Chapter 5
Chapter Five
A Corrupt Home
Flying to Neverland is disorienting—time and space blur, stretching and collapsing all at once.
It feels like both minutes and hours pass, like we’re moving too fast for the world to catch us, or not moving at all.
The stars wheel overhead in dizzying spirals.
Clouds flicker past like smoke, dissolving the instant I try to focus on them.
Below us, the world fades—cities, streets, even memory unraveling into mist.
There’s no up, no down. Only Peter’s arms around me, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek, and the soft hum of magic pulsing in the air. It’s both comforting and terrifying. Like being cradled in a dream you can’t wake from.
And through it all, my thoughts whirl in sickening circles. This is truly happening. I am in Peter Pan’s arms, flying to Neverland.
Peter, who appeared over my bed as though no time had passed at all.
Peter, who coaxed me to my knees, who took what he wanted, and made me want it too.
He’d undone me so easily, as if the years between us were nothing but a breath held too long. One smile, one whisper of my name, and I had folded—mind, body, and will—like I was still the girl who once followed him into the sky.
My heart has been racing since the moment I saw him, since I recognized the boy I loved in a man I should fear.
I tell myself to hold on to who I am, to stay awake inside my own mind.
But Peter’s presence hums through my skin like a lullaby, and I can feel myself slipping, drawn toward him as surely as the tide to the shore.
I don’t know how long we fly. Minutes. Hours. Forever.
Until, at last, it emerges. A shape rising from the clouds. An island wreathed in shadow, the morning sun cresting the horizon.
I gasp when we drift close enough for the finer details to emerge.
It’s Neverland, but… not. Familiar, yet wrong.
Twisted. As if someone had taken a childhood dream and steeped it in nightmares.
The trees are taller now, their trunks gnarled and bark blackened, branches clawing at the sky as if reaching for something they’ll never grasp.
Their shadows stretch long across the sand—unnaturally so, even in the growing light.
The mountains loom jagged and cruel, veined with deep scars that gleam like open wounds.
Strange birds cry from the canopy, their voices shrill, echoing like a warning.
I shiver in Peter’s arms—and yet, I pull closer. It isn’t just Peter Pan who’s changed. Neverland has too.
He lands softly on the beach, his bare feet sinking into pale sand. Without a word, he strides toward the dark forest beyond, still carrying me as if I weigh nothing at all.
I shift in his hold, trying to signal that I want to be set down. “Peter—”
He only tightens his grip, arms like iron bands. The more I resist, the clearer it becomes—my strength is nothing next to his.
I go still. “Peter, where are we going?”
He exhales, long and low. “This is the third time I’m telling you, Wendy. Home.”
Home.
The word lodges in my chest, heavy and unfamiliar. He must mean the Lost Boys’ hideout.
A chill creeps up my spine. The Lost Boys… had he left them behind? Had they stayed here, alone and directionless, while he grew up without them in the real world?
“How did you grow up?” I blurt. “I’m assuming you had to leave Neverland?”
Peter doesn’t look at me. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead. He stays quiet for so long, I don’t think he’ll answer at all—until finally, he says, “I’ll explain later.”
I frown but don’t press, unwilling to poke the beast lurking beneath Peter’s calm facade. I glance over his shoulder—and that’s when I notice it.
He doesn’t have a shadow.
A cold prickle creeps over my skin, an odd sense of dread blooming in my chest. “What happened to your shadow?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
This time, his green eyes meet mine, unreadable. But for just a moment, I swear I catch a flicker of pain.
“I let him go,” he says with a shrug, like it means nothing at all. Then he looks away, as if that’s the end of it.
But I’m left reeling.
He let his shadow go? That wild, willful thing with a mind of its own—the one he was always struggling to control?
I remember our first meeting, how upset he’d been. I was the one who sewed it back on, thread and trembling fingers earning me a place in Neverland. Even then, his shadow had felt… wrong.
As much as I want to press him for answers, I let it go for now.
He moves through the undergrowth with that same animal-like silence he had as a boy, though his steps fall heavier now—his body taller, broader.
I peer around him as we pass beneath the twisted boughs.
The hairs on my arms lift, a prickling awareness crawling over my skin, as if someone, or something, is watching us.
