Chapter 8: Wine, Takeout, and the First Night
The sage green walls of her apartment had never felt like a lie before. They felt like one now, as Nat straightened a throw pillow for the third time, the worn velvet soft under her nervous fingers. This was her sanctuary. The thrift-store armchairs, the bookshelf of psychology texts she actually read, the kitchen smelling of the cinnamon she’d sprinkled on their coffees that morning. It was all a carefully constructed set for a performance called Normal Life. Tonight, the principal actors from the darker production were arriving for a private rehearsal.
A knock came at the door. Not timid, not aggressive. A confident tap-tap-tap that resonated in her ribs.
She opened it. Alex stood there, a bottle of red wine in one hand, her eyes already scanning the room behind Nat, absorbing, categorizing. Noel loomed just behind her shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. They were both dressed down—dark jeans, simple tops—but the casual wear did nothing to diminish their aura. They brought the shadow of The Radley in with them, staining her soft, sunlit threshold.
“Welcome to the asylum,” Nat said, aiming for dry and landing somewhere near brittle.
“Cozy,” Alex said, stepping past her. Her gaze touched everything: the dog-eared paperbacks, the framed print of a lonely lighthouse, the half-drunk mug of tea on the coffee table. “It’s very you. All warm surfaces and hidden edges.”
Noel handed her the wine—a pricey Cabernet—and brushed a kiss on her cheek. “Smells good. Like you’ve been baking optimism.”
“Takeout’s on the way,” Nat said, closing the door. The click of the lock was deafening. “Thai. I didn’t trust my cooking with an audience.”
“Wise.” Alex was already at her bookshelf, tilting her head to read spines. “Trauma and Recovery. The Sociopath Next Door. Games People Play.” She glanced back, one eyebrow arched. “Research or self-help?”
“A little of both,” Nat admitted, heading to the kitchen for a corkscrew. “It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.”
They moved around each other in the small space with a strange, new familiarity. Noel opened cabinets until he found glasses. Alex brought the wine to the counter. Their bodies brushed against hers in the narrow kitchen—an intentional, casual contact that sent sparks across her skin. This was a different kind of possession. Domestic. Terrifying.
The food arrived. They spread containers on her low coffee table, sitting on the floor on cushions. The conversation was deceptively normal—gossip about professors, a scandal involving a campus fraternity, Noel’s complaints about his finance internship. Alex kept steering the talk back to people, to motivations.
“Hanna thinks Caleb’s just stressed about his startup,” Nat said, picking at her drunken noodles. “But he’s been so distant. Jumpy.”
“Money problems make people paranoid,” Noel said, swirling his wine. “Or they make them amenable to solutions they’d normally avoid.”
Alex watched Nat over the rim of her glass. “And Spencer? Still trying to logic her way out of the family tree?”
“She’s buried in the Hastings’ legal archives. She says it’s for a poli-sci paper.”
“She’s looking for Peter’s will,” Alex stated simply. “She wants to see if Melissa’s been cut out. She’s trying to find the fracture line.” She took a slow sip. “Smart girl. But she’s looking at the wrong document.”
The air thickened. Nat put her fork down. “What’s the right one?”
Alex just smiled. “A story for another night. When you’ve earned the footnotes.”
The meal continued, but the pretense was thinner now. Every look held weight. Every casual touch from Noel’s foot against her leg, every time Alex passed her a container, their fingers touching, was a promise of what was to come. They were weaving her into their tapestry, thread by thread.
When the containers were empty and the second bottle of wine half gone, a heavy, expectant silence settled. The golden dusk through the curtains had bled into deep blue twilight. Noel stretched, the hem of his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of taut stomach. “So,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Boundaries. Desires. The famous list. You said you wanted to be pushed further.”
Nat’s mouth went dry. She nodded, clutching her wineglass. “I did. I do.”
“Verbal,” Alex instructed, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “Green, yellow, red. We play with trust, not assumptions. What does ‘further’ mean, Nat? Specifically.”
Nat took a breath, feeling the walls of her cozy apartment witness her confession. “Less… ceremony. More… spontaneity. You in my space. Using me when you want. How you want. As long as it’s…” She searched for the word.
