Page 73 of Coal Hearts

I might want to step into this world. I might wish I’d been born in a different time or that someone could fix me, but...those were pointless wishes.

I had the chance to be better.

I had the opportunity to prove to myself and my brother that I was worthy, regardless of my inherited sickness.

All I had to do was pretend.

Pretend to be the sadist.

Pretend to be a beast.

Pretend to be someone else until I figured out how to bring Victor down.

The prize I would earn was worth it.

Worth more than her.

More than pleasure.

The prize was happiness.

Belonging.

Family.

And whatever happened at breakfast, I wasn’t going to fuck that up.

Chapter Twelve

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Ily

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I FUMBLED AT THE SHEER dressing gown Peter had given me when I’d stepped out of the colossal bath, drawing it tighter around myself. Despite the strange connection that’d formed between us and the contradictory awkward-ease I found being naked around him, I didn’t feel well.

I flushed with nausea as he brushed my hair, dried my neck where the collar trapped water, and then handed me a berry smoothie that was delightfully thick and heavenly sweet.

I drank it because my body craved sustenance, but it didn’t stop the lashings of sickness brought on by sheer mindless terror.

Every tick of the clock shoved me closer and closer to something I wouldn’t survive. My mind threatened to crack. My heart revolted with palpitating skips. Any wetness Henri had shamefully drawn from me dried up, forcing me to come face to face with the truth that Peter might be true to his word about caring for me, but it didn’t mean I wouldn’t be hurt.

Badly.

So badly, the others resorted to drugs to endure.

I choked back tears as Peter squeezed my hand and guided me from the bathing chamber. We stayed silent as we walked through palatial rooms. I tried to pay attention as he pointed out the communal bedroom for all the jewels, the small kitchen with blenders, fruits, and raw vegetables, and the walk-in wardrobe full of clothes fit for a prince or princess.

The gown Peter had given me swirled around my legs and dragged behind me with a delicate train, making it seem as if I’d stepped into a different era. The palest shade of periwinkle set off the inkiness of my hair, clashing with the gold in my eyes. The belt dug into my waist, lashed far tighter than normal as if I could strap myself into the fabric and be safe.

Being dressed eased some of my brewing panic, even if the material was so sheer the shadows of my nipples and pussy could be seen.

I sagged with another wash of despair.

I’d had a Brazilian for Sam’s benefit, not these nameless bastards. I’d ensured my body was desirable, just in case we rekindled the spark on our romantic trip to Paris.

I should’ve trusted my instincts.