21. Peter
Peter
The sky opens, assaulting the sorry earth in its tears. It’s a reflection of my mood, but no, I’m not that important. The sky cares little for my self-inflicted wounds.
Lightning rattles the windows, caging me into the empty halls as I aimlessly tread down the gleaming floors.
I can’t sleep, a familiar affliction I thought I cured in my youth.
Except the remedy didn’t interest me today, for the first time in years.
The nightmares ceased chasing me through the morning.
My hands didn’t shake. I know why, at least I can guess.
Pixie blood can heal all wounds, so it only makes sense that her touch—the saliva from her kiss—would have a similar effect.
Maybe even more so, seeping into the cracked fragments of my soul.
I let her get to me. My plans had been foiled in the mere moments that she pressed herself against me, her damp lips, her body nearly bare, and her nipples etching spells against my chest. The moment ended as quickly as it began. She could see through my facade, my attempt to be a gentleman.
She’s right.
I’m a monster in hiding.
She fluttered around my skull for the remainder of the morning.
I don’t remember being up so early, with such pure sunrays to illuminate my restless thoughts.
It had been ages since I’d been in the library, and to find the mirage of my desires in its belly, clutching the pain of my past, well, it was too much.
I saw red.
I was humiliated. More so, reminded that she would never want me, the shell of a boy who never grew up.
I can’t continue to become attached to her, and it angered me senseless that I’d only gotten a taste of her healing effects and must reject it entirely.
Perhaps I’d been crass, a jealous prick, but it’s for the best. She should despise me.
A burst of lightning cracks from overhead, followed by a scream—haunting even for these halls of horror.
It could be from anyone; we have a full house of servants who may have been frightened by the furious sky, but that’s not the case.
I follow the source, winding down the staircases illuminated by the flittering of silver, finding myself in the glass atrium at the center of Hollowbrook.
Even in the darkness, the light calls to her. She steals the fragments, the rays from the clouded moon clinging to her frame as she crouches amid the greenhouse fares. She stares up as the rain assaults the glass dome above.
I shouldn’t join her. I should leave her be.
Even if she was the one who screamed, she doesn’t need my assistance.
I would just make her fears materialize.
Yet, before I can stop myself, my long legs walk toward her—a moth drawn to flame.
She doesn’t look at me, even when I’m right next to her, staring down at her as she continues searching the heavens, for what, I’m unsure.
“I’m surprised.” Her voice breaks through the fog.
“By what?”
Her eyes flick to mine, blinding blue shining through the gray, swimming in fear. “Storms look the same as they do back on Earth.”
I’d expect rage or ignorance after our last interaction, but I don’t believe I’m the current cause of her damp cheeks and trembling hands. Perhaps she’s looking for a distraction from whatever ails her. I’m happy to oblige—delighted even.
My knees weaken. My affliction is only worsening. I take a seat next to her in the mound of clovers. It’s better than collapsing. I don’t say anything. Instead, looking up at the ironwork above. The rain pings against the glass panels shaping the spherical lid.
“Where does all the water come from?” she asks, still looking up.
There could be a green, fire-breathing monster overhead, but I’d find it nearly impossible to look away from the trembling girl before me. “What do you mean?” My voice sounds like dry pebbles underfoot.
“There’s no ocean around us, only sky. How is there enough water to evaporate and fill the clouds?” She studies me as if I hold the secrets to the universe.
“I do not know.” It hurts not to give her an answer, on top of everything else I can’t grant her.
Her skin pinches between her brows, but as her gaze lingers, her expression softens.
She shakes her head. “I guess I don’t know what I’m talking about. Was never great with science or school in general. It still rains in places on Earth without oceans. I’m assuming you have lakes and streams here?”
I can only nod.
“I guess that settles it then.” She stares ahead blankly.
Thunder rattles around our glass cage. Belle screams, jumping up and over to me.
She grabs my arm, squeezing. I place my hand over hers, running my thumb across the side of her palm.
I wish the thunder would continue, like a never-ending drum, just to keep her in place, seeking me for her comfort.
But of course, it ends, and with the silence comes Belle’s embarrassment.
She pulls back, tucking a tendril of wild golden hair behind her ear. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t think you’d be afraid of thunder.”
“Why?”
“You don’t seem to be afraid of anything.”
She scoffs. “Believe me, I’m terrified most of the time.”
“You hide it well.”
She shrugs. “So do you.”
I want to ask her what she means. How could she know? But too much silence passes, so instead I wade in it, enjoying her nearness.
“It’s not really thunder.”
“What?”
“I’m not really afraid of thunder. It sounds like a gunshot. My mind can’t reason. I hear it, and I’m back in my five-year-old body, scared and staring down at the corpses of my foster parents. Sometimes looking at the sky helps me rationalize my fear, but I don’t think it’s working this time.”
“You saw your parents shot?”
She laughs. “No, not my parents. My mom was apparently the last living pixie until me.”
I’d almost forgot. In this moment, she’s not magic-born, not the prisoner of Hollowbrook—only a figment of my imagination—a dream so sweet.
She carries on. “She left me on earth and fucked off or whatever. These were people who took me in after she abandoned me. Well, one of the first. I don’t remember much from my childhood, but I remember the lady being nice.
She used to give me a heating pad to sleep with on cold nights, just so I’d be more comfortable.
” She lies on her side, propping her head in her hand.
“The guy was a dick—drank a lot, always yelled at her. I had no idea what happened at the time, but later the case worker told me he shot her, probably sobered up, and realized what he’d done, and shot himself.
