Chapter 8 An Invasion of Desire
Chapter Eight
An Invasion of Desire
Peter flies us back to the treehouse, my body tucked tightly against his—legs wrapped around his waist, arms looped around his neck, my face buried in the warm curve of his throat.
The wind lashes through my hair. The moon hangs full above us, casting silver light over the jungle canopy.
It washes across the sharp planes of Peter’s face, catching on the faint shimmer of sweat along his temple.
I breathe him in. Allowing his scent to curl through me, rousing and soothing all at once, winding around my spine like a chain I can’t break.
I should still be reeling from the cliff. The fall. His fury. The unbearable weight of his admission. But now, exhaustion presses down heavier than fear. I’m too drained to fight him, too hollow to think clearly.
We reach the treehouse in moments. Inside, the air is warm and faintly scented with smoke and pine resin.
Thorne and Finn lounge near the fireplace, the flames painting their faces in gold.
Thorne sits sprawled in an armchair, long legs stretched out, a steaming mug cradled loosely in one hand.
He casts me a measured glance over the rim.
Finn sits cross-legged on the floor near the hearth, both hands wrapped around his mug.
He looks up and smiles, small and hesitant, blue eyes catching the firelight.
Peter’s hand settles against the small of my back, guiding me toward the couch—deep green and worn thin in places, the cushions sunken from years of use.
He drops onto it and pulls me down beside him, draping an arm over my shoulders in a gesture that feels casual, but definitely isn’t. It’s a claim.
My body tenses. I can feel every steady beat of his heart against my side. I glance toward Thorne and Finn, uncertain. My thoughts tangle, searching for anything to say to cut through the charged quiet pressing in around us.
Peter’s eyes catch mine, gleaming with something unreadable. “Tell us a story, little darling,” he murmurs. “Like you used to.”
The others murmur their agreement, Finn’s expression brightening with anticipation.
I hesitate. My stomach knots. This feels wrong—not the request itself, but what it means.
I’m not the same girl who once spun tales by firelight, and they aren’t the same boys who listened, wide-eyed and eager.
But when I look between them—Peter, Thorne, and Finn—all watching me with clear expectation, I can’t bring myself to refuse.
I nod slowly. “Alright.”
I draw in a slow breath, the fire’s heat licking at my skin. Every gaze in the room fixed on me, heavy and unblinking, until the silence demands I begin.
“Once upon a time,” I say softly, letting the words settle over the room, “there was a girl cursed to sleep forever.”
Finn leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. Thorne doesn’t move, but I feel the weight of his attention sharpen. Peter doesn’t shift at all, only lets his hand slide from my shoulder to my thigh, fingers tightening just slightly.
“They said she pricked her finger by accident. That it was fate. But that wasn’t the truth.”
I glance toward the flames, watching them twist and stretch, the story shaping itself in their flicker.
“The spindle was hidden—locked away in a tower, far from her reach. The king feared what might happen if she touched it. So he called it a curse. He told her to be good. To stay away. But the girl went looking. She climbed the tower, found the spindle buried in dust and reached for it anyway. She pressed her finger to the needle and bled. Not by accident. Not out of ignorance.”
I swallow.
“She did it on purpose. Just to feel something real. Just to know if the darkness was truly hers. She wanted to sleep,” I continue, my tone softening, almost mournful.
“To dream. To forget the world that had taken too much from her—its wonder, its magic, the people she loved. The laughter that once lived in her chest was gone, replaced by a hollow ache that never quieted. Everything she touched felt muted, colorless. Even sunlight had lost its warmth. She wanted to escape the grey—to dream in color again, even if it meant losing herself to the dark.”
Peter stiffens beside me.
“The thorns grew tall around her tower,” I whisper. “Twisting, guarding, tearing into anyone who tried to pass. Until the world outside forgot her. The kingdom waited for a prince to wake her—to save her—but no one came. And after a while, they stopped waiting.”
I turn my head slightly, just enough for my gaze to catch Peter’s profile in the firelight.
“But the girl wanted it that way. She chose her cage of thorns. She didn’t want to be saved. She only wanted to dream.” I inhale slowly, then let the final words fall in a whisper. “She never wished to wake up.”
Silence fills the room, heavy as the smoke curling through the air. Only the fire speaks, crackling softly.
