guarded—the manor welcomes me to take what’s mine.
A moonbeam shines through the window, casting a silver glow over her frame, presenting her like a pearl in an oyster, the wooden bed frame her shell.
I stalk closer, making no attempt to silence my presence, yet she doesn’t stir.
It’s not until I crawl across the sea of bedding, looming over her, that her bright eyes open.
I slap my hand over her mouth, expecting her to scream, but terror doesn’t pinch between her brows.
She arches away from the bed and into me.
Sunshine hair pools around her, and she wears a silk nightgown, so thin her pebbled breasts scrape against my chest as if nothing was there at all.
She's no pixie, but instead a siren, luring her prey to their demise.
I told myself I wouldn’t play his games, but she has games of her own.
I don’t want the crown, no, but I crave her conquering, no matter how hard I try to fight it.
Her eyes, her mouth—currently heating my palm—her breath heavy in anticipation, all of it turns the violence I previously planned into something else entirely.
I expected her to fight me, reveled in the thought of it, but this is so much better, yet worse at the same time.
It’s weakening me, turning me into the thing I’ve always feared.
I remove the pressure from her mouth, trailing down her neck as my breath picks up a hitched, desperate tempo.
She runs her hands over my back, pressing in her fingertips, as her legs intertwine with mine.
I breathe her in as she leads me lower, in between the valley of her breasts.
My cock aches, and I buck against her, ravenous for the small friction.
I’m lost, wanting nothing more than to burrow into her chest, lose myself completely.
“Peter,” she says. My name has never sounded so sweet.
I break away to catch another glance, eager for her to look at me without hatred, without disdain, to say other sweet things that I haven’t heard in such a long time.
Instead, I balk. Belle’s crystal eyes are blank, the sparkle gone.
Red paints her neck, down her chest. Her throat is slashed, spurting coveted magic around her, turning her hair muddy.
I’ve seen this scene before, yet it’s no less horrifying. A scream rips from my throat.
I jolt up in bed, sweat lining every inch of me, and my head aching harder than my cock.
Mornings usually start this way. A rose always has its thorns.
As does the sweet bliss of a numbed mind that always bites back with vengeance once the day starts anew.
Everything I’ve washed away the night before comes back in these sparse moments of morning clarity—the dreams, the aches from past beatings, my mother’s pure white smile coupled with her laugh—it all swarms my thoughts like locusts, eating away at what’s left of my soul.
But this dream was different, horrifying in a new way.
They always end the same, despite the variation in this one’s beginning.
I shove my pesky member between my legs and snap for my maids to bring my usual morning elixir.
I must drown it all out, must make myself less than human.
I’d do anything to wash away the dreams, even if the one I just woke from brings a more unsettling excitement than usual.
It’s not safe for me to think of the pixie in such a way.
I should be ignoring her existence entirely.
I’m crouched at the edge of my canopied bed when one of the Shadows enters. “Sir, you have company.”
I turn to the door, ignoring the discarded clothing, bottles and empty glasses—and for some reason, a horn—littering the thick handwoven rugs. I can barely make him out amid the low light since I refuse to let the maid draw the heavy green curtains. “Company?”
“Sir Ronald, Sir Colly, Sir Deadrick, and Sir Trago.”
I snap, chugging the rest of the liquid in my goblet and throwing it to the floor as I rise.
I had almost forgotten the invitations I sent yesterday.
Maids surround me, tucking in my undershirt, draping my vest over my shoulders, and combing through my hair.
“Show them to the drawing room. Tell them I’ll be right up. ”
Nothing can speed up my steps nor cure the aftershocks of an unsettling nightmare faster than the prospect of my treasured time with my lost boys. I barge through the drawing room doors mere moments later.
“The rooster has arrived!” Ronald shouts into cupped hands.
I enter, arms raised and pumping, as I accept their cheers.
The warm, low lighting and smoke-filled air of the room pulls me in.
Diamond-backed cards, gemmed chips, and half-drunken glasses of liquor litter the velvet-covered table.
There’s no need for me to gamble. I have everything I could need and more, but the thrill of the game never bores me.