“As long as it’s still us,” Noel finished for her. He understood. The control had to be theirs, but the framework had to be mutual. It was the cage with the interior designed by all three.
“Yes,” Nat breathed.
Alex stood up. She didn’t move toward Nat. She walked to the bedroom door and leaned against the frame, a silhouette against the darker room beyond. “Come here.”
Nat rose, her legs unsteady. She followed. Noel followed her.
Her bedroom was simpler. A queen bed with plain linen sheets, a nightstand, a dresser. The last of the day’s light glowed faintly around the edges of the blinds. Alex turned to face her. “Take off your shirt.”
Nat obeyed, pulling the soft cotton over her head. The air was cool on her skin. She stood in her jeans and bra, exposed.
“All of it,” Noel said from behind her. His hands came to her waist, undoing the button of her jeans, sliding the zipper down. He pushed them, and her panties, down over her hips in one motion. She stepped out of them.
Alex approached. “On the bed. On your back.”
Nat lay down. The sheets were cool. She felt wildly vulnerable, spread out on her own bed for their appraisal. They stood on either side, looking down at her. Their eyes were dark, hungry, but intensely focused.
“Beautiful,” Noel murmured, not touching her yet. “Every freckle. Every scar. Ours to learn.”
Alex finally moved. She crawled onto the bed, straddling Nat’s thighs. She leaned down, but not to kiss her mouth. She kissed her sternum. Then lower, to the swell of her breast. She took Nat’s nipple into her mouth through the lace of her bra, sucking hard, her tongue a rough circle. Nat gasped, arching off the bed.
Noel’s weight dipped the mattress beside her. His mouth was at her ear. “She’s going to worship every part of you. And I’m going to watch. And then I’m going to do the same.”
Alex unhooked the bra, tossing it aside. She spent long, torturous minutes on Nat’s breasts, licking, sucking, biting just to the edge of pain, then soothing with soft kisses. She mapped the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, with her lips and tongue. She moved lower, kissing her stomach, the inside of her thighs, blowing warm air over the blonde curls between her legs but avoiding the center.
Nat was trembling, soaked, her hips making tiny, involuntary movements. “Please.”
“Please what?” Alex asked, her breath hot against Nat’s inner thigh.
“Please touch me.”
Alex looked at Noel. A silent communication passed. He nodded.
Finally, Alex lowered her mouth. She didn’t start gentle. She licked a broad, flat stripe from Nat’s entrance to her clit, then sucked the swollen bud between her lips, applying a steady, ruthless pressure.
Nat cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets. The sensation was blinding. Alex ate her with a single-minded intensity, her tongue fucking into her, her nose grinding against her clit. It was too much, too fast, and exactly what Nat craved—to be devoured without ceremony.
Noel moved. He positioned himself at her head, his fingers threading into her hair. “Look at her,” he said, tilting Nat’s head so she could see Alex between her legs. “Look at her working your perfect cunt. See how much she loves the taste of you?”
The visual undid her. Alex’s eyes were closed in concentration, her cheeks hollowed. The wet, filthy sounds filled the room. Nat’s climax began to coil, a tight, hot spring in her gut.
“I’m gonna come,” she whimpered.
“Not yet,” Noel said. He pulled her head back further. “You come when we let you. Right now, you’re just a buffet. Enjoy the meal, Alex?”
Alex pulled off with a wet pop. “She’s delicious. So fucking responsive.” She dove back in, her fingers now joining, two sliding deep inside, curling up.
The dual sensation was catastrophic. Nat’s back bowed. A broken, sobbing sound was torn from her.
“Now,” Noel growled.
The permission snapped the coil. Nat came with a scream, her body seizing, her vision whiting out as waves of raw pleasure electrocuted her nerves. Alex rode her through it, lapping and sucking, drawing the convulsions out until they were shallow shudders.
Before she could recover, they were moving her. Noel turned her onto her hands and knees. He positioned himself behind her, his cock—already hard and slick—nudging against her soaked entrance. Alex lay on her back in front of Nat, guiding her head down between her legs.
“You taste me while he fucks you,” Alex commanded, her voice ragged. “You stay right there.”
