Author's Note:
Oh, my dear readers. Are you still out there? Did you think I abandoned you? I'm ever so sorry. What you are about to read is the third (or is it the fourth?) incarnation of this chapter. I have written, deleted and rewritten this chapter too many times. Tens of thousands of words later, I'm just going to give it to you. Fuck it.
Accept my most humble apologies for the delay. I've already got the next chapter half done, so rest assured the wait will be brief and it will be chock full of all my favorite things (Smut! Gore! Oceans of blood!). And if you're still reading and enjoying this, let me know! It's nice to know I'm not just throwing words into the void (not that it would stop me).
Chapter 12: The Angry Itch
The house of Roman's childhood loomed before him, shadowed somehow, even in the clear, bright daylight. The property remained untouched by age. The façade never showed a sign of weathering, the walkway was always clear of moss and debris the landscaping revealed an obsessive attention to detail. Olivia had that sort effect on her possessions. Everything she considered her own would be smoothed of wrinkles, always crisp, pale and a reflection of her timeless elegance. She had imposed her image upon Roman the way she did the interiors of her stately home and the expensive clothing in her closet.
Before he could lose his nerve or his confidence, Roman approached the door. It swung open before him, his finger still hovering over the doorbell he had yet to ring. Olivia smiled at him warmly, although Roman was fairly certain that expression took years of practice in front of a mirror.
"Roman," she purred as he stepped back and waved Roman inside. The foyer smelled overly sweet thanks to a monstrous vase of white lilies swelling from a grand vase arranged on the living room end table. The warm afternoon sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, but never quite managed to warm the house's interior, which was opulent and staged like a Victorian dollhouse.
Roman said nothing and shuffled past Olivia, his eyes on his shoes. He supposed he looked rather like Peter with that posture, but he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye, lest his anger overtake him too soon. Roman's utter distain for his mother seethed from every pore in his flesh, but he needed her to talk. He was seriously tempted to just torture her until she squealed, but Roman rationalized that it would only serve to ease his desire for violence, as gratifying as that sounded. Olivia responded to persuasion better anyway. Unfortunately, the increased agitation Roman attributed to Pryce's incomplete neutralizing treatments only shortened his already hot temper. He would have to exercise some of that willpower he so often neglected.
Olivia arranged herself elegantly on a settee in the living room, a pillar of linen and white silk. She retrieved a bottle of French Bordeaux from the coffee table and sloshed the remainder of the wine into the empty glass sitting on a stack of newspapers. Olivia shook the final crimson drops from the bottle indelicately before returning the bottle to the table with a small sigh.
"Have a seat, darling." Olivia gestured to an overstuffed armchair just slightly too close to her for Roman's comfort.
"I'll stand." He relished the rare opportunity to loom over his mother, who usually overtook him with her considerable height and indomitable ability for condescension. He crossed his arms over his chest, impenetrable and straight-backed, and trained his eyes on Olivia.
Olivia smiled and slugged her wine with no small amount of zeal. Roman opened his mouth to form some scathing remark about his mother's alcohol dependence, but choked on his words when he caught sight of the headline on the newspaper Olivia had used as a coaster.
Hemlock Grove resident, Mara Appel, 22, was found dead in the bathroom of the underground nightclub known as The Escape. Appel was discovered at 1:35am in the club's restroom with severe lacerations to the throat. The county medical examiner has determined the cause of death to be blood loss due to the wound. Toxicology report suggests Appel had consumed a significant quantity of controlled substances and police originally attributed the crime to drug-related gang violence. However, due to a recent rash of violent attacks of a similar nature on female sex workers and members of the homeless community in the surrounding area, police suspect the crimes may be related. The Hemlock Grove sheriff is hesitant to attribute these crimes to a serial killer, but warns citizens to remain vigilant and exercise caution when travelling alone or at night.
"Ah yes, I left that there for you. You know, most mothers enjoy seeing their children written about in the local publications. Athletic triumphs, academic endeavors, prom king or queen, that sort of drivel. But of course, all that's ever written about my children are sloppy killings and uncredited murder sprees," she sighed, curling one long manicured finger around a lock of glossy, dark hair. "You really must learn to be less predictable, Roman dear."
"What makes you think this was me?" Roman asked, willing his voice to remain steady. He tossed the paper back onto the table, where it skidded across the surface and fluttered to the floor.
