4. Petra

Chapter four

Petra

When I head to Mulberry’s for my shift on Thursday, I worry my awkwardness will return. However, nothing in Swift River changes, and hardly any time passes before I escape into my fairy world. By the time I clock out I can pretend yesterday didn’t happen.

The small part of me that came alive wilts and dies just as quickly.

Mama and Papa both work at the restaurant tonight, so I don’t bother with dinner. I’m not worth the energy it would take to cook it. I lean against the kitchen island, checking my phone. The link from Daddy Knight Productions still sits at the top of my inbox, waiting for me. Anticipation pools hotly in my belly while I uncork a bottle of wine and carry my glass upstairs to run the water for the bath. A splash of oil into the water, a few candles, and the sweet wine flowing over my tongue allow me to relax before I turn off the lights.

The shadows smooth over the parts of me I’m less confident about. The stretch marks along the curve of my belly, the softness of my arms and my thighs. Most women in my family have the same sorts of curves. It’s your heritage, Nonna always said. In our family, with thick curves comes thick hair. And you, my bella, are blessed with both. I wrestled with it as a teenager, but now I don’t mind so much.

I sink into the blissfully hot water. It melts away the winter chill, and bubbles fizz all around me. I settle in with my wine and tap the link in my email:

Daddy Knight Productions—Rough Day

With my volume set to the lowest level, I place my phone on the shelf and slip beneath the foam.

“Hey, babe, how was your day?” Knight’s voice rumbles through the speakers like distant thunder. Powerful, but not intimidating. “It was rough? I’m sorry to hear that.”

I’ve always pictured Knight with blue eyes and dirty blond hair. Thor-ish, with enough muscles to carry me off to a happily ever after. But honey-brown eyes and barely-there scruff sneak into my imagination. The man at work wasn’t soft and caring, like this scene, but he was real.

I shake my head and refocus on Knight. His large hands glide over my skin. “Wow, you are tense. Can I work these knots out for you? Is that too hard?”

“It’s nice.” I tilt my head back to trail my hands over my collar, wishing they were larger.

His smooth voice is cashmere down my spine. “We’ll massage it better, hm? Have you had enough water?”

I sip my wine. “Not even close,” I admit. Knight’s gentle kiss brushes my ear as I cup my breast.

“I’m proud of you for doing what you can. Have I told you how much I love your neck?” His kisses pepper my skin, some quick and playful, others slow and purposeful. I slide further under the water and smooth my hands over my thighs. Four days without an orgasm was too long. “What do you want for dinner tonight? I’ll make whatever you’re craving.”

“What if I’m craving you?”

“Oh? That sounds delicious. Not as delicious as you, but you already knew that.” A smile sneaks out as I close my eyes and let the fantasy play over me. Knight kisses his way across my shoulders, and each crisp sound leaves me wanting more. “I brought you some water. Can you drink the whole thing for me?” I sip my wine at the reminder, and his subsequent moan has my hips rocking. “I love to watch you swallow. ”

“I don’t need a long buildup today,” I admit. It’s embarrassing why I’m ready—I’ve been coiled tight since yesterday.

“Let me help you unwind. Lay back for me.” The soft suction of his mouth has my toes curling. His teeth scrape against my skin. In the candlelight, my fingers lengthen into his and slide between my legs. Even underwater, there is a slick arousal that’s synonymous with Knight. He moans, a quiet agony that pulls behind my navel, as if he can draw me close. There’s an unmistakable noise as his finger slides inside. “Fuck, babe. So wet for me.”

“Always,” I admit, curling my fingers, wishing they were his. The sounds of his tongue dipping in and swirling over my clit are obscene. His voice is exactly what I need. Each sound, groan, harsh breath, and slippery, smacking kiss takes me higher.

“I have endless favorites when it comes to you, but tasting you…I’ll never get enough. Are you getting close for me?” I nod, breathless. The bathwater laps against the sides of the tub as I yank one hand back up to my breast, tugging at my nipple the way I wish he could. He chuckles. “My good girl.”

I throw my head back, and my hips rock against my fingers. His moans vibrate through me as he sucks on my clit.

“You’re beautiful, just like that. So pretty with my mouth on you. Will you come for me?”

“Yes,” I sigh, my fingers moving faster.

“That’s my good girl.” His voice is rough as he palms his cock while he’s on his knees for me. The rush of it is incredible. “Now. Let go. Come for me.”

