17. Belle
Belle
Peter holds up the majority of my weight as he rushes me down the dark halls.
It’s all I can do to focus on taking one shaky step after another.
My legs work just fine, physically that is, but the rest of me struggles to keep the panic at bay now that the immediate threat is gone.
It dawns on me that the boy who carries me, who scared my attacker away, might be that much more terrifying than the last monster.
But I have no time to fear him. I can only be grateful I’m out of that room with all those hungry and hollow eyes.
Peter doesn’t speak. The moment the last man fled the drawing room, he cradled me in his arms, bringing me to the floor from the table, before offering a shoulder to lean on without a word. I’m thankful for his silence. If only to use all my attention on staying conscious.
We enter a room, grand but in shambles, and once we pass the threshold, I stumble to the bench at the end of the bed.
Peter shuts the doors behind us. I can finally breathe, taking in the smell of crisp fall leaves and damp Earth, the smell I recognize from leaning over Peter just a few nights before.
He rushes beside me, his green eyes flicking over my face.
He cradles my jaw as his gaze roams lower. “Where else are you bleeding?”
“Bleeding?”
“Your nose. Anywhere else? Where did they touch you?” His nostrils expand, and his eyes darken.
For a moment, I’m afraid of his fury, as if my injuries are a result of my own failings. I don’t remember being hit, but now that I reflect, I recall that the dick elbowed me in the nose when I tried to slip out of his arms. I touch my cupid’s bow, examining the blood on my finger. “I’m fine.”
Peter arches his neck, aghast. “You’re not fine.
” He stops, something almost like a sob at the back of his throat, but that can’t be it.
He clenches his jaw, looks away, and takes a moment before turning back to me.
He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it to my nose.
I slap my hand over his, perturbed by his comforting touch, but then his eyes widen, as if he’s shocked and hurt that I would refuse his help.
I soften, not moving, our hands still touching.
“They could have killed you,” he whispers.
He’s right. I saw it in their eyes. They were hungry for me, in a way I don’t think my screams and living flesh could satisfy. I shiver at the memory of the men licking their lips as they trickled into the room, eying me on the giant table that felt like a feasting plate.
“What were you thinking?”
The accusation snaps me out of my stupor, and I pull away from his touch, grabbing the cloth from him to tend my own wound. “I’m trying to escape. I don’t have many options.”
“You should know by now not to trust anything inside these walls,” Peter seethes.
“Even you?”
He straightens, lines deepening between his brows.
“Most of all me.” He’s suddenly much too tall, even sitting.
He’s not bulky like Rourke, but all lean muscles, capable of overpowering me, even without my Darling.
I look around the room, examining his scattered clothing, resembling his usual ensemble.
I’m in his domain, more so now than ever before.
I’m playing too bold after barely surviving.
I fold into myself, eyes darting away from his.
Perhaps he picks up on my nerves because he makes himself smaller, hunching his shoulders and clearing his throat. He stands and walks to a dresser, pulling out a large white linen shirt. “Here,” he hands it to me, head turned away to give me some privacy.
I grab it while still seated, finally mortified that I’m practically naked and my period blood is most likely leaking onto his upholstered bench.
But that’s ridiculous. I’m his prisoner.
I should want to appear unsightly. “Thank you.” I can’t help but mutter the words.
Peter saved me, and unless I’m reading things wrong, he doesn’t seem to want to hurt me now.
“Were they your friends?” I ask, once I’ve pulled his shirt on, covering all of me and ending at the top of my thighs.
“No. Most of them I don’t know. Trago, the bastard who dragged you onto the table, he was my friend.”
“But not anymore?”
He doesn’t answer, just watches me from his tense stance by the window, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his bare chest.
I stand, the room is much too stuffy and confusing, and I need to leave, but it’s a bad move. “Ouch.” I fall back to the bench.
Peter rushes to my side. “What is it?”
“My ankle.” I examine it crossed over my knee. The adrenaline must have kept the pain at bay.
“Let me see.” He grabs my leg, placing it on his lap. His fingers are cold as they trail down my shin.
“Ouch,” I say once he meets the sore point. “I think I rolled it when I tried to get away.”
He shakes his head, examining it from all angles in his lap. “You’re lucky you're still in one piece.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks to this fucking Darling.”
His emerald green shines through the tendrils of burnt orange as he stares at me. “You should see the Alchemist.”
I shake my head. “It’ll be healed by tomorrow, pixie blood and all.”
He nods. As his hands move over my leg, something shimmers, reflecting from the lantern illuminating the room from his side table.
“Is that…”
“What?” He follows my skeptical stare.
“Are your hands sparkly?”
Peter examines himself. “Yes.” He chuckles, his face lightening, a boyishness I haven’t witnessed from him before. It shifts the room's mood.
I point. “And your lips.”
“What?” His fingertips meet his full pillows.
“They’re sparkling too.”
“Good observation.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile.
“I won’t mention the wings.”
He rolls his shoulder back, as if just now registering their weight. “I’m surprised this is the first time they’ve come up since you’re so observant.”
“So you’re throwing a costume party or something?”
He settles into a contented gaze on me. “Or something. It’s called Starburn. It’s an annual celebration throughout Neverhaven, but this is the first time we’ve had it here at Hollowbrook.”
So that’s why my comment gave me away to Trago, although I’m unsure if what he said is true and he figured me out the moment he laid eyes on me.
