22. Belle
Belle
He’s an idiot. An adorable idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.
I’ve been watching him for an hour, and I’m feeling a little like Rourke as I peek from behind my thin curtains to glimpse Peter sprawled out amongst the courtyard, constructing a structure of twigs.
Speaking of the scaled bastard, I can’t help but wonder what he's doing. It’s been nearly two days, and his looming presence leaves a suffocating absence.
I shouldn’t miss his attention. I’ve gotten my half of the bargain, access to the stupid library, and I still have most of my blood in my veins, besides the entire menstrual cycle he swallowed, but good riddance to that bothersome mess.
Thinking about him now, pangs a certain fondness in the depths of my chest.
It doesn’t bother me too much, as Peter’s odd behavior below my window steals most of my attention.
Surely he must have other options that are a better use of his time.
I’m almost certain he has a nasty farmer's tan around his thin cotton shirt from being out in the blazing sun so long.
He stands, rushing to hide behind a nearby bush.
“What is he doing?” I ask my empty room.
Surely I could find a better use of my time than spending my entire morning crouched on my knees, forearms holding me up to peek down at the boy who strummed between my legs like a musician, playing me for every delicious note—a stupid distraction for last night’s fear that still causes me to lose focus.
The pile of books scattered on the floor at the end of my bed begs for my attention, but watching Peter is much more exciting than reading the dusty texts.
Yes, they could hold the answer to my freedom, but I’m too intrigued by the Pans to ponder my escape from them.
For now, that is. I’m restless and lonely.
I’ll get back to my plan once I get them out of my system. At least this is what I tell myself.
I’m captured by the autumn-haired man with emerald green eyes, his godly looks are a hypnotizing annoyance on top of everything else that bothers me about him, but I’m growing bored with watching him do nothing.
I’m about to leave my post and find something else to do, when his eyes widen, and a smile spreads across his glossy skin.
A hundred feet away from where he’s hiding, a white bunny hops out of the bushes—with antlers, of course.
The bunny, or bunny-like creature, hops over to Peter’s tiny twig house, making its way into the opening.
Its twitchy nose sticks out from the other side, nibbling a carrot.
Peter beams at the creature but doesn’t move.
It seems he had no plans but to build a house and gaze joyously at its occupant.
I remember the image from his childhood scribbling—king of the bunnies.
Perhaps he wants to rule after all, but with subjects with fewer complications. My smile burns my cheeks.
From my short time knowing Peter, this action seems out of character.
He’s not the same drunkard that sliced me with cruel words.
Well, that’s not true. He was vicious the day before in the library, but perhaps our time amongst the greenhouse foliage softened him.
His cock rubbing on my thigh last night was the opposite of soft, grinding against me until he released in his pants.
He ran away from me, mortified. Besides the crippling regret of canoodling with the enemy, I couldn’t be more pleased with myself.
I know how weird guys get from early ejaculation, but I didn’t mind in the slightest. In fact, I can’t stop replaying the scene in my head—his desperate words, his eager touch, the wide-eyed moans as he watched me shatter beneath his finger.
The beautiful memory is surely carved into my mind, and I lose myself in it as I watch the confusing boy continue to surprise me—this time with an adorable bunny.
“What are you doing?” Rosalia’s sharp words snap me out of my heated stupor and pull me away from the window pane, turning and fidgeting before her like a caught child. “Nothing!” I yell, clenching my hands behind my back.
She eyes the stack of unopened books as she stomps toward me, pushing past and glancing out the window. “Are you watching him?” She points out the window.
“Can’t a girl just look out a window for her own enjoyment?”
She crosses her arms. “Yeah, I completely believe you were staring out at the line of trees instead of the shirtless prince lying below your window.”
“He’s shirtless?” I shove her, glancing down at the completely clothed Peter. “He’s not...” Oops. So much for being smooth.
She has a knowing smirk when I turn back to her, utterly caught. “Belle, I suggested seducing the Pans, but falling for them is not a good idea.”
I gasp, my face heating. “I’m not falling for them! That’s crazy!”
She crosses her arms and studies me as she circles. “Then why haven’t you figured out how to break your Darling yet?”
“Rosalia, it’s obviously not as easy as reading through a bunch of old books. If it were that simple, wouldn't someone like, I don’t know, you, already have figured it out by now?”
A quiet rage simmers under the surface of her porcelain skin. She doesn’t answer me at first, instead steadying herself, finding the right words—I’m not sure. “I’ve told you. Not all Darlings are the same. Our positions in Neverhaven aren’t the same.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She grunts, stomping away from me. It’s odd since I’m usually the one throwing a tantrum in the midst of her ever-calm disposition. I’m sure she’s about to leave, but before she exits my room, she stops, hands clenched. “Read your books, Miss Barnes.” The door clicks behind her.
“What is she, my fucking tutor?” I say to the empty room.
Weasel isn’t even here to give me a semblance of company.
Despite my agitation with her orders, she’s right.
Yes, both Rourke and Peter somersault through my veins, confusing viruses my antibodies aren’t sure what to do with.
They looked at me longingly, made me come, so what?
They don’t deserve a medal, or even my fondness.
They may be different from what I originally thought, changing more every day, but they still refuse me my freedom.
Lust and desperation aren’t enough to win my affection.
At least, I tell myself this. I must tell myself this.
I can’t turn into the type of woman who learns to love her captors, learns to settle into a life that isn’t hers.
My existence on Earth was shitty. No family, sketchy friends, and stealing to get by, but it was mine.
I called the shots. In Hollowbrook, that will never be the case, no matter how many times I make those boys come in their pants.
Rosalia is right—that subtle, snarky bitch. I need to guard my heart, and read these goddamn books that she’s so obviously hinting hold the answers to my escape.
I grunt and collapse to the floor, folding over as far as I can to reach my stack.
I grab the first book, flipping through aimlessly.
I try to focus on the words, but they all blur together.
I’ve never been a scholar, and my sad, repetitive attempts to discover something almost make me want to try harder—almost.
The worn pages slide between my fingertips. A dog-eared corner breaks off. I turn to the faulty page and examine the damage. I’ve seen this page before. I reread the lines that barely caught my attention earlier:
Bountiful are the treasures sown upon the blessed and their nectar. Only the binder can undo a bond by giving what has been taken. Though the heart must be in acceptance for the power to take hold.
I turn to the front cover, running my fingers over the letters pressed into the cracked brown leather.
Blood Curses. This is the book Rosalia urged me to reread.
Of course, there’s something important here.
I had enough wherewithal to grab it before leaving the library yesterday, but I’d been too distracted by the storm, by the boy who calmed my fear instead of igniting it.
I flip back to my spot, scanning the familiar words, rereading them. Could I be considered the blessed? This isn’t a book about Darling magic, but it might be the framework in which the Darlings were created.
I read on. Blood taken can only be replenished with the taker's own blood. The binds are created and broken in the same breath.
How could I have missed this earlier? Even now, the jargon isn’t clear, but it makes sense. At least I think it does. The person who created my Darling is the only one who can break it. I’ve guessed this much, but now there’s a new layer.
Peter and Rourke may not necessarily be the ones who bound me, but they are the heirs of Neverhaven.
Lord Pan said they were both equally his sons, even if they shared no blood, both were bound by the blood of family.
He could have just been metaphorical, but something in me tells me that both of them could set me free, even if they choose not to.
This is all a theory, but it’s better than nothing.
My vision clouds with red, but the answer is clear. I need their blood.