Dappled light filters through the canopy, as though the trees are conspiring to keep the sun out.
The foliage is stranger than I remember: vines coiling like serpents around thick trunks, pulsing faintly as if they breathe.
Leaves shimmer with an oily sheen—bruised purple, sickly green, deep metallic blue.
Some trees bleed sap that glows amber, pooling like honey in the hollows of bark.
And the scent, moss and something faintly sweet, jasmine, maybe, or wild fig.
It wraps around me, tugging softly at a buried part of myself.
Despite the forest’s corruption, it smells familiar at least. For one brief, disorienting moment, it soothes the fraying edges of my nerves.
Neverland still knows how to seduce. To lull me into that dreamlike haze that’s haunted me ever since I left.
I rest my head against Peter’s shoulder, letting my eyes fall shut.
His steps are steady, almost rhythmic. If I focus only on the scent of moss and jasmine, I can almost believe it’s exactly as it was. Almost.
In my mind, I’m flying again—through clouds laced with gold, the wind in my hair, laughter bubbling from my throat. Peter beside me, wild and radiant, the world below nothing more than a painted blur. Everything is bright, unspoiled.
Peter comes to a sudden halt, jarring me from the dream. Warmth blooms in my cheeks.
Why is it so easy to forget? To relax in his arms like he never left.
Shame coils in my stomach. I lift my head, meeting his dark green gaze. Amusement flickers there, that ever-present mischief curving his mouth. I pull away, forcing myself to focus on my surroundings—and freeze, blinking rapidly.
This is not the hideout I remember.
Not even close.
Built into the side of a colossal tree, the “hideout” rises more like a fortress torn from the pages of some ancient fairy tale, half-remembered from a dream, or perhaps a nightmare.
Its massive roots twist upward and outward, forming natural staircases, balconies, and ledges that spiral around the trunk like a palace carved by nature itself.
The sheer scale of it steals my breath. It towers into the canopy, vanishing into the dense foliage.
The wood is carved in sweeping, symmetrical patterns—not playful or childish as I remembered.
Thick vines wrap the railings and curl around balconies, blooming with pale, luminous flowers that cast a green-blue light, softly illuminating the structure like bioluminescent veins.
Gone is the charm of half-hung hammocks and wooden swords.
Gone are the painted signs, the crooked beams, the wild, innocent laughter that once echoed through the trees.
What stands before me now feels more intentional.
This is no longer the hideaway of boys who refused to grow up—it is the fortress of a king.
Peter finally sets me down. I stumble, legs trembling beneath me. He catches me easily, warm hands settling at my waist like they’ve always belonged there. The touch is innocent enough, but something in me flinches.
I glance down and freeze.
I’d forgotten I was wearing nothing but a thin white nightgown.
It falls just to my knees, almost translucent in the hazy sunlight, clinging to the shape of my body.
A flush creeps up my neck. I’d worn something like this on my first visit, but it hadn’t mattered then.
We were just children, and innocence still clung to us.
Now, it feels like exposure. Like stepping into a battle with no armor. Like standing in front of a boy who is no longer a boy—and realizing I’m no longer a girl.
Peter leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Go on,” he whispers.
I startle, a yelp escaping me before I can stop it, too loud in the quiet hush of the forest. I hesitate only a moment longer before stepping toward the round wooden door.
Its knob is smooth beneath my fingers, worn from years of use, and I nudge it open, bracing myself for something strange or wild, but what greets me instead is comfort. Warmth.
Inside is a wide, open chamber. A fire burns low in a stone hearth to the right, casting golden light across the room, shadows flickering and stretching against the walls.
Around the hearth, sits a living area—two deep armchairs and two sprawling sofas, all of them plush and worn, upholstered in earthy greens and soft browns.
Blankets are draped over the backs, furs piled in corners, everything arranged in warm invitation.
The air smells of cedar and moss, tinged with something sweet and floral.
Directly across from the door, at the center of the space, is a kitchen—dark wood cabinets seamlessly grown into the tree itself, a wooden counter serving as both preparation space and barrier.
Copper pots and dried herbs dangle from hooks above, catching the firelight.
