26. Peter
Peter
I've been up for hours. Had breakfast. Took a stroll through the courtyard. What's wrong with me? I’m like a fucking civilized human being. Disgusting. What’s next? I take up croquet? Cross-stitching?
I could have a drink, if anything, to return my edge, but the thought repulses me.
The nightmares, the shakes, the violent illness—all gone.
I’m healed and all without a drop of pixie blood.
It makes sense that Rourke is so different now.
Well, not entirely. He’s still deranged.
He fucking kissed me after all—an odd yet intriguing encounter, as much as I hate to admit it.
He tasted her blood, drank from her offered wrist. No wonder he can talk now, and why he doesn’t gobble her whole.
I’ve only soaked in her fluids—her mouth, her cunt—and I’m a new person.
Why have our history books never mentioned such rejuvenation, only speaking of pixie blood? Perhaps what I’m feeling, the warmth in my chest, is different than just healing, but an entirely new addiction.
I’m falling too deep, evident after my post-nut clarity.
What I’d do for her—it frightens me, makes no sense.
If she hadn’t pulled me from her cunt and rubbed me off, claiming her own pleasure, I’d finish inside of her, fulfill my father’s desires.
I must keep my distance. She told me she wanted as much.
And yet she pulled me into her chambers and climbed me like an ivy vine, hiking up her skirts and choking my cock.
She’s maddening, unpredictable, all of it making me want to fuck her until there’s nothing left of me.
I can’t be alone with my thoughts any longer.
It’s this goddamn manor, a dark cloud that suffocates any fragment of light.
I’m ready to plan a distraction, send a message to my boys, but there’s no need.
Just as I rise, a handmaid enters. “Sir Trago is here to see you, my Lord. He’s waiting in the drawing room. ”
For a moment, I’m happy, glad for the distraction he’ll offer, but then I remember what he did.
It seems like years ago, but it was only a few nights ago.
He tried to hurt Belle. Most likely, he did it to toy with me, but of course, he wanted to fuck her.
Who wouldn’t? And for that, I must slice his balls off.
I’m delighted again. What a marvelous use of my time. Much better than crossstitching.
I follow after the maid, practically skipping. When she opens the door to the drawing room, my jubilance is replaced with an uncomfortable rage.
Trago sits at the head of the table, a crystal glass hanging from his bejeweled fingers.
“My darling, Peter.” He stands arms outstretched as he prances toward me—a white smile at the center of his perfectly groomed facial hair.
The mark from my ring is still below his nose, almost healed, but unmistakable.
I expected him to beg for my forgiveness, come to me with his tail between his legs.
My joy is gone. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
His lower lip swallows his top. “Ah, come on now, Peter. Don’t tell me you're still cross from a little drunken party game gone wrong.”
“You were standing. You weren’t drunk enough for that amount of fuckery.”
He’s only a breath away from me now, the hatred simmering behind his fake smile. “Peter, don’t pretend that you haven’t done something you regret while drunk.”
I step closer, pressing my chest against his. “I’m not pretending anything. You attempted to disgrace what was mine. You’re lucky you’re fucking breathing.”
His smile fades. “I was hoping you’d be past your childish tantrum by now.”
I clench my knuckles. “Oh, I’ve only started thinking about the consequences I plan to dish out.”
He scoffs. “Must I remind you that my father is your father’s most trusted general?”
I’m caught off guard. “What are you implying?”
He somehow grows taller, stepping closer. “You’re lucky the rebels are acting up, keeping your father busy while you play house.”
I’ve barely thought about my father—another indicator of how much Belle has healed every corner of my shattered mind.
There’s always been rumors of turmoil over Neverhaven, small parties easily squashed due to their Darlings’ control of not only their actions, but their words.
But could there truly be enough of an uprising to keep my father away, to have him sweat?
“Have you fucked her yet?” he asks with a knowing smile.
“That’s none of your business!”
“Oh, so you haven’t.” He pats my cheek. “I can tell when you’re avoiding a question.
How do you think your father would react to knowing it’s been nearly two months and you still have yet to impregnate his pixie prize, that you’ve grown a soft heart for her?
It would probably send him home, take out his rage for the rebels upon his petulant son. ”
I force out a humorless chuckle. “You’d tattle on me?”
