24. Belle
Belle
God, I miss modern Earth lighting. How am I supposed to be a magical scientist in these conditions—straining my eyes to catch the fragments of starlight outside my window?
I can’t see shit, but it likely wouldn’t matter since I’m just bullshitting through my cockamamie blood science experiments.
I’ve been scouring over the blood curse text for hours, yet still unsure what to do with the blood I swiped from the library floor.
Of course, I tried the simplest course of action—wiping the bloody handkerchief on my Darling, but that didn’t set me free.
There’s something in the text about piercing or pissing, I’m unsure.
I doubt I need to be secretive about my research since I’ve read my ancient books in far more public places before, but I feel close.
If I truly break free, I’ll need to pretend I'm still bound until I can find a way to escape the estate. Hence why I’m doing heavy reading in the dark.
I squint harder. The page is illuminated in a neon-green glow.
“What the fuck?” I shout, pushing the book away and turning to Weasel, perched next to me and pulsating with an alien light. “You can glow in the dark?” I yell through a whisper.
He looks at me with as much of a smile as a raccoon can muster.
“Why are you just revealing this now? I could have used the hidden talent when I was tripping through dark hallways!”
He shrugs—fucking shrugs.
I point at him. “I’d be more mad at you if I didn’t seriously need the light right now.” I snake my arm around his furry body, pulling him close. “Now stay here and help me read this goddamn book.”
He nuzzles into the fabric of my skirt, pulsing his light brighter. Damn him. He’s too cute and helpful to stay mad at for long.
I focus back on the text before me, my tired eyes now struggling less. “Yep, that’s definitely not pissed.”
Freedom comes from the blood, pierced through the heart of ye binder.
There’s more text before and after this phrase, confusing words I can’t make sense of. I’m focused on this line. How does one pierce a heart with blood? I’m assuming the blood refers to the binder’s blood previously mentioned. A mental match sparks, setting an idea ablaze.
I scramble to my bed, pulling out the dagger-like knife I stole from the dining table so many nights before.
There was no reason to keep the weapon, as I’m unable to wield it to cause harm, but I still kept it close as a mental sense of security.
Perhaps the dagger will work if I cover it with the blood of my binder—the blood of a Pan.
I wipe the barely still-damp rag over the serrated edges, holding it up to Weasel's neon glow to inspect. A fine film of red clings to the surface.
…pierced through the heart…
I told myself not to get attached to Rourke or Peter.
After today, it’s obvious that despite the soft, hidden parts of themselves, they will continue to deny me my freedom.
They’re the enemy, but am I willing to kill them?
Something pangs in the pit of my stomach.
Maybe we can test it out with a little arm stabbing first. If I can stab them at all, it will prove that my theory is correct.
I shouldn’t be able to inflict violence while wearing my Darling, but it’s what the goddamn book tells me to do…
at least, I think it does. Perhaps the intention breaks the spell long enough to see it through.
Could the act of wiping their blood on the dagger alone, reverse the curse for a moment to allow me to perform the final blow and remove my Darling for good?
There’s only one way to find out. My reason wars with my complicated feelings.
A tumble from outside my door pushes away my thoughts and sends me to my feet, stuffing my dagger inside my corset in the shift. I don’t think, only rush to the door and peek outside, half-hoping that it’s Rosalia and she can help me work out my new plan.
But the disheveled heap outside my bedroom isn’t a maid with impressively perky tits, but the auburn-haired man who plays with my nerves like it’s an Olympic sport, and he holds the gold.
“What are you doing?” I scold in a whisper.
He jumps to his feet, eyes wide. “I was just…taking a stroll, and I…fell.”
“In front of my door?”
“Yes.” He gulps, the movement of his Adam’s apple a dramatic bob.
I groan. “Get in here.” I grab the sleeve of his white flowy shirt and pull him into my room.
He’s stammering as I shove him up against the wall, pushing at the center of his chest.
His words start to make sense. “Listen, I know you’re cross at me, but…”
“Shut up!” I roll my eyes and use his long neck as a ledge to pull myself to meet his lips. He’s rigid at first but quickly melts into my embrace, snapping his arms to the small of my back as if he doesn’t hold on, I'll flee.
Just as I thought. He’s pathetic, not even trying hard to figure out why my mind has changed so quickly.
I’m half tempted to slap him, just to kiss him afterward and see how far I can push him.
Of course, I can’t slap him. And I’m definitely not supposed to be able to stab him, unless my plan works.
My awareness focuses on the dagger still hidden against my chest. Peter trails a hand up my abdomen, grazing at the bottom of my breast. I push him away.
Can’t have him feeling my weapon. He complies.
I guess I can direct him more than I thought.
My vagina shouldn’t enjoy the thought as much as she does. Freaky little thing.
I wrap my legs around his waist, and he cups my ass, pulling me against his shaft, hard beneath his thin pants. My hands work from his neck to his mess of hair.
He breaks our kiss, talking against my lips as I try to continue my assault of affection. “I thought…” he starts.
“I changed my mind. Fuck me.”
He crashes back against me, our lips a negative and positive charge, walking me to my bed and laying me out.
Murder shouldn’t be this fun. That’s all this is—at least that’s what I tell myself.
My skin shouldn’t be peppered with goosebumps.
My nipples shouldn’t pebble, and there shouldn’t be a raging flood between my legs, readying for him to easily enter.
Perhaps it’s all an occupational perk. Or more likely, he’s already dug his way into my weak girlypop heart, and I already like him more than I should.
I stuff away my stupid affection. My freedom is more valuable than the cock I currently feel beneath his clothes.
That’s all this unexplainable attraction must be—a hunger to be dicked down by a man with godly features.
