Chapter 33 #2
The bartender nods again. “They’ll be in your room, sir. Would you and the lady care for a bottle of Starfrost?” He bends to retrieve a shimmering ice-blue bottle flecked with silver. “It helps one to think.”
“You’re too kind.” Hook dips his head in a mock bow. “Thank you.”
The bartender mirrors the bow, his grin widening as he straightens. “Merrik,” he says, his raspy voice dragging over the syllables. “And it’s my pleasure, Captain.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Merrik.” Hook’s tone is all charm, but I catch the glint of calculation in his eyes. “We’ll head to our room.”
Chapter Thirty-Four (Renumber)
Alice
The room we’re given is barely an improvement over the tavern below.
It’s small, with a single creaky bed, a dusty window, and a bathroom that somehow has actual plumbing—surprising, since this place looks like it hasn’t seen life in decades.
A stack of towels sits neatly on the bed, and a fire crackles in the hearth.
I don’t question how they managed to get it ready so quickly. I don’t care.
The moment we step inside, I make a beeline for the fire.
God, I’m so cold. I can barely feel my fingers, and my dress clings to me like a second skin—damp, freezing, and absolutely miserable.
I crouch in front of the flames, holding my hands out, practically pressing them into the warmth.
The heat seeps into my skin, chasing away the chill.
A shiver runs down my spine as the tingling spreads to my shoulders.
For a second, I close my eyes, soaking it in. The fire crackles, sending flickers of light dancing over the stone hearth, and I swear, it’s the most glorious thing I’ve felt in days.
“Well now,” Hook drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “If I’d known a bit of warmth would get those sounds out of you, I’d have found us a fire ages ago.”
I whip around, glaring over my shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s the fire. Not you.”
He smirks, that insufferable, maddening smirk of his, before disappearing into the bathroom.
I huddle closer to the flames, muttering to myself. “Feels like I’ll never get warm.” My teeth chatter as I rub my arms, the damp fabric of my dress doing nothing to help. For a moment, I consider crawling straight into the hearth.
“Do you think this place has hot water?” I call out before I realise, I’ve said it aloud.
His voice floats out from the bathroom, calm and teasing. “It does. But if you’re that cold, love, you could always get out of that dress. I’d be more than happy to relieve you of your… burden.”
My head snaps around, and there he is, leaning in the doorway again, watching me. His smirk is intact, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of tension, quickly masked.
“I’ll survive,” I say flatly, turning back to the fire.
“Suit yourself,” he replies, tilting his head, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “But a man could be persuaded to lend a hand. Especially if it means getting you out of the cold.”
His smirk doesn’t waver, but I catch the way his hand shifts toward his shoulder, his movements too careful to be casual. He straightens with a quiet groan, his breath catching for a split second before he masks it with that same cocky grin. “Let me know if the fire doesn’t do the trick.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “You’re very charming. One might almost mistake you for a gentleman.”
He bows slightly, his movements deliberate despite the faint wince he tries to hide. “At your service,” he says smoothly before disappearing back into the bathroom.
I stare after him, teeth still chattering. I really do need to get out of this dress, but there’s nothing else to change into. My eyes drift to the towels stacked neatly on the bed. Maybe I could peel this thing off, hang it to dry, and wrap myself in one of those.
The thought is tempting. Too tempting.
Just as I stand to reach for the towels, I catch sight of Hook leaning against the bathroom sink.
His shirt clings to him in a way that’s…
well, distracting. My gaze trails up, and that’s when I see it—a dark stain, running down his back.
Barely noticeable in the dim light, but unmistakable.
Blood. Seeping through the fabric, all down his shoulder.
“Hook,” I stop, frowning. “You’re hurt.”
He shifts, trying to play it off, but there’s a flicker of pain in his expression he can’t quite hide. “Ah, it’s nothing. Just a little love scratch from our goodbye committee.”
“A love scratch that left blood all over your shirt?”
He raises his gaze to meet mine in the mirror, and there’s that glint in his eyes again, but it’s tinged with something else. “Careful, love. Wouldn’t want you going soft on me and acting like you care.”
I grit my teeth, hands on my hips. “I’m not going soft. Can’t I be concerned about someone who isn’t me? Oh wait, you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you?”
“Concern is for the weak. It’s what gets you into trouble.
” But for a split second, something in his gaze shifts.
There’s a flicker of vulnerability, and he’s watching me with a look that’s almost…
searching. Like he sees more than I’d ever let a man like him see.
Like he’s seeing right through me. It’s unnerving.
“Let me help you,” I say, grabbing one of the washcloths from the pile of towels on the bed. “Take off your shirt.”
Hook raises an eyebrow at me through the dusty mirror. “Now, if you wanted me out of my clothes, love, all you had to do was ask.”
He unbuttons the top slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and I swear to the gods, I have to remind myself that this man is in it for himself. In the real world, I would never talk to someone like Hook—all charm and cockiness. But here? He’s all I’ve got.
I take a breath, grab one of the chairs by the small table, and make him sit down at the sink. The room is dimly lit by a handful of candles, so I pull a few closer, squinting at his shoulder to see exactly what’s happened.