His expression widens. “Whoa, Peter. I would never say that. But if that’s what you implied from this conversation, I won’t argue with your thoughts.
I know how you hate to be challenged.” He grins, tapping my jaw with his pointer finger.
“You look different, stronger, healthier. Perhaps you have been fraternizing with the pixie. Perhaps my mouth might need a little more convincing to stay shut—a share at what so clearly is doing you wonders.”
My vision incinerates into darkness. My arms move on their own accord, swinging, meeting the tender meat of Trago’s jaw, his gut, his jugular.
I’m assaulted as well, Trago’s feeble attempt to defend himself, but I don’t halt as he swipes across my nose, causing blood to slide down my lip, the metallic taste encouraging me.
Trago is right. I am stronger, and the blows I rain down upon him cause bone to crack, blood to gush.
A small, barely audible part of my brain urges me to stop.
If Trago, the son of a general, dies in Lord Pan’s manor, it wouldn’t be good.
Even the ruler of a realm wants to appease their most trusted men.
If anything, it would require my father to return home to clean up my mess.
But I can’t think about anything but rage—ending anything that threatens my Belle.
Someone touches my arm. I suspect the staff, but a soft voice tunnels its way into the violence. “Peter, stop!”
The anger-coated haze disappears. The room materials. I’m straddling the dead—no, his ribs move under a breath—unconscious Trago, his purple and red face, unrecognizable. I bring my hands to my line of vision, a shred of his skin hangs from the rose on my ring.
Hands grab my face and turn me to crystal blue eyes.
I almost miss it; she works so fast, but she brings a glass vial to my nose, fills it with my blood, twists on a cork top, and stuffs it in her corset.
I’d ask her what she was doing, but I’m too enthralled by her attention to care.
She runs her fingers through my hair. “What happened?”
I pull away from her grasp, crawling off of Trago, spitting out a wad of blood once I’m seated a few paces away from him. “Just two blokes having a friendly chat.”
She laughs; it’s small, but I could inject the sound into my veins. “Remind me to never be your friend.” She stands, eyeing the unconscious body, moving across from me and settling to the ground.
I stare at her through my sweat-soaked strands of hair, evening my breath. “Don’t worry. We’ll never be friends.”
She catches my meaning—her cheeks blooming pink before turning her attention to Trago. “What do you want to do with him?”
I’m surprised this is her question—not why I mutilated him, but I guess it’s obvious. She was there. She was the cause. I sigh. “I’ll call the Shadows soon, have them take him to a healer.” I fall to my back, exhaling with the weight of the mess that will follow this outburst.
To my complete wonder, she crawls next to me, lying down to look up at the same mural painted on the high ceilings. It’s a blue sky, puffy white clouds, always bored me, but now I can’t pull my gaze away, my heart hammering that she’s lying so close to stare at the same artificial sky.
A thought pops into my head. “How did you know I was in here with him?” I turn to her as she continues looking upward.
“I was spying on you,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“Why?”
She sighs. “Because I had a lull in my schedule between book club and afternoon tea.”
“What?”
She turns to me, our eyes connecting. “Because I’m bored, Peter. I’m a prisoner and have nothing better to do, and the handmaid I’m fond of is nowhere to be found.”
“Ah, they never are.”
“Probably for you, since you're just trying to stick your dick in them.” There’s that crass mouth I love.
“I don’t try to stick my dick anywhere.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, most of the time, maidens pull me into rooms and impale themself on me.”
Her cheeks blush. I did it. I bested that quick tongue of hers. “There you are,” she says.
“What do you mean?” I’m grinning now.
“I thought you’d gone soft and serious on me.”
“Belle, I just nearly beat a man to death for touching you.”
Her cheeks heat, her pupils widen, but her words pretend that my statement didn’t affect her. “Well, you’ve been particularly less dickish lately.”
“You’re right. I'm losing my hard-earned callouses.”
“And why is that?”
I contemplate for a moment. “It seems every piece of you can heal. I could drink your tears, and even the most jagged edge of my soul would dull.”
She stares at me, her mouth open but no words.
I’m clearly drunk off the banter between us, coming down from the adrenaline of the fight.
There’s no reason to speak in such a manner.
It’s the truth, but there’s no point in saying it out loud.
Yes, she rode my cock only the night before, but she hates me.
She’s admitted as much. I wait for her to use my soft words as a cushion for her deathly blow.
