His Darling (His Dark Devotion #1)

Prologue

Ialways loved stories.

Considered myself a storyteller, too. Tales of grand adventure, where good triumphed over evil. Of enchanted lands and strange, impossible creatures. Of swordfights and bravery, of noble deeds and happy endings.

But it wasn’t until I lived a story of my own that I started to care about the ones that ended with true love’s kiss.

I grew up sharing a room with my two younger brothers, John and Michael, where I told wild, imagined tales we acted out together.

But as all things do, those days came to an end.

I was nearly thirteen when my parents decided it was time I had a room of my own.

A young lady, they said, needed her privacy.

They would clear out my dad’s study for the boys. I could keep the nursery.

The news struck deep. I cried. My brothers cried. But the decision had already been made. I was growing up. At thirteen, the door to my childhood would shut behind me for good. I was to become a young woman.

And that was when he came.

It was one of the last nights we were all together.

We had fallen asleep with the window cracked open to let in the soft hush of the early summer night.

I woke to quiet bickering at the foot of my bed.

At first, I thought it was John or Michael—but a glance told me they were still fast asleep, tucked beneath their quilts.

So I eased out from under the covers, crawled slowly across my mattress, and peered over the edge of my bed frame.

There, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was a copper-haired boy who looked to be about my age.

The moonlight spilled through the open window, painting him silver.

He wore the strangest outfit stitched together from leaves and vines, like he’d come straight from the forest. His arms were folded across his chest, his whole body tense with frustration as he glared intently at… nothing.

“Stop playing games with me, shadow,” he hissed.

My gaze darted from the boy to the empty floor in front of him. “Who are you talking to?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He startled hard, nearly toppling over before catching himself on one hand. His eyes snapped to mine—bright green, wide with surprise, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to be here. Which, considering he was in my bedroom, was rather bold of him.

“Great,” he muttered, scowling at nothing. “You woke her.”

“Who are you talking to?” I repeated, impatience creeping into my voice.

He gestured wildly to the space in front of him. “My shadow—obviously.”

I squinted at the floor. Sure enough, the moonlight cast a long shadow in front of him. Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly still.

Was he mad?

I raised a brow. “You talk to your shadow?”

“I try to,” he muttered, annoyed. “But he never listens.”

Then, with a sudden swipe, he lunged at the empty air. Before my eyes, the shadow moved. It twisted away, slipping out of reach. I stared, open-mouthed, as it darted across the floor, dark and fluid as spilled ink.

“How…” I breathed, stunned.

“He’s wild,” the boy said, rising to his feet. “He doesn’t like being tied to me.”

Silently, he stalked after it. The shadow teased him, flitting just beyond his reach. It darted up the wall, grew tall and sharp and monstrous in the moonlight. It bent wrong—angles too long, limbs too loose. It didn’t feel like a trick of the light. It felt alive.

I shrank back against my pillows, heart thudding. Wild was putting it mildly.

When the boy finally managed to get hold of his shadow, he grumbled under his breath, muttering about what he was meant to do with it now. That was when I decided to be brave.

“I could stitch it back on,” I offered, surprising even myself. “With needle and thread.”

He eyed me skeptically at first, suspicion written plainly across his face, but after a moment, he relented. He climbed onto the window seat and sat with his back to me, clutching the writhing shadow in his arms while it twisted and fought him like a living thing.

“What’s your name?” I asked over my shoulder as I rummaged through my drawers for my sewing kit. My mother had given it to me only weeks before, insisting it was a skill every young lady ought to know.

My fingers finally closed around the small box. When I turned back, he was watching me closely.

“Peter Pan,” he said, tightening his grip as the shadow bucked against him.

I swallowed my unease and approached slowly. “I’m Wendy,” I said. “Wendy Darling.”

I sat beside him, careful to keep a little distance between myself and the thing he held.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Wendy?” he asked, doubt threading his voice.

“Of course,” I replied, far more confidently than I felt.

Then, cautiously, I reached out and touched the shadow.

It was hard to describe—cold, like mist, resisting my fingers even as it yielded to them.

I worked slowly, stitching foot to foot through Peter’s odd woven shoes, taking great care not to prick him.

All the while, he watched me with open fascination.

I could feel the weight of his gaze as surely as if it were a touch—tracing my hair, lingering on my face, drifting over the cotton of my nightgown, my hands, all the way down to my bare feet. Somehow, I knew this moment mattered.

Even then.

When I finished, he stood and tested my work—twirling through the room, his shadow now firmly tethered to his feet.

I watched, heart thudding, as he moved like some wild, joyful thing.

My gaze flicked to John and Michael, both still snoring.

I swear a train could’ve barreled straight through the room and they wouldn’t have stirred.

Finally, Peter came to a stop in front of me, a wide grin stretching across his face, green eyes sparkling with mischief and reckless wonder.

My breath caught, my heart giving a wild little flutter I didn’t yet understand.

“You’re a clever girl, Wendy Darling. And a great storyteller,” he said, hands settling on his hips. “I’ve never done this before—invited a girl, I mean—but I’d like you to come to Neverland.”

Behind him, his shadow stretched long and tall across the wall, arms outstretched like wings—or claws.

Even then, something about it unsettled me.

It moved too independently, too eagerly.

There was a hunger to it, like it wanted more than Peter could give.

Like it would have swallowed the whole room, given the chance.

Peter told me he used to listen to my stories at night, crouched just beyond the windowsill, drawn to the sound of my voice. He said Neverland was a place pulled straight from a storybook.

And with one choice—taking that boy’s outstretched hand, closing my eyes, thinking only happy thoughts—I flew. That single moment rewrote me. Because when I returned from Neverland, I didn’t come back the same girl. I came back marked by magic, by the memory of him.

The stories I once loved—the ones with fantastical lands and daring heroes—felt dim in comparison to the one I had lived. Suddenly, it wasn’t the adventures that held my interest anymore. It was the love stories.

I had shared true love’s kiss, and I wanted that feeling again. As I grew older, I devoured every tale I could find: fairy tales, myths, romances that promised happily ever afters.

And then I read the story of Hades and Persephone.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t kind.

It was wrong.

Dark.

But utterly, hopelessly enticing.

A god who stole a girl from the light and dragged her into his kingdom underground because he couldn’t bear to live without her.

That was the first story that made me pause. The first one that made something deep inside me stir. The first one that made me dream of being swept from my bed in the middle of the night, taken by someone who loved me so fiercely, he’d never let me go.

Even if it ruined us both.