Page 121 of Caging Darling

“Now, why would I think that? Surely not because of what I walked in on in the Carlisles’ annex? Or perhaps my assumption is based on the fact that Darling resolved not to bed a man until she saw proof of commitment on his finger.”

Resolved. My mind lingers on that word. On how I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it used in reference to me. My throat hurts.

Peter cackles. “Believe it or not, I waited for her. Oh, there were so many times I could have pushed, could have prodded. But I waited. Do you want to know why?”

Astor is breathing hard, but Peter has him suspended in morbid curiosity, locked in the kind of pain you’d rather feel than anticipate, fantasize over.

“Because when I finally had her, I wanted it to be because she begged for me.”

Astor lunges across the table. Lady Swindle screams. But the Nomad is faster than my mate, grabbing him by the back of the collar. “Perhaps save mangling the winged boy until after we’ve no need of him, hm?”

“Need is a strong word, don’t you think?” says Astor between heavy breaths.

Peter offers him a sly grin. “He knows he can’t hurt me. Not without hurting her. Though that hasn’t stopped him in the past.”

Astor backs off, straightening his coat, but Lord and Lady Swindle are still tensed in their seats. There’s anger in Astor’s eyes, but it’s a mask, hiding the hurt aching within him.

Peter must notice, because he says, “What? Were you hoping your once-Mate had been raped? Would that have made it easier on you?”

I wait for Astor to snap back. To answer with some clever, barbed retort, but he doesn’t. He just blinks slowly. Like he’s actually taking Peter’s words to heart, considering whether there’s any ounce of truth in them.

Regret and guilt sicken Astor’s face. He glances at me, apology written all over his expression, though no words come, not even as his jaw works.

I’m sorry, are the words he’s looking for but can’t seem to find, but they’re unnecessary.

Because I slept with Peter for this very moment. So that I could glimpse the hurt on Astor’s face if one day he discovered it.

Now that it’s happened, it’s not nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped. Nothing in my life has been.

Peter glances across the table at Astor and looks his rival up and down. “How does it feel to know you’ve lost her for good?” he taunts.

The Nomad is back to his seat, his hands splayed against each other as he presses his palms together. There’s a quiet judgmentin his gaze, a measuring assessment as he glances between Peter and Astor. Like he’s tallying up their scores.

The Nomad’s gaze lands on Peter. “Tell me, Peter. How did you convince Darling here to sleep with you after you killed her brother?” Peter freezes, his jaw locking. Astor’s eyes go wide with shock, and he glances at me for a confirmation I can’t bear to give, so I keep my attention fixed on the Nomad, who drives the final blow in further by saying, “Or were you smart enough to wait until after you got her into your bed to inform her of that little detail?”

The room goes silent, except for the trickle of sand in the hourglass that sits in the middle of the table and a cough from Lord Swindle.

And then Astor speaks. “How dare you?” There’s true shock in the way he stands. Like he can’t comprehend someone who claims to love me doing something so abominable.

“He left me no choice,” says Peter. “It was self-defense.”

“Something tells me Wendy doesn’t see it that way,” says Astor.

I shake my head. “Peter didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident.”

The words cut on their way out of my mouth, slicing my lip, making me bleed lies. But I have no choice but to choose Peter’s side in this argument. It’s a betrayal deeper than any Peter has forced me into. A betrayal of my brother. A betrayal of my own grieving.

“Unbelievable,” says Astor, voice breathy. “You, a fae Fates-gifted with shadow magic, had no choice but to murder the human brother of the girl you claim to love? What happened to you?” demands Astor.

And for a moment, he’s not talking to his rival. He’s talking to Peter. The boy who befriended him in the orphanage. His only friend for years.

He’s talking to the boy he used to dream of escaping with.

Peter stares at him like the answer should be obvious. “You really don’t know?”

“Peter,” says the Nomad, his voice drawling. “I need to speak with you privately.”

Lord and Lady Swindle’s seats scrape against the floor as they scurry to leave.

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