Olivia raised one arched brow, her look pitying.
"Delinquents, prostitutes, the homeless," she scoffed. "It has your particular brand of desperation and self-loathing all over it."
Roman snorted. "I'd rather be desperate and self-loathing than a lonely, jealous bitch with no one left alive to care that you're still breathing."
Olivia's smile faltered for the briefest moment before she regained her cool composure. "Impudence is such an unattractive quality, Roman. No matter, I'll have Johann clean up your little mess. Goodness knows, he is, in part, to blame. Experimenting on my children like lab rats to further his own futile attempts at notoriety." Olivia tilted her head to one side, narrowed eyes raking over her son. She licked her lips slowly. "You don't look well, darling. Have you been…eating?"
"I'm fine."
Olivia hummed. "You don't look fine." She reached for Roman, her long arm easily spanning the distance between them. Cool, soothing fingers grazed Roman's fevered cheek and he struggled against the urge to lean into the comforting touch. "It pains you, doesn't it? The hunger. I can't say I don't sympathize. It is an exquisite agony, like drowning and dying of thirst all at once. But you can't say you weren't warned. If I am not mistaken, I believe Johann explained the consequences of his 'treatments' if they were interrupted. But, I suppose you were never a very good listener. Always running off without a thought to the consequences. Throwing your heart into this or that only to have it all blow up in that lovely face of yours."
"I didn't come here to listen to you wax poetic about my shortcomings. I assure you, I'm fucking aware. I want to tell me what you know about the baby and about that thing in the woods. I'm assuming you knew exactly what we'd run into. Trying to kill me again, mother?"
"Kill you?" Olivia let out a trill of laughter that echoed through the house like a bell. "You are my son, Roman. It would take far more than that to kill you. No, I knew you would succeed and bring our girl back to us."
"Mine. Nadia belongs to me," Roman hissed. "Come anywhere near her and you will find your head swiftly detached from your fucking neck."
"Your loyalty is quite endearing, Roman. Certainly not a trait you inherited from me," Olivia sighed and smoothed her hands down her thighs before retrieving her wine glass from the table and draining it in one long swallow. She placed the empty glass back on table and stared at it wistfully, a smile once again playing at the corner of her lips, her eyes glazed slightly from the drink and memory.
Roman's rage flared white hot and Olivia's silence was oxygen against its smoldering flame. He gripped the table that sat between them with one hand and flung it to the across the room, where it crashed against a wall with a dull, unsatisfying thud, the empty wine bottle and glass cracking beneath the weight of the sturdy wood. The vase of lilies shattered against the floor.
"What do you know? If you don't tell me, I swear to god – " Roman roared, but Olivia remained unflinching.
"I can't say I don't understand your protective instincts, Roman. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, as they say. "
Roman sucked in a deep breath through his nose. The heady scent of the bruised lilies scattered beneath the wrecked coffee table were causing his brain to throb painfully against his skull. He ran fingers through his hair repeatedly as he paced the length of the room. He struggled to maintain his balance. The anger only fueled the hunger than burned low and molten at his very core. He needed to remain calm but he couldn't focus. His thoughts were hazy and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.
"She's different, isn't she? Your daughter?" Olivia asked, her head cocked to one side.
Roman shot her an appraising glance, pausing mid-pace.
"You were such a beautiful baby, Roman, just like her. I loved you fiercely from the moment I saw you. You were the one I was waiting for. My heir. My legacy." Her eyes flashed dangerously.
"Don't pretend to be sentimental. We both know love isn't in your vernacular," Roman hissed, his dry throat clicking loudly as he swallowed, causing Olivia's eyes to narrow knowingly.
"I loved you in my own way." She smiled. "Such a petulant child, you've fought me every step of the way. But you have such potential, my darling. All it took was a bit of guidance and look what you've become!" Her face was lit with pride. But the he flicker of triumph he saw reflected in her eyes made Roman's stomach churn. She could sense his weakness and he couldn't let her manipulate him.
"What exactly are you referring to? The fact that you used your fucked up mind control to make me – " he faltered, the words catching in his sticky throat. "To force me to hurt Letha. I loved her, you know. She was the only one who treated me like person, like I wasn't just fucked beyond repair. Which I have you to thank for, by the way."