Noel pushed in. He was thick, and the angle was deeper, more brutal. He set a punishing pace from the first thrust, each one jolting Nat forward, her face pressed into Alex’s cunt. She obediently licked, her tongue moving in a dazed rhythm dictated by Noel’s pounding. The overload was total. She was filled, surrounded, used as a conduit for their mutual pleasure. The sounds were animalistic: skin slapping, guttural grunts, wet sucking.
“Fuck, she’s taking it so good,” Noel snarled, his hands digging into her hips. “Her cunt’s gripping me like a fucking vice. You feel her tongue, Alex?”
“Yes,” Alex gasped, her hips bucking up against Nat’s mouth. “Don’t you stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”
Nat was a vessel. Her mind was empty, blissfully silent. There was only the physical scripture being written on her body: the stretch and burn of Noel’s cock, the musky taste of Alex, the ache in her knees, the sharp slap of Noel’s hips against her ass. She was theirs. Completely.
Noel’s rhythm faltered. “Gonna come,” he warned.
“Pull out,” Alex ordered, her own breath hitching. “Come on her ass. Mark her.”
Noel obeyed, sliding out and jerking himself roughly. Hot stripes of come painted Nat’s lower back and the curves of her ass. The possessiveness of the act made her whimper into Alex’s folds.
Alex then pushed Nat off her. “My turn.” She got off the bed, retrieving the harness and the familiar purple silicone cock from a bag she’d brought. She strapped it on with quick, efficient movements.
Noel, still breathing hard, pulled a limp Nat onto her back. He positioned himself at the head of the bed, his back against the wall. He guided her mouth onto his softened, but still wet, cock. “Clean me off, sweetheart. Get me hard again.”
Nat sucked him, her tongue lapping up the mixed taste of her own arousal and his come. As she worked, Alex climbed onto the bed, pushing Nat’s legs wide. She lined up the toy and thrust in, a deep, relentless penetration that made Nat moan around Noel’s growing length.
The rhythm was slower, more deliberate than Noel’s frantic pounding. Alex fucked her with a steady, devastating precision, her eyes locked on Nat’s face, watching her suck Noel back to full hardness. It was a feedback loop of sensation and service. Noel’s fingers tightened in her hair, guiding her pace. Alex’s hands gripped her thighs, holding her open.
“You’re our perfect little toy,” Alex grunted, her thrusts deepening. “A mouth for him, a cunt for me. Is this what you wanted? To be so full of us you forget your own name?”
Nat could only moan in affirmation, the vibration making Noel curse and thrust deeper into her throat. She was gagging, tears streaming down her face, her own arousal a fresh flood with every plunge of the strap-on. The duality was her undoing—the submission of her mouth, the brutal filling of her pussy. She felt another orgasm building, a deeper, more psychological unraveling.
“She’s close again,” Alex said, her voice strained. “I can feel her.”
“Let her come,” Noel said, his hips pumping into Nat’s mouth. “Then I’m going to fuck this sweet ass while she’s screaming.”
The promise, the violation of it, tipped her over the edge. Her third orgasm was a silent, shattering quake, a full-body implosion that squeezed the silicone inside her like a fist and made her convulse around Noel’s cock. Alex fucked her through it, relentless, until Nat went limp, released from Noel’s grip, gasping for air.
They let her breathe for only a moment. Alex pulled out. Noel moved her onto her side, curling her knees to her chest. He was hard again, his cock glistening with her saliva and his own spend. He poured more lube, his fingers pressing against her other, tighter hole.
“Green?” he asked, his voice a dark caress.
Nat, floating in a sea of endorphins and surrender, nodded. “Green.”
He pressed in. The burn was sharp, intense, a bright line of pain that cut through the pleasure haze. She cried out. He stopped, letting her adjust, his hand soothing her flank.
“Breathe,” Alex whispered, lying facing her, kissing her sweat-slicked forehead. “Take it. You can take it for us.”
He began to move, shallow at first, then deeper. The pain blended with a shocking, full feeling. Alex’s hand slipped between Nat’s legs, fingers rubbing her oversensitive clit. The triple sensation—the anal stretch, the clitoral stimulation, Alex’s mouth on hers—created a feedback loop of unbearable intensity. Nat babbled, half-formed words of surrender and praise.
Noel found his rhythm, his thrusts becoming smoother, harder. “Fuck, yes. So tight. This is ours. This is all ours.”