Beyond that, an archway yawns open, leading deeper into the house—perhaps to the winding staircase I had seen from outside.
To the left, a long dining table sits, surrounded by eight mismatched chairs. Candles flicker along the center of the table, their wax dripping down into moss-lined bowls.
The windows are round, outlined by curling vines, their glass tinted in dusky hues of rose and green. They filter the morning light into a drowsy, dreamlike haze. Above, the ceiling arches into a slight dome lined with crystals that catch the light and scatter it like tiny stars.
It’s strange. Wild. Utterly breathtaking.
And nothing like the Lost Boys hideout I remember.
“What do you think?” Peter’s voice comes from just behind me, low and somewhat hopeful. “I obviously had to change it to better suit our age. I couldn’t have a woman residing in a ramshackle lair meant for pubescent boys.”
I turn to him, surprised by the sudden warmth blooming in my chest. A grin curls across my lips before I can stop it—giddy, disbelieving. “It’s… it’s truly amazing.”
He beams, looking outrageously pleased with himself. The smile catches me off guard. It’s so sweet, so achingly boyish, it sinks straight into my chest and lodges there. I have to tuck it away, hold it close, like something precious.
“Told you she’d like it,” says a deep voice from behind me.
I whirl around, startled—and come face-to-face with two young men. My heart stutters. I take a step back on instinct, only to collide with Peter’s chest. His arms snake around my waist, locking me in a hold that feels unmistakably proprietary.
“Easy,” he murmurs into my hair, but there’s no softness in it. “Meet the only two remaining Lost Boys.”
He nods toward the man on the right. “That’s Thorne.”
Thorne is tall, all lean muscle, his presence threaded with an understated intensity.
His face is cut in sharp lines, foxlike, with short-cropped blond hair that looks hacked off by a blade.
Freckles dust his nose, but there’s nothing boyish about the way he watches me. Those dark brown eyes miss nothing.
“And that’s Finn.”
The other man steps forward—shorter than both Peter and Thorne, his frame still holding the last traces of youth. Red curls spill over his brow, and his wide blue eyes shine with an earnest awe that feels disarming in this place.
“Hi,” Finn says softly, almost sheepish, as if he hadn’t expected me to be real. “It’s… really nice to see you again, Wendy.”
I blink, still trapped in Peter’s arms, unsure what to say. My gaze flicks between them, searching for the boys I once knew. But time has carved away the softness—they’re strangers wearing familiar faces.
“It’s nice to see you both again,” I manage, forcing a smile that feels thin and foreign on my lips.
I’ve never felt so small. The only woman here, barefoot and half-dressed, in a den of men who carry something feral beneath their skin.
Dangerous in ways I don’t completely understand.
I could barely handle Peter. No—I didn’t handle him at all.
He handled me. That memory still burns in my throat, in my knees, in the lingering ache between my legs.
Unease coils through me, hot and cold, sharp as a wire pulled tight.
I press back into Peter’s chest, seeking the very danger I should be fleeing.
His arms feel like both shackles and shelter.
My breath stutters. Fear tightens around my ribs.
And yet—somewhere deep, buried beneath the panic and shame—a dark, traitorous part of me is grateful it’s him holding me.
He must feel my unease, for his grip tightens. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, lips grazing the top of my head. “You’ve nothing to fear from them.”
His teeth catch lightly at my ear, a quick, startling nip that sends a jolt racing through me.
“If they touch you,” he whispers against my skin, “I’ll kill them.”
I freeze, going stiff in his arms. My gaze flicks to Thorne and Finn, searching for shock, discomfort—anything. But they simply nod, like they’ve heard it before. Like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.
Peter’s tongue flicks over the bite, soothing the sting. “And if you touch them...” His voice drops. “I’ll still kill them—but I’ll make you watch. And then I’ll fuck you in their spilled blood.”
My breath snags in my throat. Horror curls cold in my gut.
He can’t mean that.
He turns me in his arms until I face him. That wicked grin curls his lips, his green eyes gleaming with something dark and boundless—possession, madness, desire.
“Welcome back to Neverland, little darling,” he purrs, brushing his thumb across my lips. “You can scream, run, even fight me—but you’ll only ever get as far as my shadow allows.”