"I know you loved her, Roman. That's why I gave her to you."
Roman groaned, a suppressed memory of his beautiful cousin's frightened face flashing across his mind.
"And now you throw your affections away on that gypsy fleabag. You know, you can do so much better? Really, darling. It won't last. He cannot love you back."
"Don't fucking talk about Peter," Roman growled through gritted teeth.
"The Rumanceks are valuable allies. Even I understand that. It is the only reason I allowed your friendship to continue. But unfortunately, you cannot keep him," Olivia said with a sigh, averting her eyes. "We don't get that privilege. You can make him stay, for a time. But eventually, he will leave you. He has left you before. Didn't even say goodbye, did he?"
"He came back," Roman said, hoping his response sounded more confident than he felt.
Olivia gave him a withering look. "When he goes, I will be here for you and the little one. You'll see, darling. Family is the only thing you can count on."
"Experience proves otherwise. And you won't be anywhere near Nadia."
"You should realize how lucky you really are, Roman, to have a daughter like yours. She is truly gifted. It's no surprise they have tried to take her for their own," Olivia stated casually, inspecting her perfectly manicured fingernails before flicking her gaze back to her son. "I really should have intervened sooner. It's clear you aren't capable of protecting her on your own. Honestly, I cannot believe you let that little slut play mommy for so long."
Roman felt the simmering anger surging again, doubling with a hot wave of hunger. He could hear the slow, dull thudding of Olivia's heart her laboring to pump the thick, black blood through her veins. Roman found himself hurling toward her before he could think better of it. He crowded against her on the settee, pinning her with a knee along her hip and long fingers engulfing her throat. Olivia rolled her eyes dramatically and Roman tightened the grip on her neck until her eyes grew round and her tongue lolled in her mouth.
"Who? Who is trying to take her?" Roman roared, his lips curling back with rage.
Olivia smiled and a tight laugh wrestled its way out of her throat. "Everyone," she hissed.
Before he was aware of what he was doing, Roman shifted his hand on Olivia's throat to grip the back of her neck and expose her jugular. Her heartbeat fluttered against the skin and Roman plunged his teeth into the vein, the blood spilling thick and greasy across his tongue. It tasted all wrong but Roman couldn't help himself. He sucked greedily at the tear in the ivory skin. Somewhere above him Roman heard Olivia laugh thickly and he felt long, cool fingers smooth across his temples and curl into his hair.
The touch sent a shiver down his spine and Roman's thoughts solidified briefly. The blood in his mouth suddenly tasted of ash. He reeled backwards quickly, stumbling over the upturned coffee table. Olivia was still smiling dreamily as she brought her fingers to the wound at her throat. She ran her fingertips delicately across the frayed flesh, her tongue passing once over her lips before she dropped her hand to inspect the blood smeared across the pads of her fingers.
Roman panicked. His hands shook violently as he all but ran to the entryway and wrenched open the door. Olivia's laugh grew bolder, echoing hollowly through the house. Roman slammed the door behind him. His breathing steadied minutely the moment the weak autumn sun touched his skin. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose as he stalked towards the car for a quick escape. He yanked open the door, which creaked in protest against the excessive force, and dropped into the seat with a shudder.
He had completely lost it. The hunger still knotted in Roman's stomach and the taste of Olivia on his tongue was nauseating. Roman's self-control was clearly in ruins and he needed a solution. Fast.
Roman wiggled his phone out of his pants pocket with still-shaking fingers and dialed Pryce's private line. He wedged the phone between his cheek and his shoulder and turned the key in the ignition, desperate to get as far away from the Godfrey mansion as possible.
"Hello, Roman." Johann Pryce's voice sounded tense on the other end.
"Pryce. I need more." Roman didn't elaborate. He would handle the conversation with Pryce as he would with any drug dealer: short, abrupt sentences and no friendly anecdotes. It wouldn't be caught revealing his desperation, yet again.
"Not possible. I gave you enough for a week," Pryce said in clipped tones.
"Well, it fucking spilled. You better invest in some studier tupperware, Pryce. And last I checked, you work for me. I'll tell you when I've had enough."
Pryce hesitated and Roman could hear the rustling of papers and starched lab coats over the line.
"There has been a contamination," Pryce said finally, with a strained sigh.