Peter sits rigid beside me, his jaw set, eyes hard. “That ending didn’t sound like a happily ever after, Wendy.”
I don’t answer at first. I just watch the flames flicker, shadows dancing along the walls. When I finally speak, my voice is barely a whisper. “Not every ending is happy, Peter.”
His hand tightens on my thigh, not gently. “The prince will find a way to wake her,” he murmurs. “I’m sure of it.”
My pulse stutters beneath his grip, but I force myself not to pull away. “Maybe,” I whisper, eyes still fixed on the fire. “But sometimes the prince isn’t the hero of the story.”
His hand stills. The silence that follows feels like standing on the edge of something dangerous.
Finn stands abruptly. “Thanks for the story, Wendy,” he says with forced cheer, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I’ll turn in for the night.”
“Yeah,” Thorne mutters, quieter, following him toward the stairs.
Their departure leaves a hollow in their wake. I can feel Peter’s gaze burning into the side of my face, but I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on the fire, trying to steady my heartbeat.
Then I feel his mouth at my ear. “I think it’s time we go to bed, too.”
The meaning in his words is unmistakable. I don’t need to look at him to know exactly what he wants.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t speak. He lifts me into his arms and strides up the stairs like a man on a mission.
He pushes open the door to our room and throws me onto the bed.
I hit the mattress hard. Air punches out of my lungs, my body sprawling.
Before I can suck in a breath, he’s already on me, tearing at my clothes with single-minded force.
“Peter—” I manage, but it’s useless. The look in his eyes tells me patience is a luxury he’s long since lost.
I try to resist. At least, I think I do. My hands flutter against his chest, but I’m not pushing him away. I’m clutching at him. It’s like I already lost the battle without even trying to defend.
His hands are rough. Possessive. He touches me like I already belong to him, like ownership is a fact he doesn’t need to say aloud.
And when I’m finally naked beneath him—breathless, trembling, exposed—he finally stills.
I meet his gaze, unflinching. We’re both panting, untethered, as if the world has narrowed to this one impossible moment.
“I want to feel that you’re mine,” he whispers.
A violent shudder rips through me, fear and want tangled so tightly I can’t tell them apart.
“Peter… wait.” The words barely make it out. My voice breaks halfway through.
“No.”
His mouth crashes into mine—a bruising, consuming kiss, a violent clash of lips and teeth and tongue. He devours me like he’s starving, like he’s furious I ever left, like he’s trying to erase every moment we were apart.
I gasp into him, and he swallows the sound like it’s something precious, something he’s been thirsting for.
His hands find my breasts, rough and sure, thumbs circling my nipples until a whimper breaks loose against his mouth.
Then he pinches them, and the sting jolts through me, sharp and humiliating. It shouldn’t feel good.
But it does. God, it does.
The realization splinters through me, cracking something I didn’t know was still whole.
I tell myself to fight. To remember the six years he left me waiting.
To hold on to the ache, the betrayal, the secrets still coiled around his smile like poison.
But my body doesn’t listen. Instead, I clutch him closer.
My hips rise to meet his, seeking him even as my mind recoils.
My legs part easily, like they’ve been waiting for him all along.
I shouldn’t want this.
I shouldn’t want him.
The thought pounds in my skull, desperate and relentless—but his voice, his hands, his heat drown it out until there’s nothing left. Only him.
Peter slips a hand between my thighs, dragging his fingers through the slick mess he’s made of me.
He groans, the sound guttural. “You’re soaked for me, darling.” His hot breath crests my ear. “You’re not even going to pretend to put up a fight, hmm?”
I whimper, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I can’t tell if it’s shame or desire shining on my lashes—only that my hatred for Peter Pan runs as deep as my love for him.
Two of his long fingers enter me. His sudden invasion burns.
My legs twitch, thighs instinctively trying to close, but he growls and pushes them wide with his knee.
I cry out, the stretch still unfamiliar, unwanted—except it is wanted.
My body is traitorous. Slick and soft, easily yielding to his hard and demanding presence.
“I hate you,” I say, though my hips lift to meet the rhythm of his hand. “I hate what you do to me.”
His mouth is at my throat, sharp teeth grazing the delicate skin there. “No, you don’t,” he murmurs. “You hate that I see the parts of you you’re too afraid to admit exist. You hate how desperately you want this.”
He curls his fingers inside me and I shatter, a sob ripping from my throat.