“Why wasn’t I invited?” I mean it as a lighthearted jest, something to carry on our effortless back and forth, but it’s the wrong thing to say.
He hardens. “I think it’s quite obvious why not.”
I could rebut that, say that it's his fault his friends view me as an object since they’re keeping me locked away.
But that would be a moot point, since if I weren’t their prisoner, I wouldn’t be anywhere near Hollowbrook or Neverhaven, at least that’s my plan—whenever I find a way to get the fucking Darling off.
My vision adjusts more to the low lighting, and I make him out completely. The red and irritated gash under his brow steals my attention. “Your eye.”
He touches the injury.
“It’s still not healed from the other night?”
His brow furrows. “The other night?”
Is it possible he doesn’t remember me there? From how fucked up he was, and all the ridiculous things he said to me, I’m assuming yes. “It looks worse, actually.” I move closer, reaching for him.
He flinches.
“Can I see?”
It takes a moment, but he turns, bringing his long legs onto the bench and caging me in between his thighs.
I rise up on my knees, crawling nearer to get a better look.
His hands hover over the back of my thighs, barely touching me.
The small sensation leaves me lightheaded, but I try to remain focused on his injury.
Of course, a near impossible feat since it’s above his soul-sucking eyes.
“I think it’s infected,” I choke out, noticing the puffy red area around the wound. I’ve never considered myself a healing type before, but now that I know there’s liquid magic running through my veins, I can’t help but want to offer my assistance, especially after he just rescued me.
I catch him staring up at me, wide-eyed and lips parted—mystified almost, but that could just be the lighting playing tricks, the sparkles on his lips dancing in his pupils.
I wipe the semi-dried blood from under my nose, and I gloss it over his injury. He flinches again. “What are you doing?
“I hear my blood is pretty fucking magical.” I snap, pointing my finger at him.
“But don’t get used to this.” It’s silly.
Who am I to act like I have any say over my autonomy, least of all to him, but I often forget my situation.
Especially now, as I kneel over his lap, his hands grazing my exposed skin.
He allows me to coat the area, and I sit back on my heels to examine my handiwork. “There, that should fix it.” I’m full of shit. I don't know the extent of my powers, but I assume it can be applied topically.
I meet my eyes with his, startling once I realize how close we are.
His hands have moved up to the small of my back.
His eyes watch my lips, his neck is craned, and his breath creates a dizzying effect.
“Thank you.” The words barely leave those glimmering lips.
He’s so beautiful. I’m jealous. I wonder if he could transfer a bit of his sparkle to me, make me feel as shimmery on the inside as he looks on the outside.
It’s the adrenaline crash. It must be, because I move nearer and he meets me halfway.
It’s just the ghost of his lips at first, teasing until it’s not.
He crashes against me. I crawl closer, sitting on top of him instead of my heels.
One of his hands stays on my back, grinding me into him.
The other wraps around my neck, keeping me in place as his tongue explores.
I arch, aching and eager for more friction.
He moans, tasting, breathing me in, hardening underneath my lap.
I expect him to buck, pull himself out, and demand I sate his urge, but he’s too enthralled with my mouth, with tasting every inch.
I’ve been kissed before, but this is a kiss.
The kind you see in movies when the lovers haven’t seen each other in decades and hope to consume the lost time through the other person’s lips.
Which is ridiculous because we’re not lovers.
We’re not enemies. We’re worse. I pull back.
Reality pushing through the fog. “Let me go.”
He shakes his head, confused. “What?”
“Take this Darling off of me.”
“What, no?” Hurt swims through his eyes.
I crawl off him and stand, hands clenched at my side, skin still flushed with arousal. “So I’m just your prisoner then?”
He doesn’t reply. His mouth hangs open.
“Your friends can’t treat me like a sex slave, but you can. Because I belong to you, is that what this is?”
“No! That’s not what this is!”
“Then let me go.”
“I can’t.”
I arch my brow and place my hands on my hips, covered by his linen shirt.
“You can’t or you won’t?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out as if he’s lost for words.
“Which is it?”
“Belle.”
He said my name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it from his mouth before.
He says it as if he’s pleading, begging me to sympathize with him, but how could I?
If he wasn’t able to let me go, why wouldn’t he just say that?
Perhaps his mother did leave him with some human decency, enough not to lie.
And now, as I beg him for my freedom, asking him why he can’t let me go, he’s unable to speak, because the truth is too horrid.
He can set me free, but he’s choosing not to. And kissing him is just encouraging him to keep me as his prisoner, so he can lure me into a trap, making me soft and malleable in the meantime.
Rourke similarly denied my freedom, but at least he doesn’t hide behind a pretty facade. Peter pretends to be my savior, offering me comfort and bedroom eyes, but he’s still the same rotten boy I met when I was dragged by the pirate into these prison gates.
I turn, stomping to the doors. My ankle still aches, but it’s already barely a throb.
He could come after me. There’s no reason for him to let me go if he’s as horrible as I think he is, but perhaps he likes this cat-and-mouse act, enjoys me crawling onto his lap, tending to his wound, my body scraping against him in wanting.
Well, no more. I’m done playing his games.
“Belle, wait. It’s dangerous.”
I turn in the open doorway, glaring at him. “No more dangerous than it is in here.” I slam the door and rush down the hall, hoping I make it to my room with no more aches than the ones I left Peter with.