Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The Monster Has a Face
I’m running.
My feet sink into cold, spongy earth, each step swallowed by the forest floor. My dress catches on branches that rip and claw, tearing fabric, scraping my face, yanking at my hair—but I don’t care.
Because he’s close.
I can feel his hot, uneven breath ghosting the nape of my neck. I know what comes next: the scrape of teeth, the press of hard hands against soft skin.
The moon overhead barely lights the way, swallowed by clouds and twisted trees.
The dense forest stretches endlessly in every direction.
Vines pulse faintly, veins of dull red light threading through them as if blood beats beneath their bark.
The air tastes of salt and copper, sharp and metallic on my tongue.
Shadows shift and tremble, alive with something that shouldn’t be.
The ground quivers underfoot, breathing, aching. Every heartbeat feels echoed by the forest’s pulse, the rhythm of something dying and desperate.
It feels familiar.
And yet—wrong. So terribly wrong.
My lungs burn. My legs threaten to give out. Every part of me screams to stop, to surrender, to let him catch me. But I can’t.
A force slams into my back. I hit the ground hard, air punched from my chest.
He’s caught me.
And yet—I’m smiling.
I wake with a start, lungs dragging in air like I’ve been drowning.
My heart slams against my ribs, wild with panic.
The world feels too loud—the hum of the streetlight outside, the whisper of wind through my curtains, the faint tick of the clock on my dresser—all of it pressing in, until the silence between those sounds breaks.
Something is wrong.
The air feels weighted, too thick to breathe. I sit up slowly, only to come face-to-face with a man leaning over me. My mouth opens, a scream clawing up my throat, but his hand is there before the sound can escape. Large and calloused, pressed tight against my lips.
“Shh.” His voice is low, velvet over steel. A grin curves his mouth, wide and sharp, almost feral. “Hush now, darling. Wouldn’t want to wake your family.”
He leans closer, his breath warm against my cheek. “It’s time to come home.”
Moonlight spills through my open window, silvering his silhouette. Dark eyes pierce me, unblinking. A straight, elegant nose. Lips curved in a smirk that knows too much. His hair is windswept and wild, as though the night itself had tousled it into place.
He is beautiful.
Terrifyingly so.
“I’m going to take my hand away now,” he murmurs, his voice turning dangerous. “If you scream, there will be consequences.” His eyes flash. “Now nod if you agree.”
I can only stare at him, my thoughts scattered and frantic. Is this real? Am I still dreaming? My mind screams to fight him, but my body refuses—frozen, as if it knows something I don’t.
His grip tightens, almost punishing. Pain blooms against my jaw. I wince and nod quickly.
He smiles again, slower this time. Almost pleased. “Good girl.”
He removes his hand but doesn’t pull away. His thumb drags across my bottom lip, almost tender, before slipping past it, pressing down against my tongue as he grips my chin, holding me still.
“Wha—”
He presses harder, silencing me. My breath catches, eyes wide, gaze trapped in his. He studies me with a stillness that feels unnatural, his expression unreadable—except for the hunger burning just beneath it.
My stomach knots, heat blooming low and traitorous. The sensation is sharp and disorienting. Dangerous.
“Wendy Darling,” he murmurs, thumb still heavy on my tongue.
He knows my name.
“I told myself I’d be good,” he says softly. “Give you time. Let you adjust.” His eyes darken, voice dipping into a growl. “But you’re simply too tempting.” He leans in, his breath brushing my ear. “And I’ve waited far too long.”
He pulls his thumb from my mouth and reaches for me, his hands sliding down my sides. In one effortless motion, he lifts me from the bed as though I weigh nothing. My breath catches as my bare feet touch the floor.
The full sight of him steals what’s left of the air in my lungs.
He’s tall, lean but powerful, with broad shoulders and long, lithe limbs.
In the moonlight, I can see the ripple of muscle beneath his thin shirt, the fabric clinging like a second skin.
My heart stutters in my chest… he feels familiar.
“W-who are you?” I manage, my voice trembling.
His grin spreads, boyish and wicked all at once. I inhale sharply. That smile…
“You really don’t know?” he says, tilting his head. “Even after calling for me so sweetly before you drifted off to sleep?”
My heart falters.
I look again—really look. In the silver glow, I catch the color of his eyes: deep green, wild as moss in shadow. His hair gleams copper in the moonlight. And just beneath it, the slight, unmistakable point of his ears.
But the rest of him—the sharp jawline, the height, the sinewy strength of his body—none of that belongs to the boy I once knew.
And yet, I know it’s him.
“Peter Pan?” I whisper, disbelieving.
Even though I’m certain.
He moves closer, his voice curling around me like smoke. “The one and only.”
A shiver races down my spine. How is this possible? Peter Pan, the boy who swore he’d never grow old, is standing before me, a man.
He reaches behind me, fingers sliding down my braid. He tugs the ribbon loose and combs through the strands until my hair spills down my back. It feels intimate. Tender, even—until his fingers tighten, twisting my hair around his fist.
He yanks.
I gasp, pain sparking bright at the base of my skull.
“You’re trembling like prey,” he murmurs, voice low and delighted. “And I’m not gentle with prey.”
Something inside me buckles—logic, resolve, sense. I don’t know which. And for the first time in years, I believe in monsters again.
He presses his forehead to mine, his breath sharp with mint. “I’m going to need you to kneel, darling,” he murmurs.
His words are a snare, closing around me.