When he came, it was with a ragged shout, his body collapsing over hers. They lay in a tangled, sweaty, spent heap, the only sound their ragged breathing in the dark room.
A long time later, Alex disentangled herself. She went to the bathroom, returning with a warm, damp cloth. She cleaned Nat with a tenderness that felt more intimate than anything that had come before. Noel pulled the ruined sheets from under them and threw a clean blanket over the three of them.
Nat lay in the center, physically shattered, mentally quiet. The hum was gone. In its place was a profound, and terrifying, peace.
Noel traced the curve of her ear. “Peter Hastings’s will is a diversion,” he said into the darkness, his voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. “The document that matters is the original adoption file for Spencer and Alex. From Radley. Not the sanitized Hastings version. The one with the real mother’s name, and the annotations from Jessica DiLaurentis.”
Nat’s breath caught. The peace fractured, replaced by a sharp, clear focus. This was the footnote. Her reward.
Alex’s arm tightened around her. “We have a copy. When you’re ready, we’ll show you. It explains why the cage was built in the first place.” She kissed Nat’s shoulder, a seal on the promise. “Sleep now. You’ve earned your rest.”
Nat closed her eyes. In her sanctuary, now permanently altered by their presence, she dreamed of fractured mirrors and the cold, smooth weight of a file folder waiting in the dark.
The dream of mirrors dissolved into a different pressure, a liquid heat pooling low in her belly before her eyes even fluttered open. Consciousness returned not to sight, but to sensation. A warm, wet suction on her clit, practiced and relentless. A heavy hand splayed across her stomach, pinning her gently to the mattress.
Nat gasped, her back arching off sheets that smelled of sex and their three intermingled sleeps. Morning light cut razor-thin lines through the blinds, painting stripes across Noel’s bare back as he worked between her thighs. He’d lifted the blanket. The cool air contrasted with the furnace of his mouth.
“He’s been at it for ten minutes,” Alex’s voice came, smooth and amused, from beside her. Nat turned her head. Alex was propped on an elbow, watching, her hair tangled and gorgeous. “You were making little noises in your sleep. He decided to collect.”
Noel hummed against her, the vibration shooting straight up her spine. Her body, sleep-pliant and sensitive, responded instantly. There was no slow build. She was just there, at the cliff’s edge, her nerves singing one coherent note.
“Fuck,” she breathed, her hands fisting in his hair, not to push him away but to anchor herself. “Oh, god, right there.”
“Already?” Alex murmured, her hand drifting to cup Nat’s breast, thumb rubbing a taut nipple. “You really are the perfect little responsive thing. No objections. Just pure, messy signal.”
Noel’s tongue fucked her in quick, tight circles. His fingers dug into her hips. The orgasm broke over her like a sudden, violent tide, a sharp, blinding peak that tore a broken shout from her throat. He didn’t let up, lapping at her through the shuddering waves, gentling only when she pushed weakly at his shoulders.
He lifted his head, his chin glistening. He grinned, a dark, satisfied thing. “Good morning.”
Nat could only pant, her heart hammering against her ribs. The ceiling slowly came into focus. Alex leaned over and licked a stray bead of moisture from Noel’s lower lip. The casual intimacy of it felt more claiming than anything from the night before.
“Coffee,” Alex stated, swinging her legs out of bed. She walked naked to the kitchen, utterly unselfconscious. Noel collapsed beside Nat, pulling her against him. His skin was hot.
“You’re sticky,” Nat mumbled into his chest.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice gravelly with sleep. He kissed the top of her head. “The file’s in my bag. You still want to see it?”
All the languid warmth fled her body. She went still. The cold, smooth weight from her dream materialized into a tangible truth waiting across the room. “Yes.”
“After coffee,” Alex called from the kitchen. The gurgle of her machine, a mundane sound, felt surreal. “You don’t read that kind of history on an empty stomach. It sticks in your throat.”
They moved around her apartment with a disarming domesticity. Noel pulled on his boxers and went to help Alex. Nat showered quickly, the water washing away the physical evidence of the morning but not the new, wired tension. She dressed in soft sweats, armor for the psyche. When she emerged, two mugs sat on her coffee table beside a plain manila folder.
