Chapter 46
It’s a tree painted in gold, its trunk breaking through a stone, its canopy reaching toward the heavens.
I mean reaching quite literally.
The branches curve across Peter’s shoulder blade into the shape of an extended hand. Above the tree are golden freckles, like mine. Except they aren’t freckles at all.
They’re stars.
I find my fingers tracing the path of my Mark—the way the crisp golden dots curve from my left cheek down my jaw.
A sickle.
I feel the way they scatter at the bottom. At least, I’d always assumed they were scattering. But now that I see Peter’s Mark, I’m sure their placement is intentional.
My stars make the hood.
Peter’s make the robe.
Together, we form the Reaper.
The Reaper and the Oak.
There’s even a fox, clawing at the base of the tree, despite the fact that there are no roots to find underneath, no woman’s soul left behind to fetch for his master.
The sight of the Mating Mark scalds the backs of my eyes, overlapping with the vision of a corpse on a beach.
I’d stabbed a grieving father in the back. Then told his only living son a lie that had led him to spit on his father’s corpse. To dump it in a shallow grave and obsessively watch the earth pick the flesh from his father’s bones.
I had done that.
I’d done it to save Peter.
I’d done it before I even trusted him, really. Before I even loved him. It was like someone else had taken control of my hands, sent me into a frenzy. I’d realized then and there that I would sacrifice everything to keep what I’d wanted most from this life.
I’d driven a knife into an innocent man’s heart, and I hadn’t even given him a chance to speak.
Slowly, I find my fingers tracing my Mark, feeling its ridges.
You’re mine, Peter had said.
I hadn’t known how absolute of a statement that had been. How, of everything in the world I’d cowered from, that should have been the one thing I feared the most.
My Darling little thing, he’d called me when he brought me to Neverland, and I’d let him mold me into just that. A possession. His. Until I slaughtered his avengers for him. Silenced the evidence against him.
Peter never needed to call in his bargain. Because he’s my Mate, and that was always going to be enough to influence my decisions. Especially when I didn’t know to guard against them. He’d told me once that his glamour could influence me only because I let it, only because I was drawn to him.
He’d simply neglected to mention why I was drawn to him.
You’ve been craving her for so long.
My mind keeps replaying the Sister’s words, like it can’t quite process them until it’s heard them thousands of times.
But it’s not her words I can’t process.
It’s that Peter’s my Mate.
It hits me like a shard of shrapnel to the chest, lodging there. The harder I try to dig it out with my fingernails, the more infected the wound becomes.
I can’t.
I can’t be Peter’s Mate.
Not after what I just witnessed.
He killed those boys, ended their lives so they wouldn’t come of age. Or so they wouldn’t spread the plague to the others. I can’t quite fit the two together in my mind as I scramble to make sense of it all.
Peter. My Peter, I might believe. But Peter isn’t just the male who took me flying in the sky, who taught me not only to fall but to like falling. Peter is the creature who just writhed before me, callous and cruel and thirsty for death. Peter is the voice who said he would have taken me long ago, if not for his gentler side restraining him.
Peter is the one killing the Lost Boys.
And my Mate plans to kill more of them tonight.
As I raceto slip from the tunnels, I trip over a root. A root I’m fairly certain wasn’t there before.
When I go down, I land with a yelp, then immediately cover my mouth.
Inside the cavern, a hunter shifts to attention. I can practically see his beautiful face, his glinting blue eyes narrow, his lithe shoulders roll, his ears flatten back as he senses me.
“Wendy Darling,” he says. Footsteps pad in my direction as he follows me into the tunnels, and I’m cursing the root that came up to grab me. I attempt to wrestle my ankle from its clutches, but it’s no use. No use at all.
The vine only curls tighter around my ankle, confirming that this land is loyal to one person and one person alone. It helped me when it believed me to be in Peter’s good graces.
I sense that is no longer the case.
Peter rounds the corner, having pulled on a pair of trousers and looking massive with how he has to hunch to fit through the tunnel. Something tells me he entered as a billow of shadows.
“Wendy?” he asks. “How long have you been standing down here?”
There’s no use in forcing my shaking voice to calm. I’ll have to work with my fear if I want to sound at all convincing. “I had another nightmare,” I say, blinking back genuine tears. “I didn’t want to wake my brothers, so I came looking for you.”
Peter’s eyes narrow. “How long were you standing there?”
I bite my tongue to keep from gagging as I recall the vile words Peter spoke about me just now. The sick, pitiful girl inside whose entire purpose was to convince a man to care for her aches to believe that her Mate is good at heart. That he’s simply haunted by the wicked creature within.
But Peter’s usually pale eyes are black as soot, even over the whites.
Even if there is a version of Peter I’m safe with, it’s not this one. The version that’s half-fae, half-shadow. I’m not sure which of them has been killing the Lost Boys, but I have my guesses.
“Wendy,” he says, and this time it’s a command.
“I saw the Sister,” I say, hating how even now, knowing what I know, I still feel compelled to answer, an urge to please him. “I was so terrified, I ran as soon as my legs would move.”
The lie feels too convenient. Too rehearsed. Peter doesn’t appear convinced, and he doesn’t kneel to help with the root that’s now scaling up my ankle, pin-pricking thorns into my flesh.
I wince as a thorn lodges itself in, but Peter doesn’t so much as bat his eyelashes. Granted, I don’t know why he would. Not when it’s clear that whatever shadow creature dwells inside him still has at least some semblance of control.