"What do you mean a contamination? What could possibly contaminate a tank filled with liquefied human remains, Pryce?" Roman was losing his patience.
"That's…it's difficult to say. But the experiment seems to have been sabotaged."
Roman slammed on the brakes, sending the car squeaking and skidding onto the shoulder of the road. He gripped the phone tightly in his fist, the plastic casing splintering and cracking at the edges, the glass screen shattering in web-like patterns around his fingers. "Excuse me?"
"There has been a security breach. Someone broke into the lab late last night. A number of my most essential, top secret experiments have been tampered with. The Godfrey Institute is on temporary lockdown."
"How long?" Roman growled from between gritted teeth.
"Until we find out who-"
"No. How long until you have more?" Roman interrupted.
"Three days. Maybe four."
Roman slammed the fist of his free hand against the steering wheel, sending shooting pains up his wrists.
"You have one day. One."
Pryce lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper, " Don't try to bully me, Roman. The process cannot be rushed. It is not a matter of will. It will take at least three days to synthesize the enzymes required to –"
"One. Fucking. Day. Any longer and I'd start sleeping with my eyes open, if I were you, Pryce. This is your fucking fault. You did this to me and you will fix it."
"Threaten me all you want, Roman. It won't make any difference," Pryce said, his voice unwavering.
"Take care of Shelley. And keep that one-eyed bitch on lockdown. She is not to be trusted."
"Understood."
Roman hung up. The hunger raged in his belly now, worsened by the reality that relief was nowhere in sight. Looking for the party guilty of contaminating his food supply in the Godfrey Institute was futile, even Pryce knew it. There was only one person with the clearance, knowledge and ability to thwart both Pryce and Roman, and that person was Olivia. She was toying with him, he was sure of it. She would find a way to insert herself back into Roman's life at the cost of a hundred others. But Roman would die before he gave her the pleasure.
Peter took a long drag on the joint clutched between shaking fingers. The paper crackled and hissed as it burned, singeing his fingertips slightly. He had managed to stay stoned most of the day, suppressing the itch beneath his skin and the burn in his belly that accompanied the coming of the full moon.
One more day.
Peter was accustomed to the anxiety that accompanied the change. During the twenty-four hours prior, he had nearly driven his mother crazy with his constant twitching, pacing and fumbling. He would be hypersensitive, rendering the slightest touch like an electric shock. After a few years, the pre-moon jitters morphed into something decidedly more x-rated. The anxiousness would flutter in his gut until it turned molten hot and liquid and even the tightness of his jeans across his hips could send a groan bubbling from his lips. But, like all things in Peter's life since coming to Hemlock Grove, it had grown even worse. Nearly unbearable, if he was being honest. He had changed against the moon one too many times, he knew it. He could feel the wolf all the time now, flexing beneath his skin and clawing behind his ribcage. It had become difficult to differentiate between his own consciousness and that of the beast and Peter feared that he would lose himself completely. He had already come close on more than one occasion.
He shifted uncomfortably, the rumpled sheets beneath him already damp with sweat. He raked his hands across his face and through his hair a little too roughly, pulling at the roots and failing to suppress a moan. It was agony, but Peter refused to give in to his baser instincts and folded his hands chastely on his chest, well above the waist. Jerking off now in an attempt to relieve the tension would be pointless, as tempting as it was. Like sticking a finger in a crack in the dam; once he started the urge would become uncontrollable and his desire insatiable. It was more than a little bit humiliating and he thought he would at least do Destiny and Andreas the courtesy of waiting until they were gone or asleep (not that they've ever extended such a courtesy to Peter, despite the thin walls).
He needed to get out of the house, find something to do, somewhere to go that could distract him from the itch under his skin. He thought briefly about calling Roman. In fact, he had thought about calling Roman about a hundred times since he woke up, but thought better of it every time. Things with Roman were…complicated. And in his current state, Peter was in no mood for complications.
Maybe if he didn't feel completely unstable and like his bones were vibrating so hard it made his teeth chatter, he would have just spent the rest of the weekend napping and fucking between Roman's Egyptian cotton sheets with the obscenely high thread count. The thought was incredibly appealing, but Peter needed to be able to process whatever the fuck he thought he was doing with Roman when his head was clear rather than humming. What they were playing with felt serious and weighty. As much as Peter wanted to jump in head first, he feared the water might be shallow.