There’s no reason my plans can’t give me the added benefit of experiencing pleasure before I deliver my swift and final blow of pain.
He forms a human cage atop of me, bunches up my thin sleep skirt, and seeks out the heat between my legs.
He strums me, with less delicate teasing than he did in the greenhouse the other night, but with no lack of skill.
I’m ready to fall into the pleasure until I’m convulsing with release, but his other hand reaches for my breasts again, and I cannot have that.
I grab onto his neck and propel my body to roll him over.
I can’t do the act entirely on my own. He’s much too big, but thankfully, he moves the rest of the way, falling to his back, and cradles my hips as I straddle him.
In the movement, I pull the dagger out of my wrap-like bra and hide it in the sheets next to me.
I continue kissing him, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“Belle,” he murmurs against my lips.
Goddamn, my name shouldn’t sound so good.
I sit up, reaching beneath my legs and pulling him free.
Weasel has scampered off somewhere, probably for the best, but right now I wish he’d hop on the bed to illuminate Peter’s perfect member, so I could fully appreciate it in all its glory.
Maybe this is why he’s a dick; he has such a nice one, and the pride has gone to his head.
I need it inside of me. It would be a sin never to experience it at least once.
I move quickly before I can talk myself out of it, rising up on my knees and impaling myself with him. His pupils blow out, his mouth forms an o—shock mixed with pleasure. “Belle, fucking hell,” he groans through gritted teeth.
I cry out, his awestruck stare below me, his tight grip on my thighs, the stretching—all of it almost too much, almost. I rock my hips, riding him, the fullness already turning my mind to mush.
This is just what Lord Pan wants. All Peter has to do is sputter inside of me, and his father’s plans could be complete.
And I begged for it, demanded it. I’d be more ashamed of my actions if not for Peter hitting the perfect spot behind my navel, causing my toes to curl, threatening an orgasm before I barely even started.
I can’t let him know I’m as aroused as he is.
I want at least one power dynamic in my favor.
I clench my walls, causing Peter to tilt his head, closing his eyes, and exposing his neck as he moans. “So perfect, Belle, fucking divine.”
I reach for the knife at my side. Despite his beautiful praise, the time is now.
I ready my knife, my fingers twitching at the hilt.
I plan to stab him in the arm first, gather my nerves, then take the killing shot.
It’s probably a dumb plan since I’m running the risk of losing the element of surprise, but I can’t stomach killing him yet.
I hope three more seconds will be enough to solidify my stomach.
I’m close to my edge. It seems a waste not to claim my release before I stab him. Perhaps he’ll stay hard for a while longer after he takes his last breath—the thought confusing, and thrilling, and horrible.
No. Stupid. I can’t risk him releasing and infiltrating my womb.
His eyes are still clenched, head thrown back as I raise the knife overhead. I groan, and shut my eyes as I drive the dagger down. It only reaches halfway, my muscles stopping against an invisible wall. “Fuck!” I groan.
Peter tenses from underneath me, as if on the brink of release.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I pull myself off of his dick with a thorp.
Peter opens his eyes and sits up, visibly in pain.
But if I’m not a fucking saint, I don’t know who is, because instead of leaving him high and dry, I hold his cock against my cunt, grinding against him as I sandwich him with my hand.
Okay, maybe I’m not necessarily a saint, more of a greedy slut who enjoys getting off while watching the gorgeous man beneath her crumble into release, but I’m still counting myself as generous.
Peter watches me as I take my release, using him like he’s my pussy’s scratching post.
I’m surprised he doesn’t force me back down on his dick. He could honor his Father’s wishes, potentially keep me here for good, but he’s either too enthralled in the pleasure I’m dishing out, or is as uninterested in ruling as he claims to be.
His eyes turn into thin green circles around two black holes as he sputters into my hand against my cunt, so much cum that I’m honestly impressed. Thank God I didn’t let him finish inside of me. He’d drown my ovaries in his creamy little princes.
Peter reaches for me, his eyes sleepy and sated, attempting to pull me against his chest.
I resist, as much as I can with my stupid Darling—still annoyingly intact. “Get out.” I bark.
“Belle, please.” He sits up as I push myself away from him. He pulls his knees underneath him, tucking his flaccid and leaking cock back into his pants before crawling toward me.
“No, Peter, get out.” My plan didn’t work. I’m furious—at him, at Rourke, at Neverhaven, at fucking everything. Obviously, my theory was wrong, but my mind already clicks with new solutions.
Peter reaches me, pawing at my thighs, his eyes nearly hiding beneath his tussled mop of hair. “Please. Please, just let me near you.”
I scoff. “I think I just let you get as close as humanly possible.”
He wraps his arms around my waist, nuzzling his face into my lap. “It’s not enough. I need more.”
I cluck, letting him grovel for a moment before sighing and running my hands in his hair. “Peter,” I whisper. “Let me go.”
He breathes me in. “No.”
I’m not sure whether he means right now or never; it's likely both.
I don’t urge him up again, instead taking notice of his thumping heartbeat, slowly settling to an even tempo against my legs.
His weight feels nice on top of me. I find myself drifting off, going somewhere where I might cling back to the boy who holds me with desperate claws.
Except that world doesn’t exist. It’s even more ridiculous than the existence of Neverhaven.
Peter tenses under my palms, sitting up—avoiding my eyes. He clears his throat as if the fog of his desperation has finally faded away. He abandons me in my bed without a word, leaving me covered in his release, and clenching a useless bloody knife.
My plan could have not worked because I tried to stab him with Rourke’s blood, or because the blood on the dagger is old and dried. Luckily, Peter didn’t notice my attempted murder, which means I have more chances to test out my murderous theories.