Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
ALICE
In the small bathroom, I stand for a good long moment, staring at myself in the mirror.
It’s just me. The same person I’ve always been.
My long blonde hair is coming loose from my ponytail, sticking to my skin.
I pull it free, running my fingers through it and gathering it back up.
I press my palms to my cheeks, taking a breath as I mutter to myself, “This is all just a dream. A strange, twisted dream.”
The thought of slapping myself awake crosses my mind, but I dismiss it, glancing instead at the cast-iron taps and shower head hooked over the old bath.
I’d love nothing more than to sink into that bath and let the world disappear, but with Hook just outside, I’m not exactly keen on being defenceless and…
exposed. A quick shower will have to do.
The moment I turn the tap and hot water cascades out, I nearly sob with relief.
Wonderland or not, a decent shower feels like a small miracle.
I take my time, letting the warmth chase away the icy ache in my bones.
When I’m done, I slip on the dress, marvelling at the soft, delicate fabric and feeling a pang of guilt. This must have cost the girl a fortune.
I glance at myself in the cracked mirror, watching the lace pattern hug my shoulders and arms, casting intricate shadows in the dim light.
The dress—a deep, rich red bodice laced with black over a flowing red skirt—somehow seems to belong here, fitting this dark, strange place. And, inexplicably, so do I.
The dress is stunning, almost like something out of a fairy tale.
Only problem is, I can’t reach the back to fasten it.
With a sigh, clutching the front of the dress together, I open the bathroom door and step back into the room.
Hook is sprawled on the bed, looking entirely too pleased with himself, watching me as if I’m the best show he’s ever seen.
“Can’t get it fastened,” I admit, doing my best to sound nonchalant, though my pulse quickens at the thought of him coming that close.
His annoying expression softens, turning darker as he sits up, his eyes sharpening with a glint that’s both intense and infuriating. Rising, he moves slowly, gaze sweeping over me from head to toe, lingering on the bare skin my hands can’t quite cover.
“Turn around,” he says, his voice softer but edged with something that sends a shiver right down to my bones. Damn. Bloody Captain Hook.
I turn, feeling his presence behind me, close enough that his warmth is unmistakable despite the chill in the air. His fingers graze my shoulders as he gathers the ties, lingering a moment longer than necessary.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate.
My breath catches as he pulls the laces tighter, his knuckles brushing against my bare back.
His hands move with a steady confidence, a roughness in his touch that hints at something darker beneath his charm.
Each tug draws me closer to him, his breath warm against my ear, and I fight the urge to lean back, to let myself fall into his warmth.
But I hold still, spine straight, keeping my gaze fixed forward even as my heart races.
Finally, he knots the laces, his hands settling at my waist, fingers pressing into the fabric as if reluctant to let go. He leans in, his breath warm against my neck as he whispers, “Perfect fit.”
The heat from his hands lingers as he steps back, and when I turn to face him, there’s something unreadable and intense in his eyes. “Thank you,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.
I turn to the tray he’s set on the table, more to distract myself than anything. Picking up a piece of bread, I take a bite, just for something to do with my hands. Hook sits back on the bed, his gaze following me, a smug smile still playing on his lips.
“Are you actually going to eat that?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
I pull off a piece and pop it into my mouth. It’s unexpectedly delicious, warm and soft with a hint of sweetness, almost like it’s buttered, though it’s not. I take another bite, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my expression softens. Of course, he does. That damn cocky grin is back.
“Not so bad, is it?” he teases.
I huff, finishing the piece and reaching for the bottle of that strange, shimmering blue liquid the bartender called Starfrost. I take a sip, feeling the cool, sweet taste slide down my throat, warming me from the inside out. “It’s… not terrible,” I admit, setting the bottle back down.
“Well,” he says, gaze locked on me, “if you say so.” And there’s something in his tone, in the way he’s looking at me, that makes me think he’s not talking about the drink. My cheeks flush, and I feel an inexplicable heat rising up my neck. Oh, for the love of—
I draw a steadying breath and walk over to the window, turning away from him to collect myself. The glass is dusty, but I can just about make out the night outside. Behind me, the room falls silent, thick with an unspoken tension that lingers, just on the edge of dangerous.
The river glimmers dark and still under the mist, stretching so far that I can’t see its end.
Everything around it seems caught in some twisted state, like it’s dead but still clawing at life, black vines curling over every surface, refusing to let go.
The place looks more like something decayed and haunting than anything I remember about Wonderland, though I can’t quite say I remember much about Wonderland in the first place.
Just yesterday I was in my mother’s kitchen.
Or was it hours ago? Days? I close my eyes and try to ground myself, to recall something simple, like the steady hum of the fridge or the feeling of my fingers running over the cards.
I wonder if they’re looking for me now, if it’s even possible to search for someone who’s somehow dropped into an entirely different world.
My last visit to Wonderland, I was a child.
Time was so strange here, and I can barely remember how it passed—days, weeks maybe.
When I finally returned, I didn’t even remember coming back through the tree.
It was like one minute I was here, and the next I just…
woke up, as if I’d been spat back into my own world.
Easy enough for Mum to convince me it was all just a wild dream.
Except I knew better. I’d told Grace right away, but she’d dismissed it as nonsense, as she always did.
They both said my head was in the clouds.
Only Dad and Gran listened. I was obsessed for weeks after, searching that garden for a way back, begging to visit the tree again.
Mum had grown so tired of hearing it that she’d threatened to chop it down if I kept on.
And that was that—the door to Wonderland had been sealed shut.
I blink away the memories and glance towards the battered old chair by the fireplace.
I sit down, curling up with my knees tucked under my chin.
The chair’s upholstery is scratchy, and the springs dig into my back no matter how much I shift.
I lean back, trying to find some semblance of comfort, but it’s impossible.
Every tiny movement sends another jolt of discomfort through me, reminding me I’m anything but relaxed.
With Hook’s even breathing in the background, I’m painfully aware of every creak, every twitch of the old chair as it protests under my weight.
After a few minutes, the chill from the room settles through the thin upholstery, and I suppress a shiver, drawing my arms tighter around myself.
This is ridiculous. The bed is right there, warm and inviting, but sharing it with him feels…
complicated. Yet, as I glance at the hard lines of the chair pressing into my sides, I realise the stubbornness isn’t worth it.
Just to be warm, I tell myself, ignoring the flutter in my chest as I stand and tiptoe across the room.
Quietly, I move toward the bed, slipping under the blanket at the very edge, just close enough to feel a hint of warmth but not so close that he’d notice…. I turn on my side, facing him, pulling the blanket up and settling as best as I can without disturbing him.
I lie still, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, watching the way his chest rises and falls, the flickering shadows dancing across his face.
Then, without warning, his eyes open, and he catches me looking. A slow, sleepy smile curves across his lips, and he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “Well, Princess, you’ve found your way to my side after all.”