“Did you get shot?” I lean in, my stomach twisting. “You have an arrowhead stuck in your shoulder.” It’s not big, but it’s there, wedged deep enough to make me wince just looking at it.
He tries to shrug, though it only brings another wince. “It’s fine.”
My fingers hover near the wound, hesitation building.
I’ve never dealt with anything more serious than scrapes and bruises—and even those were my own.
Well, except for that one time Chris nearly took off his thumb and we ended up racing to the hospital.
But here? There’s no hospital. No quick fix.
Just me and a man bleeding all over the place.
Hook catches my hesitation, his eyes glinting with amusement despite the pain. “You planning to stare it into submission, or are you actually going to pull it out?”
I resist the urge to smack him. Tempting, but no. “Do we have anything to actually get it out? A first aid kit or something?”
He reaches down to his boot, wincing as he retrieves a knife, and hands it to me.
Strain etches his face, but his smirk doesn’t waver.
“Use this. Pour the Starfrost on it to sanitise.” He nods toward the fireplace, where an iron poker leans against the hearth.
“Then heat that up. You’ll need it to seal the wound once you’re done. ”
I glance at the blade, then back at him. My stomach twists tighter. “You’ve done this before?”
His expression softens, but there’s a shadow behind it. “Let’s just say it’s not my first time, love. You’ll do fine.”
Right. No pressure. Just digging metal out of a pirate’s shoulder with a knife and a bottle of god-knows-what. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
My stomach flips uneasily at the thought. "I’m not burning you."
“You’ll have to. I can’t exactly reach over and do it myself.” He pauses, then takes the bottle back from me, lifting it to his lips. He takes a long swig, not even flinching, and when he’s done, he lets out a deep sigh, handing it back. “Alright. Do it.”
I take a steadying breath, gripping the knife with trembling fingers.
The arrowhead glints just beneath a thin layer of blood-soaked skin, sharp and deep.
“Alright,” I murmur, mostly to myself. Placing my free hand on his shoulder to steady him, I try to focus.
His skin is warm, solid in a way that’s unnervingly distracting. But I don’t think about that.
He watches me through the mirror, his gaze locked on mine, his jaw clenched in readiness.
As the tip of the knife presses into the wound, he grunts, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the basin.
Blood wells up—thick and dark—and I bite down on my lip, pushing aside the coil of nausea tightening in my stomach as I carefully work the blade in deeper, trying to get under the end of the arrow.
His breathing grows shallow, tense. A low curse slips from his lips, but he doesn’t move. Not an inch.
“Almost there,” I murmur, my voice steady, though it doesn’t feel steady.
My heart pounds loud and heavy in my chest. I shift the knife slightly, pressing down just enough to lever the arrowhead up.
He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as the pain radiates through him.
Finally, with a sickening wet sound, the arrowhead pulls free. Blood flows faster now, slicking my fingers as I remove it completely. “There,” I say, exhaling shakily.
“The poker,” he rasps, his voice rough. “Staunch the bleeding.”
I don’t even pause to think about it. I grab the poker, the iron heavy in my trembling hands, and press it toward the wound.
The sizzle is instant, sharp and angry, as it meets his skin.
He grunts, his grip tightening on the basin until his knuckles are stark white.
I don’t breathe, don’t blink, until it’s over.
When I pull the poker away, the wound is sealed beneath the heat.
He exhales sharply, his head dipping forward for a second, eyes shut, his face etched with pain he’s clearly trying to shrug off. But then he straightens, his mouth quirking with a bravado that slips back into place like a mask. “Good job,” he says, his voice hoarse but steady.
Without another word, he grabs the bottle of Starfrost from the table, takes a long pull, and heads straight for the bed.
His steps are slower, a touch unsteady, but he manages to fall back onto the mattress, letting out a sigh that’s far too contented for a man who just had a red-hot poker shoved against his shoulder.
I cross my arms, raising an eyebrow as he stretches out like he owns the place. “That’s it? We’re done?”
“Yep. Time to eat and rest before the sun comes up.”
I stare at him for a long, hard moment, stuck where I am because, really, I have no idea what to say. “You’re sleeping in the bed?”
He raises a brow. “Yes?”
“I’m not sharing with you.”
Another long drink, another shrug. “Suit yourself, love.” He nods toward the floor. “Plenty of room down there.”
I glare at him, then at the floor. “Or, I could leave.”
There’s something about the way he grins at me, something maddeningly smug.
Something I definitely don’t like. Or maybe I do.
Which is worse. My hormones betray me because, apparently, they’re those of a fifteen-year-old girl, and he’s lying there—shirtless, bleeding, yet somehow infuriatingly self-assured.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the key to the room, and dangles it lazily. “I’m not really sure that’s an option, love.”
I put my hands on my hips, narrowing my eyes. “You’re keeping me prisoner in this room?”
He leans back against the headboard, resting the bottle on his very fine hip. “The mirror said you were the key. I need to get Neverland’s magic back. It’s not so much that you’re a prisoner. I’m just… not letting you leave.”