29. Peter
Peter
I’ve packed light for running away. Only the clothes on my back and loose coins in my pocket. Except I’m not running away, of course. I’m bound in more ways than one, but it’s nice to pretend it’s possible—that I could flee the problems piling up like the dead.
The cobblestone road clicks under foot, and I try to focus on the sound instead of my rising pulse with each step I take, traveling further away from Hollowbrook.
The squat city comes into view. The tree-lined street winds between the shops and up the hilly town square.
Hollowbrook Manor looms behind me, casting a shadow over my path.
I thought I’d feel better escaping, breathing without the foggy air that clouds all reasoning, but it’s as if I’m leaving my lungs, attempting to catch reprieve when a vital piece of me is tucked away behind impenetrable walls.
This has gone too far. Last night, I intended to best them—to make Belle choose, hopeful it would be me.
I’d confessed my love after all, but that wasn’t enough for her.
She scrambled my mind with that mouth of hers, just like she always does.
It would be more manageable if I hated it, if I had only done it because my devotion to the pixie ran too deep, but when I glanced across her bobbing head, her back, her ass, my stepbrother clamped on as he fucked her, I came harder than I thought possible.
If I didn’t impregnate her the other day, surely my semen shot far enough down her throat to reach the other end.
No, I’m not stupid. I know that’s not possible.
Rourke is the one who came where it counts. I thought I was jealous before…
I can’t decipher my feelings anymore. Am I jealous?
Or attempting to claw at the last strings of control I thought I had.
Belle unwinds me. I’m weak, unable to resist her, and I should be done trying—I should—but how does this end if Rourke becomes the next heir of Neverhaven?
Where do I come in? I never wanted to sit on the throne, but now that I know the value of the prize, I’ve reconsidered.
Of course, there’s no winning my father’s games.
Neither Rourke, nor I, nor Belle would ever know peace under my father’s thumb.
The town comes into view just before my thoughts render me immobile.
Windows burst open with the bustle of life inside.
Horses pull covered wagons. Children run from gutter to gutter.
There are always beggars, but the two hollow-cheeked men who stand at the corner make me feel like a prick for wallowing in my own sorrows while some people are struggling to survive.
Civilization does wonders to make your problems feel small.
“Peter?” Deadrick calls from up ahead, exiting the book bindery, a rectangular sack secured in his wooden grasp.
My spirit lifts as I trot to remove the distance. We hug, slapping each other’s backs.
“It’s like I’m seeing a ghost,” he says with a cracked smile, his white teeth stark against his dark bark.
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve barely seen you. None of us have.”
He’s right, I haven't even thought about my lost boys. I’m no longer fit to lead even a group of rakes—only lap at the ankles of my pixie who leads me like a dog.
“And then everything with Trago…”
I tense. “What has he said?”
He studies me, a wellness check within a quick glance. “Nothing. But everyone knows what happened at Starburn, and then he fell… at least, that’s what he said. Although it looks quite like he fell into a couple of fists.”
I swipe my lower lip. “He had it coming.”
Deadrick laughs. “Oh, I’ll be the first to say it.
That prick needed a little manhandling, and it seems whatever you’ve done to him has chopped him down a peg.
” He throws his arm over my shoulder and leads me down the street.
Passersby gawk. The Pans don’t leave Hollowbrook often, at least not without the cover of night.
I’ve never noticed our subjects before, never been sober enough to find the interest, but I can’t help examining the rips in their dull dresses and trousers, the skinny arms, the unkempt fur.
Deadrick taps my nose, breaking my focus. “It seems like he got a few punches in there, too. Your beak looks more off-center than usual.”
I laugh. “My nose always looks like this.” It doesn’t, but it is surprising that it’s healed so quickly from one jab to the face to the next. Of course, I know the culprit of my quick mending. She repairs my cells, yet cracks at the shell of my heart.
“Don’t worry. A crooked nose won't make you any less pretty.” He kisses my cheek, leading me towards the belly of the town.
For a moment, I forget my sorrows, ready to let my lost boy distract my shipwrecked mind, but only for a moment.
A figure jets out of a storefront right before we pass, nearly knocking Deadrick and me to our arses.
We watch as a fawn races away on crooked hooves, a large red sack tucked under his armpit.
“A thief! Stop him!” A shopkeeper calls out from the doorway.
The Shadows appear from nowhere. Of course, they are always hiding in every corner and alleyway, ever-present but scarcely visible.
The fawn slips past their black-gloved grasps, and it seems as if he will get away, until the largest steps in front of the fawn and he bounces off his broad chest, falling backward.
The Shadows surround him, hold him up by his tiny furry arms.
There’s no guesswork of what will happen next. The fawn will be strapped into a Darling, forced to work the field or another form of strenuous labor. The rest of the town has lost interest, ignoring the fawn as he struggles in the Shadows grasp, dragged down the street.
I’m transfixed.
He yells, “Please, we’re starving, and my wife is pregnant.
” No one pays him any mind. His chest expands against a cage of nearly visible ribs.
His eyes swim in a skull practically protruding from his tight flesh.
He’s clearly starving, has no other choice but to steal, while I have been fucking pixies atop a table littered with food.
I can’t help myself. “Wait!” I yell, breaking away from Deadrick and trotting toward the scene.
“Peter, what are you doing?” Deadrick calls after me.
I ignore him.
The Shadows bow as I approach. “Sir, Peter. How can we serve you?”
“Let him go.”
One of them straightens. “But sir, he’s a thief.”
Deadrick grabs my arm. “Peter,” he says in a warning tone.
I shake him away. “This man is clearly starving, and he speaks of a hungry pregnant wife.” I pull out the coins from my pocket.
“Please, let me pay his debt.” The fawn looks at me with wide, panic-rimmed eyes.
I can’t tear my gaze away. Can’t stop imagining I’m in his place, with my own pregnant wife starving at home—her blue eyes dim in her wide sockets.
The Shadows pass each other awkward glances before one extends his hand to collect my payment.
Deadrick whispers in my ear. “Are you going to pay for every starving soul in this town square?”
I’m about to accept his taunt; surely the Pans have enough wealth to feed the needy, especially the ones in such near proximity, but then I look around me—really look around me—for perhaps the first time in my life.
I’m surrounded by skin and bones—living flesh on stilts.
Hungry eyes watch, all attention on me. The trees lack leaves.
A singular box of produce is visible in the grocer's window, no doubt priced up to match the scarcity. I remember far more people filling the roads and shops. Now the attendance seems sparse, probably most starving in the comfort of their small dwellings. There are enough of them, though. More than could fill my drawing room. I could pay for a meal for each of them, but I know there’s more than I’m seeing.
I imagine all of Neverhaven is in a similar state, except the nobility.
No, we all have full bellies, silk-embroidered flowers lining our coats, gold-encrusted cufflinks, and fine leather-bound books purchased on a whim.
I’m mortified. I pull away from Deadrick, emptying my pockets, and throw down a few meaningless rings before going back to where I came from—back to my gilded cage, the roaring waves of my mind no less calm.
Fuck sobriety.
Fuck the realization that perhaps my father's challenge wasn’t as evil as it seemed. Neverhaven is dying, and they need their pixie heir. They need the same healing that I’ve locked away, only sharing with my brother.