“She won’t be happy if she discovers you saw her,” he says, glancing down at my leg.
“Won’t she know as soon as she looks at the tapestry of Neverland?”
Peter’s shadows curl inward. It’s amazing he’s able to tolerate being so constricted in this tunnel; the muscles of his back have to be aching. “She’s not omniscient. The tapestry displays a handful of crucial events, but if it included all the details, it would be never-ending.”
A terrifying smile overcomes his face, all glinting teeth. “Perhaps I should leave you here for her. For next time. She’s been increasingly displeased with my offerings as of late.” Peter cocks his head, then squats, spreading his legs apart as he props his elbows on his knees and examines me. His wings expand, like a feline stretching its limbs. “But that would be a waste of your pretty flesh, wouldn’t it? When I could keep you for myself?”
I cringe underneath my shackles, remembering Peter’s apology when he first brought me to Neverland.
I apologize for my lack of manners. It’s more difficult to control myself in that form.
I close my eyes, wishing to drown out the sight of this Peter, the version I only recognize from my nightmares. This isn’t him, I remind myself. This is the monster. This is whatever the Shadow Sister has cursed him to bear.
“Peter,” I say, hoping his name on my lips will draw him out to me. It’s a foolish, stupid hope, because the Peter kneeling before me lets out a dry, hungry cackle.
“You’re such a pretty little girl,” he says, running his fingers over the curve of my hip. I swat him away, digging my nails into the back of his hand, hard enough to produce blood, though he shows no reaction other than flicking his head toward my face.
“Tell me, Wendy Darling, why did you follow the shadows if you didn’t crave a little darkness?”
Fear crawls up my throat, and I consider screaming. But what good would that do? The only ones around to alert are the Lost Boys, who adore Peter to a fault and would do nothing to contradict him. John would come for me, I have no doubt, but the only thing that would accomplish would be getting him killed.
But then I remember. If I’m Peter’s Mate, then he’s just as much mine.
So I slip my fingers to the nape of his neck and pull him in.
He groans at the kiss, his lips devouring mine, a violence to the passion I’m unaccustomed to. Even now, I hate myself for the desire it ignites within me as my Mating Mark silences my good sense. Pain lances my back as Peter digs his talons into my skin, my blood screaming at me to fight back as it hits the cold, dank air. My heart beats wildly in my chest, tears stinging at my eyes, but then Peter’s grip on me loosens, his body melting into me.
He pulls back, blinking, and the inky glaze over his eyes washes away.
“How badly did I behave?” is his first question.
“Not exactly like a gentleman,” I breathe sharply.
“I wouldn’t anticipate so,” says Peter, all frivolity sucked out of his features, even if he is back to himself. He withdraws his hands from my back; the talons are gone, but there’s blood caking his fingernails. He stares at his hands in numb shock. “Wendy, I didn’t mean to…”
“I know,” I blurt quickly, still wincing. I don’t know if my resolve can handle an apology from Peter at the moment. My throat goes dry as Peter rips the roots from my ankles. I contemplate running now that I’m free, but I’m not sure what that would accomplish given Peter’s fae speed and agility. “I saw you,” I say instead, then I push myself up, wrapping my arms around him and trailing my fingers over the divots in his right shoulder blade.
The Mark that makes me his.
Peter goes still, like he’s contemplating whether what I’ll say will allow him to let me go.
“You didn’t tell me you were my Mate,” I whisper, considering all the moments of weakness surrounding Peter that I in my naivete attributed to fae glamour.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not the kind of Mate you’ve always dreamt of, Wendy Darling.”
My throat hurts. “You lied,” I say. “All the times you said you didn’t want me.”
Peter turns to me, and he attempts to regain his playful demeanor, but fumbles it as he replies, “What is a lie, Wendy Darling, but a story we tell ourselves? And are stories lies if they make the world a more bearable place?”
“Is that what you do to the Lost Boys, too?” I say, realizing how carefully I need to tread around this topic. Peter still doesn’t know I heard enough to convince me he’s the murderer. “Is that how you have to earn their love and loyalty? By lying to them about what a monster you are? Because you know what they’d do as soon as they learned the truth?”
Peter actually snorts. “Tell me, Wendy Darling, what is the truth?”
I open my mouth, but I fall short for words.
So instead, I wipe the grime on my pants and go to walk away.
A hand grabs my wrist, but it’s gentle—the type of grasp I could wriggle out of if I tried.
“What? Readying to call in your bargain?” I ask, my tone all acid.
“Would you like me to?” Peter asks, that wicked grin revealing a set of dimples. Even now, the sight of him takes the breath out of me, and I hate myself for it.
I’m not especially brave, nor am I exceedingly clever, but there’s something I’ve always excelled at. Leaving a conversation making others feel as if I’ve been convinced. Even better, as if I agreed with them the entire time.
So I let the wicked smile of Peter’s slip onto my face, mirroring it in my expression.
“No need,” I say, dipping my voice low and seductive. “Because as much as I’m yours, you’re mine. And I intend to keep you, my shadowed little thing.”
Peter’s face flashes feral, and he grabs my hand, leading me out of the tunnels and into his rooms. My heart slams against my chest as he closes the door behind him, then picks me up and lays me on his bed.
If I allowed it, I think I could let him kiss away the pain.
I’ll at least let him believe he has.