His demand pushes me over the edge. My vision goes dark as my whole body tightens up, hand locked between my thighs as they squeeze. I hold my breath until I’m dizzy in the blackness, and pleasure rolls through me while my lungs strain. My back arches, exposing my breasts to the chill, and the cold makes me shudder.

I moan, deliciously warm and pliant. My head is empty and light, but my body is heavy as I sink back into the bath. “Knight, you always know what to say.”

“I love watching you. I’ve been dreaming about your perfect little pussy coming on my tongue all day.”

Oh God. He says pussy in the same crushed velvet way that the stranger in the market said Petra , and now I can’t unlink the two in my mind. The recording continues, but I’m not paying attention. Could it have been Daddy Knight in my checkout line? What if he knew—when I was laughing my ass off because my arousal had ramped up a thousand percent—that I’d imagined Knight?

I clutch my wine in a desperate attempt to hold on to my sanity. The stranger from yesterday was the closest I’ve been to an attractive man in a long time, and there was an entire conveyor belt between us. My dry spell is as parched as the wafers at church, and making me delusional. There’s no way Daddy Knight would step foot in Swift River.

“Lay with me for a while, and then I’ll go make that dinner you’re craving.” As the recording continues, I push away the memory of flirting gone wrong. Knight’s blue eyes call me back in. The water lacks the heat of a lover’s touch, but it’s better than nothing. “You know my other favorite? Being here with you.”

I nod as I brush my thumb over my lips, aching for a real kiss. “Me too.”

I lay in the bath for a long while as I sip my wine, wishing—as I always do—for more.

After the bath cools, I pull on my sweats and snag a bowl of cereal from the kitchen as a makeshift meal. I bring it with me to my ancient desk and search the document on my laptop for the last line I’d written.

I’m at the heart of the story now—the conflict with the dragon king looming over my pixie and her friends. She squints her eyes in determination as she looks up, up, up at the snow-covered mountain where the dragon hoards his treasure. She’s minuscule next to the cliffs, less than half the height of the dragon’s long fangs.

My fingers fly over the keys as I let my pixie’s voice drown out my own. I forget to exist when I’m writing. I’m nothing more than a conduit for the story pulsing through my neurons and forcing itself out of my fingertips.

Life is better in Galin. There’s no room for my failures, my past, or my thoroughly shredded heart. My grief grows with every anniversary of that horrible day. I don’t cry, but it festers beneath my skin until the pain of it is all I know. Until it’s normal. My head is too full with it—it drives me insane.

But in Galin there are endless possibilities, rainbows, and second chances. I disappear, and my pixie lives her vibrant life—the way it should be. If only one of us could exist at a time, I wish it could be her.

“Yo, I’m home!” Tommy yells up the stairs, breaking my concentration.

I yell right back, “You’re on your own for dinner!”

“Aw, man,” Tommy whines. His steps are heavy on the stairs before he slumps against my doorframe. Though Livi is his twin, the resemblance between him and me is strong. We both share Papa’s mouth, and Ma’s nose and curly hair. “Petronia, why you gotta do me like that? And cereal is not dinner.”

I push my bowl further away, but it’s too late to hide it. I’ve forgotten how to be the independent person my father raised. Unable to manage daily responsibilities. Lack of executive function and basic will to survive. The fairy world retreats back into a haze of darkness, leaving the brightest colors behind.

“It’s enough for me,” I argue.

Tommy’s whole body changes. A frown pulls at his mouth as he leans against my desk, seemingly taller and older. “I’m not the bad guy here. You’ve got to get past this shit with Nate. You’re living half a life. Pushing us all away. It’s not healthy.”

It comes out of left field. Like the rest of the family, Tommy ignores the burden I carry around. My long-standing depression is the constant elephant in the room.

But his face doesn’t belong to the Tommy who fights with me over the last muffin or makes jokes at the wrong time. This is the Tommy who became a paramedic to help people, and is studying to become a surgeon to help more. I am the embodiment of disappointment when this Tommy comes out, and I prickle under his attention. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I snapped.”

“Troni, you’re not fine.” I must look awful if he’s bringing out my childhood nickname. “This breakup is killing you. Our parents are old school. Ma thinks if she makes enough pasta it’ll fill the hole in your heart. Pops wants you to be happy, but not so happy that you’ll leave again. Neither of them will help you the way a therapist or some antidepressants can. If it’s about insurance—”

I shake my head. My half-life has nothing to do with missing my ex. I’ve been suffering for years, but I was too far away for the family to see that my pain never eased. No wonder Nate dumped me. “I’m fine .”

“It’s been almost six months. When will you admit that you’re not moving forward?”