Trago must have hit me harder than I thought because I imagine her removing the small distance between us, rolling closer, pressing her lips against mine. Maybe I’m dreaming, but I don’t plan to squander even these imagined miracles. I snake my arms around shoulders, pulling her flush to my chest.
I run my hands over every exposed area of skin possible—her arms, her neck, her face.
She pushes me back some, our lips still connected, her hands fumble at her chest. When she returns against me, I expect to meet her bare breasts, but she’s still fully clothed.
Odd and annoying. I work to remedy the issue, tugging at her corset strings until she bursts free, her buoyant bosoms finding perch in my hands—a perfect fit.
Belle moans into my mouth between rushed kisses, her hands roaming over my chest, pushing down the fabric of my shirt, indirectly unclasping buttons to reach more.
She’s urgent, just like last time—as if she can’t last another second without me filling her, or more likely, that if she thinks about what she’s doing, even for a second, she’ll see reason.
Belle’s in control, always is, despite what’s implied by her Darling.
She frees me from my slacks. I help her hike up her skirt, but she’s much more determined than I am.
I wish I could take my time, stretch her out slowly, but she positions my tip at her entrance, writhing her hips to push me in.
She’s soaked, making me slide in easier, despite the suffocating grip that has me already nearing my edge with only one thrust.
I must keep my eyes clenched as she rolls me to my back, riding atop, all without letting me slip out. “Damn it, Belle.”
She’s going too fast. I want to stop her, but I’m powerless.
Instead, I push under her skirt, thumbing her sensitive bud.
She quivers, slowing her rolling hips slightly.
I want her crumbling around me. I can’t be the only one coming, or having her use me to chase her release.
I need to be the curator of her pleasure, even if it’s just my stupid hard cock and thumb doing minimal effort.
Belle’s legs shake around me as if she’s holding back.
It’s dangerous, but I have to open my eyes to see what she’s doing.
Her head is thrown back, revealing a long neck that I want to lean forward and sink my teeth into.
I trail down her body. “Fucking hell,” I groan, mesmerized by her breasts bouncing with each rock of her hips.
I must look away. I travel lower. Clutched in her hand, resting on her lap, a bloodied dinner dagger.
Where did the blood come from? Did she hurt herself?
My eyes take a second trip around her, finding her unharmed.
She reaches her crescendo, tightening around my cock and crying out—a beautiful sound I can barely bear to listen to.
Did she stab me? I didn’t feel anything, but I’m so enthralled in pleasure it might be possible. Wait, she can’t hurt me with her Darling. Perhaps that was the strain I felt. Was she trying to stab me?
“Fuck!” I cry. I release inside of her without warning, watching as her pleasure slowly morphs into horror. She hides the knife behind her back, pulling off me while I’m still sputtering my final remnants of release, globs of creamy white seeping out of her and sliding down my shaft.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” She pulls her corset over her breasts, the knife now hidden somewhere.
“Fuck, Belle.” I rub my face, surely as disappointed as she is in my unexpected release.
She jumps to her feet and rushes toward the door.
“Wait, Belle.” I attempt to stand and run after her, but trip around the pants still clinging to my bottom half.
She disappears through the doorway before I can muster another attempt.
I don’t know what I’d say if she turned back to listen.
I don’t have a solution. I fucked up. I can only hope my swimmers don’t take.
I can’t have my father win. I can’t have Belle loathing me even more than she does.
I lie on the floor for a few more minutes. My nose throbs, now busted twice in only a few days.
Trago groans beside me, his head rocking, coming to consciousness.
I stuff myself back into my pants and hop to my feet. “Shadows!” The men burst through the door in a matter of moments. “Take this prick to the healer.”
They follow my orders, each one lifting him from each end.
I should be mortified that I fucked someone—well, really, she fucked me—next to an unconscious body.
It wasn't the first time it happened, but this time it wasn't caused by overdrinking, but by my own fists. I hate to admit it, but it’s probably the cause for my abrupt release, that and the thought of my pixie prize attempting to kill me while she rode my cock.
Stars, there’s something really wrong with me. No, I'm not healed, and I don’t think any amount of pixie fluid can make me totally sane.
I can only hope that whatever brewing uprising keeps my father away for longer, until I can figure out a way to cure my new addiction—the one he forced into my veins.