I freeze. I really do feel like prey caught in a predator’s sights—his teeth just inches from my neck, his intentions coiled and unmistakable.
My knees buckle, landing hard against the cold floor.
Shame wells up, thick and choking, warring with the heat pulsing low in my belly.
Why am I obeying so easily? Why am I…thrilled?
When I dare to look up at him, he’s watching me with a gaze so dark and devouring it leaves me raw. He looks at me like I’m already his—claimed, possessed, and ruined at once. The worst part? Some part of me, larger than I’d like, revels in it.
His free hand cups my cheek, unexpectedly gentle. His palm engulfs the side of my face, and before I can stop myself, I lean into his touch.
I am pathetic.
He doesn’t smell like the boy I remember—gone is the wild scent of wind and bitter grass.
Now it’s mint and pine, earthy and masculine, all wrong in ways that make my stomach twist. Wrong, but so tempting that I want to bury my face against his chest and breathe him in, as if I could inhale him straight into my soul.
“I’ve been watching you all these years,” he says. “But don’t mistake distance for freedom. You were mine then, and you’re mine now.”
My heart stutters in my chest. All this time—the eyes in the dark, the weight of silence pressing against my skin—I wanted it to be him.
But how?
“Peter… what’s going on? You left Neverland?”
He doesn’t answer. He only smiles, a slow, devastating quirk of his lips. Once, I had loved that smile on his boyish face. Now it’s on a man, and it steals the air from my lungs, makes me desperate to keep it there.
He lets go of my face, and the loss of his warmth is unbearable, like stepping into shadow after sunlight. The space between us hums with something taut and electric. His hand goes to the button of his trousers. The click is soft. The rasp of the zipper—loud. Deafening in the hush of my bedroom.
My breathing quickens. Anxiety rises, clawing at my throat. Panic and want, tangled and indistinguishable. He’s moving too fast. We’re moving too fast.
He reaches into his trousers and pulls out his cock. It’s thick and heavy, flushed dark at the tip, veined and unmistakably real. The first one I’ve ever seen, and only inches from my face. He’s hard already, his arousal unashamed, as if he’s been waiting for this moment.
I try to pull back, to carve out even an inch of space so I can think clearly, rationally—but his grip in my hair doesn’t yield.
He’s too close. Too warm. And his nearness, the press of his body, the scent of pine—they wrap around me like a net.
An unfamiliar feeling sinks low in my belly.
Tight. Hot. Shameful.
I don’t want to name it.
But I already have.
Desire.
“Peter…”
He strokes himself just inches from my face, and I inhale sharply. His hand moves slowly up and down his cock, thick and hard, glistening at the tip. Heat blooms low in my stomach, and I feel it, an unmistakable wetness between my thighs.
“This is a very important moment for us,” he says, his voice dropping to a dark, husky rasp. “I’ll claim your mouth first.” His eyes glint with something feral. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. There isn’t an inch of you that won’t know my hands. My mouth. My cock.”
His vulgar words hit me like a slap, and tears sting my eyes. Is this really Peter Pan?
The boy I knew was mischievous, cocky, wild—a reckless sort of magic. But this man? This stranger?
He’s something else entirely.
Dark. Ruthless. Filthy. Behaving in a way that scrapes against every boundary I thought I had.
We’re moving too fast, careening past the point of no return. My mind reels, panic and disbelief crashing into each other like stormy waves against a shore, like everything I once trusted, tearing at the seams.
But my body?
My body utterly betrays me—prickling, flushed, aching for him to keep going.
I’ve loved him for so long, even when he was just a story in the dark.
Even now, when he has me on my knees before him.
Tears slip free, burning down my cheeks.
I don’t know if it’s from fear or the unbearable truth that my body is craving what it should reject.
I look up at him through wet lashes. He doesn’t soften. He only watches, unmoved, eyes black with interest.
“Your tears don’t move me,” he murmurs. “They only make me want to taste the salt that runs down your soft cheek.”
“Peter…please…” I gasp.
I don’t even know what I’m begging for. For him to stop? Or to never stop? The things I’ve learned about myself in these last few moments—seconds, really—are terrifying. Is this who I am? Or is it just who I am with him?
He tilts my chin up, forces me to meet his gaze. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it, too,” he purrs. “This was always meant to happen. You and me. Now open that pretty mouth of yours.”
An involuntary whimper escapes me as heat coils deep in my core. He guides the pulsing head of his cock to my lips, his grip on my hair loosening, giving me a semblance of choice.
I hesitate. Then, steeling myself, I lean in and tentatively flick my tongue over the bead of fluid at the tip.
It’s salty. Sweet, even.
I dare a glance up at his face and find his eyes fixed on my lips, watching me like I’m both his ruin and his salvation. A blessing and a curse conjured just for him.
I swallow down the sick satisfaction his gaze sparks in me, the way it burns low in my belly like a secret I shouldn’t keep. My mind scrambles for something solid—but instead, it finds the dream. The one that has haunted me in recent years.
I’m running barefoot through dark woods, breathless, hunted, always hunted. Chased by something I can’t see.
A faceless monster.
But maybe… maybe the monster was never faceless at all. Maybe it was always him. This beautiful, wild, and utterly brutal man standing before me now.
There’s no fork in this path, no question to answer—only the inevitable. And the part of me that’s most terrified is the same part that’s thrilled because of it.
Because in every dream, I wanted to be caught.
My lips part.