“Leave it, Tommaso!” I snap. “Why are you home?”

“I got called in early.” Tommy sighs. “You need protein, not cornflakes. I’m making chicken. Get your ass downstairs in ten minutes.”

I wince. Tommy can be an annoying, overeager puppy, but hurting him hurts me too. I reach out to grab his wrist before he walks away. “I’m doing the best I can, okay? ”

He squeezes my hand, but really he’s squeezing my heart. It’s rare to see his soft side.

“What happened today?” I ask. “You seem…out of sorts.”

He shrugs, but a muscle ticks in his jaw. “Responded to a call. Thirty-year-old woman. Her mother was there. She pushed her daughter not to take antidepressants because she didn’t believe in them.” Tommy wipes his face on his arm. “We got there too late.”

Tommy hates hugs, but we both need one. I stand up to wrap my arms around him—my little brother who is stronger than me. “I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t be too late for you,” Tommy whispers against my hair. “I don’t want to come home to find you that way.”

I squeeze him tight, guilt eating through my chest. I need to do better by him. “You’re not going to. If it gets that bad, I’ll tell you.”

Tommy snorts. “Will you? You’re as stubborn as the rest of us. You stayed with that asshole longer than you should have, and I’m convinced you stuck it out solely to evade my, ‘I told you so.’”

“Hey!” I play at shoving him away, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t carry that around. I stayed for my own reasons. Come on—I’ll keep you from burning the chicken.”

“I’m not gonna burn the chicken,” he grumbles, pushing my shoulder, and we put the sad conversation to bed.

“Oh please, Ma cooks every meal for her baby . When’s the last time you made dinner?” I ask as he thunders down the stairs. I’m competitive enough that I chase after him.

“You know I lived on my own for two years, right?” he asks.

I touch the refrigerator a half-second after him, the same finish line from when we were kids. Guess I wasn’t the only one racing. “Then why are you still such a Mama’s boy?”

“Because she loves it,” Tommy shoots back. “You have the same thing with Pops.”

“Whatever.” I can’t deny it. Tommy is named after him, but Papa and I are the closest. Silla’s hardly a full year older than me, but Livi and Tommy are twins. The seven-year gap between us as kids was a line in the sand—they got more time with Ma, while Silla and I got more time with Papa. I didn’t mind the tradeoff.

Dinner with Tommy is strange, as our schedules hardly ever overlap. We sit at the island, since the table is too big for two, and manage some sense of normalcy by ribbing each other throughout the meal.

“What’s happening on the girlfriend front?” I ask, though it makes me just as bad as Zia Carla.

Tommy brushes me off. “I’m not ready to commit. Things are good right now.”

“How many girls do you have on rotation?”

“Three.” Tommy grins, and I cuff him on the back of his head. “Jesus! They know the deal. Nothing serious.”

“Do they know about each other?” Tommy’s eye twitches. “Ach, Tommaso! You can’t do that to them!”

“God, you sound exactly like Ma,” he complains. “They know it’s not exclusive.”

“For one of the smartest guys out there, you don’t use your brain. Stop thinking with your dick and pick one,” I demand. “Even if it’s not serious. Can you imagine what Mama would say if you got three girls pregnant at the same time?”

Tommy’s face turns white. “I’m smarter than that. No glove, no love.”

“And if that fails?” I give him a pointed look. “It happens more often than they say.”

He groans and shoves a hand through his black curls. “Can’t let me have any fun, can you? I’ll text Annamaria and break it off.”

“Good. And the other girl, too. You knew exactly who you weren’t going to choose, which means you should’ve done this a long time ago. Don’t do it again. Got it?”

Tommy at least has enough conscience to grimace. “Are you trying to prove you’re older, after what I said upstairs?”

“If you’re being an idiot you’re going to get called out no matter how old you are. ”

“Understood.” Tommy salutes me as he puts his dish in the sink in an attempt to shut the conversation down. He allowed me to do that earlier, so I offer him the same compassion. Tommy is already bounding up the stairs before I see that he left all the dishes for me.

“Tommaso,” I grumble. “You’re lucky I love you.”

After the kitchen is clean, I crawl into bed and turn on the ambient noise of a thunderstorm. Hours pass while I toss and turn.

Each time I close my eyes, I see the man in the grocery store: his amber eyes, his grin, his laugh.

“I just need to get him out of my head.” I drag my laptop into bed and open a new document. It’s easy to imagine him walking back into Mulberry’s and dragging me into the alley to have his wicked way with me. I grin, shrugging off the difficulties of the day, and type well into the morning hours.