But Peter couldn't deny that he was slightly worried. He hadn't heard from Roman since he'd driven Peter home yesterday. Had something happened? Peter was sure Roman had gone to speak to Olivia for answers about the events that had occurred in the woods. Just the thought gave him chills.
Peter should have gone with him.
The stab of guilt that followed the thought was as familiar to Peter as the back of his own hand. He had failed Roman too many times to count. He ran away and hid with his tail between his legs once again and left Roman to fend on his own.
He pushed himself to a seated position and grabbed the phone from his nightstand, typing out a text to Roman. It felt a bit impersonal, but in his current state, Peter wasn't sure he'd be able to have a logical conversation. Or, even worse, that he might just come in his pants from the sound of Roman's voice, which would be entirely inappropriate considering his sincere worry for his friend's wellbeing.
hey. Everything ok? Laying low until the moon passes. Let me know ur alright.
As Peter hit the send button, there was a soft knock on his door.
Peter grunted and the door swung open a crack. Destiny peeked her head into Peter's room.
"Hey, how are you feeling?"
Peter just covered his eyes and groaned in response.
Destiny made a sympathetic noise, "We're going out. Some of Andreas' friends are having a party. Do you want to come? Get some air, maybe?"
"Probably a bad idea," Peter muttered. "I'm not exactly feeling like myself, if you catch my drift." Peter let his hands fall to his sides on the bed. He deserved this agonizing isolation.
Andreas rounded the corner with a boisterous smile and three shots of brown liquor between his fingers. "Drink up, pal. We're getting you out of here for some much needed human interaction." He held the liquor out to Peter who eyed it incredulously. "Notice how I said human interaction. It'll be good for you. C'mon!"
Andreas was practically dancing, bouncing from foot to foot. His enthusiasm was rather infectious and Peter felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. Maybe a little good ol' fashioned fun would be exactly what he needed to get a grip? And a few drinks might ease the itch from the moon. He just needed to get through tonight and tomorrow and then he and Roman could talk things through. He was no good to his friend in his current state anyway. Hell, this is exactly what Roman would do if he were in Peter's place. He'd get drunk, get high, get laid and get the hell over it.
"Fuck it," Peter said with a sigh and threw back the shot, letting the whiskey burn hot and soothing down his aching throat.
Destiny gave him a little smirk and followed his lead, draining the shot glass with a toss of her curly head.
"Atta boy!" Andreas exclaimed.
Another shot (or was it two?) later, Destiny was shoving Peter into the station wagon and they were driving while Andreas sang loudly to the radio, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel as he drove. Maybe it was the impending drunkenness, or the momentary distraction from his thoughts, but Peter was starting to enjoy himself. Soon, he was singing backup for Andreas and leaning his head a little too far out the window.
They arrived outside a shabby duplex tucked into a forested corner of Hemlock Grove. It was located just a few mere miles from Roman's boxy, modern home and the realization made Peter's stomach churn with guilt. But he pushed it aside, assuring himself that Roman was fine, was safe and that he just needed to blow off a little steam. Everything was fine.
Inside, the lights were dim and the room smelled like stale beer and the skunky, green aroma of marijuana. The fine smoke filled the room, shrouding clusters of people speaking closely or swaying to some vaguely rhythmic music playing over the speakers. Peter thought he might have recognized a couple of people from school that he hadn't given a thought to since.
Peter half hoped Roman would be here, at least then he'd have someone to make him appear slightly less isolated and awkward. But Roman would never be at a party like this one. There weren't enough strippers or cocaine or expensive cocktails that come in ridiculously impractical martini glasses. So, Peter did the only thing he could think of to pass the time and ease the anxiousness: he got a drink. And then he got another one.
At some point, things started to turn foggy. In order to keep from compulsively checking his phone or sending Roman inappropriate drunk text messages (although he would probably enjoy those), Peter struck up pointless, inebriated conversations with Andreas and Destiny's friends. There may have been some dancing, and maybe some more shots, possibly some off another person's body, and maybe one right out of someone's mouth.
