Page 30 of Hush Darling
He laughed and kissed the tips of his fingers as he opened the door. “Lovely tits and a juicy ass. Enjoy your shower, darling.”
She slammed the door at his back and groaned, her face burning. “It’s like living with a fifteen-year-old.”
Chapter 6
Sinners and Sirens
“What am I doing here?” Wendy stared into the eyes of her reflection, contemplating if she’d lost her mind.
She had no clothes, no phone, no car. She was trapped on an island with a bunch of strange men. And her host was the greatest flight risk of all.
The Lost Boys had done an excellent job preparing her room, but she was still without her creature comforts. She had no cosmetics, no hair brushes, no toiletries, nor a fresh pair of panties.
After rinsing off in the shower, her body warmed. She combed her fingers through her damp hair and found the shirts Cassian had loaned her. He was right. The hem of his oversized shirt hung loosely to her knees and gaped around her arms and neck, but at least she was covered in more than a towel or a see-through nightgown.
Creeping quietly out of the room, she took a private tour through the house to orient herself to the layout, looking for the kitchen but purposely taking detours into other rooms to get a better idea of her host and the company he kept.
Peter had an eclectic style. Plants grew wildly throughout the common areas, not because of a desired aesthetic but rather as a result of laziness. It seemed some windows were left open for so long that the branches of trees felt welcomed to come in as the central air pumped out.
Leaves hung over ledges like elbows leaning on a bar after one too many cocktails—casual yet blatantly wasteful. She recalled how her father would yell when she and her brothers accidentally left doors open, accidentally letting cold air or heat out. Didn’t anyone ever teach Peter how to care for a home? He certainly had a beautiful one, but he seemed to take all this luxury for granted.
There were very few books but lots of bookshelves. Instead, the shelves were covered in eclectic treasures. Rocks, fossils, dried leaves, and even a few pelts pinched her heart. Primitive, hand-crafted weapons laid about like children’s toys, but they weren’t toys at all.
She examined a rustic bow resting on a windowsill. Grazing her finger over the sharp tip of an arrow, she gasped when the needle-like tip sliced easily into her skin.
“They’re savages.” She set the arrow down.
Birds, bears, and various mounted things with horns watched her through soulless eyes as she snooped about the house. Did they hunt all of these creatures in the jungles she trekked through to get here?
She didn’t understand why men needed to kill beautiful things to feel powerful. While they made for beautiful trophies, it seemed a rather savage and cruel way to boost one’s ego. Perhaps it was the volume of death surrounding her that disturbed her most. Buckskin couches, fur rugs, mounted heads, towering bears, and stuffed birds created a steady reminder that these men might appear sweet, but they were very dangerous to those they considered prey.
Abandoning the den, Wendy went to find the kitchen—for real this time. Turning the corner, she came up short and gasped. Her heart jolted to the pit of her stomach as she came face to face with a crocodile hanging from an invisible fishing line, frozen in time and posed as if diving through water.
The exquisite preservation of such a monstrous beast stole her breath. It was so lifelike her hand trembled as she reached out to touch its scaly, cold flesh. But she needed to feel it to prove it was real. She might never have the chance to stand so close to a crocodile again—at least, she certainly hoped she wouldn’t.
Jagged teeth and dragon-like scales gave the creature the essence of a prehistoric killer. It hung mid-lunge, jaws pried open in a grotesque pose of aggression. Wendy instinctively became more watchful as she approached. Those razor-sharp fangs appeared set to devour her. She tipped her head, finding a deformed reflection of herself in its onyx eyes, eyes that were forever glaring.
The beast was an enormous fossil of fury. Touching its dried, dull flesh felt as reckless as it did courageous. This was the cracked hide of an ancient predator, grown by the nutrition it found by devouring smaller living things.
When they were young, such monsters were unfathomable. Mother told them stories in the nursery about many horrific creatures. Those myths of menacing villains would leave her awake for hours, but no beast—not crocodile or bear—was ever as terrifying as the lawless, immoral men in those stories.
Long after her mother would tuck them in and say goodnight, Wendy would stare at the murky shadows of her childhood room, her heart pounding in her little chest as the house creaked and settled. John and Michael would fall sound asleep while she waited in fear for one of the depraved villains to show up and steal her away.
It was never the monsters she dreaded. It was always the evil men. Some part of her feared they would inevitably find her and punish her for enjoying such wicked stories so much.
She didn’t know why she loved the darkness of those tales. She only knew that there was something exhilarating in the fear that made her feel alive the way nothing else could.
Closing her arms, she held herself tightly, waiting for the familiar chill to pass. Just like when she was little, her heart raced like an ever-ticking time bomb set to go off as she stared up at that croc, wondering what sort of man could kill such a thing.
It was three times her height, and while she logically understood it was dead, she couldn’t dismiss its right to her fear, nor could she dismiss the hinting desire that she liked the rush of adrenaline pumping through her veins. There was something delicious about her proximity. Standing close to something so dangerous made her feel alive. Could closeness with the hunter do the same?
She slowly traced a finger over the sharp tips of the croc’s rigid teeth. They were unnaturally polished, gleaming in the dim hall light.
“You don’t scare me,” she whispered, amused by the thought of Peter taking time to brush the monster’s teeth.
Drawn into its hollow, insatiable gaze, she sensed the promise that a villainous soul never dies. This creature was hung here intentionally for a reason. This was no harmless exhibit. It was a dark echo of time meant to warn and remind guests that their host held a great deal of power.
Perhaps Peter also wanted to remind himself of that fact. Maybe this creature combatted his insecurities with affirming beliefs every time he passed it, a reminder of just how formidable he was.