Heavy stuff for a five-year-old.” She laughs again, this time without a trace of humor.
Water wells in her eyes. “The sound was so loud. Even as a little girl, I knew something had gone wrong. I was the one who found them and ran to the neighbors for help. It’s hard to get such a gruesome image out of your mind.
It always pops up at the worst time, especially when there’s thunder.
Every time my mind replays the scene, all I can see is my own face instead of theirs.
I imagine the pain of a bullet through the head.
I wonder how long it would last before everything turns black, or you end up in heaven or hell, or wherever we all go at the end.
” She shakes her head slightly, her eyes growing wide.
“Sorry, I’m trauma dumping.” She lies on her back, staring up at the rain.
I’m drawn to the emotion behind each syllable of her words. No one has ever spoken of pain this way, recalling it, dissecting it. It frightens me, but I’m intrigued enough to share my own.
“I’m the one who found my mother.”
She turns her attention back to me. I’m half inclined to continue sharing horrible things if it will grant me such wide-eyed attention. Her expression changes, a look I know all too well.
Pity.
I hate it more than her fear.
I flip my gaze to the angry sky, mirroring my insides.
It’s silent—thick and awkward.
“I’m sorry.”
I click my tongue. “Please don’t…”
“No, I’m sorry about going through your journal in the library.”
I prop my head in my hand to examine her, check if she’s being genuine. When I’m satisfied with her sincerity, I lie flat on my back, grumbling and crossing my arms.
She huffs and looms over me, her hair wild, like vines of gold. “Maybe you should apologize as well?”
I keep my eyes closed. “For what?”
“I don’t know, calling me a whore could be a good start.”
“I didn’t call you a whore.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I said at least whores get paid.”
She jumps to her feet and bustles her ivory sleeping gown.
“You’re unbelievable.” She stands and takes a step to leave, but something in me can’t allow it.
Even with my burst of rage, I can’t stomach this moment ending.
I reach for her, not thinking. I pull too hard, and she stumbles backward, falling and bringing us both to the ground.
Thunder shakes our cage, and she screams, burying her face into my chest. I hold her tightly on top of me, not letting go even when the pitter-patter of rain is the only noise.
She settles, each surrendered inch causing my blood to churn in my veins. Her breathing deepens, and I run my hand down her back, molding her against my chest. Her head rolls to the side, her rosebud lips ready for the taking.
I inch forward. My lips meet hers. I still, waiting to see if she’ll try to run away again.
This can’t last for long. She despises me.
She’ll flee just like she did last time.
But I’m a greedy bastard, and I’ll accept any contact she can bear to offer.
I don’t move quickly, too afraid I’ll scare her off.
I wait for each shift, each subtle acceptance and plea for more.
I roll to my side, not removing my lips from hers as she falls after me.
Her hands cup my jaw, and the kiss deepens.
I drink from her, needing her to open more.
I have a solution. I move lower, bunching up her skirt and pushing her to her back.
I expect resistance, yet I find none. Perhaps she craves a distraction, something to soothe the wounds mixed in with the thunder.
I don’t mind. I’ll take what I can get. She can use me however she likes.
I trail light touches to the inside of her thigh, moving upwards.
Her breath hitches, and she arches into me.
I am no longer a man. I am transformed into a leech, draining pleasure from her as the source of my own.
Yes, she can use me—ruin me. I’d crawl on hands and knees over the edge of Neverhaven for her—at least as long as she continues to make these noises, filling in the cracks of my decayed heart.
Her eyes stay closed. I can’t help but grow nervous that she’s thinking of someone besides me.
She despises me, after all. Perhaps my brother.
I imagine him in my position, hands between her legs.
Would she cry louder? Would her chest flutter beneath his touch?
My cock aches further. I wouldn’t mind watching, although nothing could compare to strumming her for myself.
I don’t blink, not wanting to miss a second as I dip into her warm heat. “Peter,” she says around a gasp. I moan, nearly bursting from the sound of her lips. I haven’t heard my name spoken so sweetly since boyhood. There’s no mistaking who she thinks of now. It’s almost too good to be true.
I study every inch of her as I glide my finger through her wetness, burning the small twitches of her mouth to memory. I grind against her leg, unable to stop my desperate bucking. I pick up my strokes, using her sounds as my guide.
It’s all too much too fast. “Please. Come for me.” The words come out in a whimpery plea. I need her pleasure more than I need air.
She snaps her eyes open, gaze locked on mine.
I lean forward, breathing into her mouth, open around a long-winded moan.
Her brows pinch together, and her body tenses under mine.
I don’t let up, even when I tumble over the edge, releasing in my slacks.
I’ve never felt anything so glorious. She’s not even touching me.
Just the thought, the sight, the sound of her makes me delirious.
I stop as she softens, lying against the foliage beneath her, her eyes darting like water bugs.
I sit up on my knees, inspecting the obvious stain seeping from the inside of my pants and running down my thigh.
I’m suddenly mortified. I can’t bear a response from her.
I jump to my feet, unable to look at her any longer.
“Peter, wait.”
I don’t turn back. This time, I flee. The wash of clarity nearly drowns me. I’m humiliated, but it’s more than that. My realized feelings ring too loudly, yet the thought of alcohol to drown them out doesn’t even tempt me; in fact, the idea makes me sick.
The truth is clear. Yes, my addiction isn’t cured—only replaced.