Well, until it does. Everything gets boring after a while. That’s where the alcohol comes in.
“Ah, the Lord of the manor,” Trago calls, fanning himself with a hand of cards, piles of chips resting in front of him.
I place my palm over my heart, stumbling to my seat at the head of the long oak table.
“Oh, please. Don’t burden me with such a title.
I have no intention of growing up, nor claiming any dominion over this cursed estate.
” A servant presents me with a crystal glass full of amber liquid, resting atop a silver tray, and I swallow a generous gulp.
Thank the stars for well-trained staff, or really, the Darlings.
Perhaps they're good for something, despite their horrors.
Deadrick slaps a stack of cards in front of me, his viney fingers releasing them one by one. I shuffle through, inspecting my hand.
“I’ll gladly take the title from you!” Trago says with a smile. “The Kinsley estate doesn’t hold a candle to Hollowbrook. Plus, to rule a kingdom?” He cups his groin. “I’m hard just thinking about it.”
My brows pinch. Trago has always been crass, and it seems I’m not drunk enough to stomach it yet. I clear my throat. “Apparently, if you want the kingdom, all you must do is fuck a pixie.”
“Fuck a pixie?” Colly chuckles, his furry ears twitching. “Well, that’s an impossible task. There’s none left.”
“Ah, that’s not true anymore. There’s one here.”
“A pixie in Neverhaven? In Hollowbrook?” Deadrick questions.
I look up to see all curious eyes on me.
Yes, I’m definitely not drunk enough, but apparently, my loose lips still work just as well with sobriety.
I doubt Father intended the pixie to be a secret; no one would dare steal her from us, and he intends to brag about his pixie heir soon enough, so there’s no reason to fear his wrath from my confession, yet I don’t want to discuss the details of his game.
I don’t want to discuss the details of her.
But I can’t lie. There’s a chance they’ll see her around the estate, and from the little I know about her, she’s sure to cause trouble, wrangling them into her useless attempts to escape. Of course, no one escapes Hollowbrook.
I sigh, taking another long swig and pushing a stack of purple jeweled chips toward the center of the table. “Father found her and brought her here.”
Ronald snaps his fingers and slams his cards to the table. “A pixie! I knew it! I had a vision about this and thought I was just going mad!”
Colly rolls his eyes and pats Ronald’s back. “Yeah, I’m sure you did, chap.”
“Is he going to drain her blood?” Deadricks asks.
I sigh and shake my head, my cognition already slowing. Might as well come out with it. “Wants one of us to produce an heir with her.” I wiggle my fingers in the air, looking down at my cards. “Making it a sort of game for the throne.”
Trago spits out a laugh. “A game to breed the last living pixie?” He slaps me on the shoulder, causing my vision to tunnel red at the corners. I’m unable to hide my scowl. “Why didn’t you tell us? I can’t think of anything more exciting!”
“Wait, you said one of you. Rourke has a chance at the throne if he impregnates her? Why?” Deadrick asks.
“Of course, you know Father views him as much a son as me.” Perhaps even more. I don’t share the real truth—the one only Father and I know.
“But he’s…” Colly looks around the table. “Deranged.”
“He can’t rule Neverhaven. He doesn’t even talk.” Trago huffs, leaning back in his chair and slapping his feet onto the table.
“He talks.” I ponder. “At least I think he does.” It’s been so long since I heard his voice, besides the few times I’ve witnessed him exchange words with Father in sparse company. A vague memory floats to the surface of my waterlogged mind.
My nightmares started after Mother died.
I’d wake up screaming, and my nurses would struggle to settle me.
Father had had enough, said I'd gotten too weak.
He stationed the Shadows in the corners of my room.
If I woke and made a peep, they'd fetch him so he could beat me himself.
Told me he wanted me to be afraid of him more than the make-believe that woke me.
Little did he know they were one in the same.
I’d grown accustomed to not sleeping, only snagging slumber in the corners of the day. I’d been too young to experience the saving grace of booze. At night, I’d wander the halls, looking for a distraction.