Chapter 59
Chapter Fifty-Nine
ALICE
Am I a fish? Yes, yes, I am. Because I asked a question I shouldn’t have, and now I’m completely and utterly hooked on the line he threw me.
But it’s absolutely not my place to dig deeper.
I can’t stop myself.
My gran always told me I was a nosy bugger, and maybe she was right. That’s probably how I got myself into Wonderland in the first place, isn’t it? Not knowing when to walk away. Not knowing when not to look at things. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.
And now? My mind won’t stop pulling at this damn thread.
I shouldn’t want to know.
But I do.
It wants me to understand what’s taken the infamous, cocky Captain Hook and left him with that look in his eyes—one that’s far too deep, far too raw, far too sad.
That sadness pulls at something inside me, something hollow and aching, something that shouldn’t be there.
Even if half the time I’m ready to kill him.
He pulls at me in ways I don’t understand—ways Chris never has. This place, this world… it’s just another layer of the unknown.
And maybe that’s just another layer of all this madness—another piece of me I don’t fully understand. Because I stand here, silent, like an idiot, staring at Hook while my brain tries to untangle what the hell I’m supposed to do.
It’s actually him who speaks first, not me.
“It’s your grandmother’s funeral today,” he says. “You told me that before.”
I nod, surprised he remembers. “It’s why I was at my mother’s house and how I ended up back here. I was in London for the funeral.”
I glance at the dusty floorboards, and a pang of guilt coils tight in my chest.
“I think I might miss it,” I admit. “Maybe I already have.”
I don’t even know what day it is. I don’t know how much time has passed back in the real world.
And I don’t know how I feel about that.
Did I really want to be there? To see my gran’s coffin? To know her body was in there, cold and lifeless—a shell of the person she was to me?
Did I need that?
“You didn’t really want to go,” he says, but it isn’t a question. And when his eyes meet mine, they’re deep and knowing. “I never got to go to Sam’s funeral. He died when I was nine. He was eight. And I…”
He stops.
I don’t fill the silence for him.
A raw Hook is rare.
But he doesn’t say more, and for a moment, it’s like I can see every emotion running across his face, battling for space. He frowns, presses his lips together, then lifts his gaze properly—looking at me, not just through me.
But eight and nine?
That’s no age to lose a brother.
And no age to die.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “Losing a sibling at any age is hard.”
I think about Grace. About whether I’d be upset if something happened to her.
Maybe?
I don’t think I’d mourn her, exactly. I think I’d mourn the possibility of ever having the sister I wanted.
Is that selfish?
Probably.
But there’s still some tiny, fragile thing in me that clings to the idea that maybe one day, my mother and sister might see me for me—not as their failure. Not as the thing that ruined their lives.
“How did he die?” I dare to ask.
“He drowned.”
The words are quiet. Aching.
“He fell into the river, and I…” His voice breaks. He stops, lifting his hands, pressing them together in front of his mouth like a prayer. His thumbs press hard against his chin, his eyes squeezing shut. “I couldn’t go in after him,” he whispers. “I…”
But he stops again.
And I see it—how the wall comes slamming down, how he forces himself back behind it. He squares his shoulders. Pulls the Captain Hook mask back into place. “It was a long time ago.”
Just like that, he turns away, crossing the room towards the window. His hand presses against the glass, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees.
“It might be safe for us to head out,” he says, his voice casual. Forced. Distant. Like he hasn’t just ripped himself open in front of me. Like he hasn’t just changed the subject so brutally.
But I hear it.
The way his voice tightens. The way it means something else, even if he’ll never say it aloud.
“Maybe we’ll be in luck,” he mutters, “and the thing’s gone off to lick its wounds.”
My chest heaves, and I don’t have any words—my mind isn’t catching up to where he is. I can’t just snap back to normal after that, not after what it made me feel.
I don’t even know why it did or why I do it, or even what comes over me. But I move.
I stride across the room, across the dusty floor and tattered rug, closing the gap between us in two steps—
And then I stop.
My mind catches up at the last second, yanking me back before I go too far. I freeze just short of him, close enough to feel the space between us crackle, too close to ignore the pull—but not close enough to cross that final line.
Those dark, calculating eyes lock onto mine, but he says nothing.
I wait.
I want him to speak, to say something, to break the tension. But he doesn’t. And for some reason, that makes it worse.
“Hook, I—”
He exhales sharply. “We should move. If the Bandersnatch—” He stops. His whole body goes rigid, his breath catching mid-sentence. Before I can even begin to process what’s happening, his hand grips my arm, yanking me forward.
Then his mouth is on mine.
It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s fierce and unrelenting, and oh so completely, Hook.
One second, I’m frozen. The next, I’m in it—heat, desperation, something wild and reckless between us like it’s been waiting for this moment to break loose.
Maybe it has.
My breath catches. My fingers curl into his coat, anchoring myself as everything tilts. His hands frame my face, holding me in place, pulling me in like he’s drowning, like I’m the only thing keeping him from going under.
And then—
He stops.
His breathing is rough, his forehead inches from mine. His grip lingers, his thumbs brushing against my skin, like he’s memorising the shape of me. His bottom lip drags slowly between his teeth, and my stomach tightens at the sight.
Then he lets go.
The absence is immediate, like cold air rushing in. He starts to turn away, but I reach for his hand before I can stop myself.
I don’t do things like this. I don’t chase. I don’t reach first. Chris used to say that was one of my problems—that I never made the first move.
But this is Hook.
And I can’t let him go.
“Hook,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He pauses but doesn’t turn fully. My fingers slide into his, and his hand closes around mine, warm and firm. I want to pull him back to me. To feel his mouth on mine again. To let myself fall into this, into him. A million things I shouldn’t want.
Because I do have Chris.
Back home, he’s waiting. He’s worried. If time has passed, if I’ve been gone longer than I realise, then right now, he’s probably losing his mind.
And yet I’m here. With Hook.
What kind of person does that make me?
Hook lifts his gaze from the floor so slowly it almost hurts to watch, like he’s clawing his way up from somewhere deep. He swallows hard.
“It was my fault Sam died,” he says, his voice low and rough. “My fault my mother died. My fault the Queen of Hearts has the amulet. My fault
“Neverland is dying.” He pauses, jaw tight. “I break everything I touch.” His grip tightens, then loosens, like he’s forcing himself to let go. “I will not ruin you.” His voice drops even lower, like the words cost him something. “You deserve the world and I do not.”