And then Peter found himself pressed against a wall with small, soft hands pulling at the buttons on his shirt and full lips and warm breath at his neck. His fingers were wound into long, blonde curls that smelled of grapefruit and Peter forgot whether he was trying to push her away or pull her closer, whoever she was. Peter kissed her recklessly and she returned his desperation, soft little moans pouring from between her swollen lips. An uncomfortable, consuming, but immensely pleasurable heat shot through Peter leaving his skin singing with the waxing of the moon. He held her tightly, nipping at her lips and tongue with his teeth until her sounds of pleasure turned to gasps and whimpers of pain.
"Easy, tiger!" she yelped, but she was smiling and pressed herself harder against Peter.
Peter pulled away and the creeping guilt and discomfort returned, shoving its way through the haze of lust and alcohol. This was a bad idea. A really fucking bad idea.
"I'm going to the bathroom," he mumbled, grabbing her wrists gently and pulling her hands from his face and the zipper of his jeans.
"Want company?" She giggled again. The tinny little noise had completely lost its charm and sounded rather hollow and desperate.
"No, I'm good. You just stay here. Or leave. Do whatever you want."
Peter stumbled off down the hall in what he hoped was the direction of the bathroom. It was all he could do to keep from wanting to rip his skin off. Or hers. He should have known better.
After pushing against a few locked doors, he found the restroom. It was grimy little room with off-white walls speckled with blooming black mold. The hand towels were crumpled and stained, the sink basin was gritty with scum and the bar of hand soap floated in a puddle of greyish water. Peter turned the sink on hot until steam puffed up, fogging the mirror. He ran his hands under the water and watched as the skin tightened and turned pink. The pain was a welcome distraction from the throbbing already growing between his ears and the itch in his bones.
Strangely, the steam began to grow thicker and more opaque as it billowed up from the porcelain. It filled Peter's lungs and he felt them constrict and convulse, choking on the hot air as if it was smoke. It stung Peter's eyes and made them water, obscuring his sight. His reflection in the mirror above the sink wavered and Peter's vision went completely blank, the bright white consuming him. Peter thought he heard someone speaking, maybe begging. But before he could call out, the world around him trickled away in the cloud of steam and smoke.
The next thing Peter felt was cold: a biting, painful cold that left his nose and fingers numb and sore. He blinked rapidly and the world came back into focus. Drunkenness lingered at the fringes of his consciousness, slightly dissipated but still entirely present. The yellowing walls and swirling steam of the duplex bathroom was gone, replaced with the cold, crisp emptiness of the dark night air. He was outside. Funny, he didn't remember leaving the party. It took Peter another moment before he realized he was walking, placing one foot in front of the other with some strange purpose, as if his body knew where he was going and his mind need only to catch up.
He was on a road lined with trees. The bright orange and red leaves clung desperately to the brittle bows in the chilly breeze as their fallen brothers crunched beneath Peter's boots on the asphalt. Peter couldn't pinpoint exactly where he was and a brief rush of fear surged through him. It looked vaguely familiar, but everything looked the same in the dark. Was he lost? Was he in danger? Why had he even left the party?
He looked at his phone. The illuminated screen pronounced the time 1:17am. How had it gotten so late? There were three text messages waiting for him, all from Destiny.
Where the hell did you go? Andreas said you bailed. Do you have a ride home?
Are you even going home?
Peter, be careful.
A light ahead caught Peter's eye. He quickened his pace until he reached the end of the road where the asphalt turned to loose gravel and the light that had drawn him in like a moth to the flame took the shape of two pale, flickering neon signs.
44
HOME
Well, shit. Peter stopped walking and dragged his fingers across his face and rubbing at his eyes, as if it would make his moon-bathed skin stop itching long enough to figure out how he had ended up, yet again, standing in Roman Godfrey's front yard.
As if beckoned by the thought, the front door open and Roman emerged. The house behind him was dark and he squinted against the moonlight. His arms were crossed over his chest, his fingers clutching at the skin of his bicep. His mouth was pulled tight and even in the sparse light, Peter could see that his eyes were bloodshot and the skin beneath them was as dark and purple as a bruise.
He looked at Peter, the confusion showing in his eyes, but he didn't move from the doorstep. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and shook one loose. He placed it between pursed lips and lit it clumsily, his fingers fumbling over the safety on the lighter. He inhaled deeply before he spoke, the smoke snaking from his mouth along with his words.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" There was an edge to his words, but it wasn't his usual malice. It was something closer to exhaustion or maybe even pain.
"Damned if I know," Peter said. "So, can I come in?"
