Carved in Her Bones

2 years earlier Peters POV

I dreamt of her again. It's become almost a nightly ritual now, these twisted fantasies that invade my sleep. Ever since I saw her last Thursday—the first time I laid eyes on her—these dreams have grown darker, more sinister. Her green eyes bore into mine, cold and unwavering, as she lay motionless in a hospital bed. Every night, the same scene plays out, her pale skin a haunting contrast to the sterile white sheets.

I've lost control. I know it. That same day I went insane, followed a complete stranger, and watched her for hours—just standing there, ignoring my responsibilities, ignoring everything but her. There was something about the way she moved, the way she existed, that hooked itself deep inside me. God help me.

In the suffocating darkness of my room, I reached for my phone, hands trembling. I scrolled, my finger hovering over the screen, until I found it—Olivia's Instagram. There, tucked among harmless selfies and irrelevant posts, was the video. The one that started it all. Rhiannon, moving to Ariana Grande's "Into You". It's always the same clip, but it still hits me like a drug. My breath caught in my throat as I hit play.

She danced as though every movement was meant to seduce, her hips swaying to the rhythm like she knew I was watching. Every roll, every twist of her body felt like it was crafted to drive me over the edge. I didn't stand a chance.

My hand found its way beneath the sheets, gripping myself as I hardened instantly, the familiar pulse of obsession coursing through my veins. I had lost count of how many times I've done this—fucked my hand to this exact video, trying to recreate something that isn't real. The way her body moves... it does something to me, something primal.

But this time, I tried to make it last—to drown out the disturbing dream I had just woken from. The image of her cold, lifeless in the hospital bed flickered in the back of my mind. A part of me wanted to erase it, but another part, the part I was starting to fear, clung to it.

I closed my eyes, giving in to the growing tension, knowing full well I was already too far gone.

Just as I was climbing over the edge, imagining her riding me, moaning my name, I heard the faint creak of the door. My body froze, every muscle locked in place. Fuck. My eyes darted to the door, and there she was—my mother. Her face peeking through the crack, silent, just watching.

And then, she smiled.

Not the kind of smile you'd expect—there was no shock, no awkwardness, no disgust. It was small, almost gentle, as if what she had just walked in on was perfectly normal. Her eyes lingered for a moment longer than they should have before she turned and quietly shut the door behind her. The pit in my stomach twisted, nausea rising in my throat.

She fucking smiled.

Ever since I got sick and moved back in, she'd adopted this routine of checking on me every three hours. She thought it calmed her nerves, made it easier to sleep knowing I was still breathing. I understood it, even if it grated on me, the suffocating presence of her constant worry. After all, how could I deny her that? She had been there through everything. But no normal mother smiles when she catches her 25-year-old son jerking off.

That smile—it had wormed its way under my skin, something darker beneath it, something that made my chest tighten. It was wrong. All of it was wrong. I had promised myself I'd stay until at least six months after remission, give her some peace of mind, but in that moment, all of that crumbled.

I jumped out of bed, my body moving on autopilot, yanking open drawers, throwing clothes into a bag without thinking. I couldn't stay. Not after that. Not after her smile.

I carried my bags down to the foyer, the weight of each step mirroring the heaviness in my chest. The driver would be here soon to take them to my apartment. I need to get out of here. The thought pulsed like a drumbeat in the back of my mind.

From the dining room, I heard her voice, too bright, too cheerful. "Darling!" she called out. "I'm so happy to see you're enjoying yourself. It's healthy, you know, and I'm glad you're playing with yourself again."

Tears shimmered in her dark blue eyes, barely contained, her voice thick with emotion. It was as though she'd been holding onto those words, waiting for the moment to say them, as if my private humiliation had somehow reassured her. My throat tightened, bile rising.

I forced myself to sit down across from her, my hands clenching into fists under the table as I waited for Zelda to bring my breakfast. I couldn't look at my mother. Not after that.

"Mom," I muttered, my voice low, barely controlled, "could you just stop? That was... fucking embarrassing. I'm moving out today."

Her face softened, but there was a flicker in her eyes, something off. "Oh, sweetie, no need for that," she cooed, reaching out as if to comfort me. "I'll know better next time."

Next time. The words hit like a punch to the gut. I shook my head, biting into the toast Zelda had placed in front of me. The bread felt like sand in my mouth, dry and tasteless.

I chewed slowly, trying to ignore the twisted knot forming in my stomach, but her words hung in the air, suffocating. There wouldn't be a next time. I couldn't stay here anymore.

iI couldn't fault her for practically high-fiving me for jerking off. For the longest time, she believed I was dying. She lived with the constant fear that she might have to say goodbye to her only son forever. I remember one night in the hospital, right before they found a bone marrow donor. She was on the phone with my father—who, as usual, was away on business. She thought I was asleep.

"What if he dies, John? I don't think I could bury my own son. I couldn't live through it."

That fear never left her, not really. So seeing me healthy, alive, and—for lack of a better word—enjoying myself, I guess that was a win in her eyes.

I hadn't stepped foot in my apartment since I got sick. It looked the same, yet everything felt different at the same time. Mom had clearly sent a cleaning crew; every surface gleamed. The living room had been redecorated. Between practically living with me in the hospital and managing the family business, she'd still found time to refresh my place.

Thankfully, she didn't change much. I dropped my bags at the entrance and shrugged off my jacket. The living area was almost untouched—my old black couch, the one I bought right after college, still sat against the wall. But the coffee table was new, and so was the TV.

The kitchen hadn't changed in terms of furniture, but she'd swapped the beige walls for a crisp, clean white. The fridge was stocked with fruits, veggies, juices, and neatly labeled meals for each day of the week.

On the counter, there was a note, undoubtedly from my mom. Instructions on reheating the meals and the chef's schedule for meal prep.

The woman was a goddess.