The folder looked innocuous. It was the center of the universe.
She sat on the floor. Alex handed her a mug and sat cross-legged beside her, knee touching Nat’s thigh. Noel took the armchair, a king observing. Nat sipped her coffee. It was black, exactly how she liked it. The detail felt like a warning.
“Open it,” Alex said softly.
Nat set the mug down. Her fingers left damp prints on the matte surface. She lifted the cover.
The first page was a Radley Sanitarium intake form, dated decades ago. The name at the top was not Hastings. It was Drake, Jessica. Patient: Drake, Mary. The script was a frantic, spidered cursive in faded blue ink. Notes in the margin, in a different, crisper hand, pointed to lines about patient instability, delusions of grandeur, violent episodes.
“Jessica Drake,” Nat whispered. “Your mother.”
“Our mother,” Alex corrected, her finger tapping the name. “She was a patient. She was also Jessica DiLaurentis’s twin. troubled, and conveniently out of the way.”
Nat turned the page. A official-looking document, a consent form for adoption. Jessica Drake’s signature was a shaky scrawl. Beside it, witness signatures: Jessica DiLaurentis. Peter Hastings. A notary seal.
“It was a private adoption. Closed. The kind wealthy people arrange to avoid mess,” Noel said from his chair. He was watching her face, not the papers. “But Jessica D. didn’t just want a baby. She wanted twins. A matched set. A perfect little psychological experiment.”
The next sheet was a photocopy of a typed letter on Radley letterhead. A doctor’s note. It recommended separation. ‘For the healthy development of both infants, given the maternal history of psychosis, it is strongly advised they be placed separately to mitigate shared environmental risk factors…’
A harsh, red slash of ink, bold and angry, crossed through the recommendation. Written beside it, in the same crisp hand from the margins: “Nonsense. They stay together. They will be Hastings. - J.D.”
“Jessica vetoed the experts,” Alex said, her voice detached, clinical. “She bought two babies from her crazy cousin, handed them to her lover Peter and his wife, and dictated the terms. Keep them together. Make them Hastings. And never, ever tell them where they came from.”
Nat felt the room tilt. The cozy walls seemed to pulse. “Spencer doesn’t know any of this.”
“Of course not,” Alex snorted. “She’s the good one. The one who believes in the system that invented her. I found my way to the truth. She buries herself in legal archives, looking for financial motives. She’s digging in the wrong grave.”
The final page was a photograph, a Polaroid gone yellow with age. It showed a young, haggard woman with familiar sharp features and wild, dark hair, staring vacantly at the camera. She held two bundled infants. The woman was in a stark room, a Radley room. The infants were indistinguishable.
“Mary Drake,” Alex said, tracing the glassine surface. “Our biological mother. She signed us away for a bottle of pills and the promise of peace. Jessica D. curated the rest. Our family, our names, our cage.” She looked at Nat, her eyes crystalline and hard. “You asked about the design. The craftsmanship. This is it. We weren’t born into a family. We were purchased to complete one.”
Nat closed the folder. The cold weight was now inside her, lodged deep. She understood the fury, the need to burn pages. This wasn’t a tragic backstory; it was a clinical blueprint for damage. “What do you do with this?”
“You build a better cage,” Noel said. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “With people who choose to be in it. You use the anger. You don’t rattle the bars. You learn the lock. And then you use it to lock everyone else out. Or in.”
Alex took Nat’s hand, lacing their fingers together over the damning folder. “The Liars play detective with A because they’re scared of the dark. We are the dark. We know where the bodies are buried because we were born in the grave.” She brought Nat’s knuckles to her lips. “You’re not. You chose to climb in. That makes you more powerful than any of them.”
The knock on the apartment door was a violent, shocking intrusion.
All three of them froze. No one moved. The knock came again, harder. “Nat? You in there? It’s Hanna. We need to talk.”
“Answer it,” Alex whispered, her breath hot in Nat’s ear. “Be normal. Be worried. We’re not here.”
She vanished into the bedroom after Noel, closing the door with a faint, definitive click. Nat was alone in the living room, the ghosts of the file and their bodies clinging to the air. She took a shaky breath, smoothed her sweats, and went to the door.