Chapter 9 A Strenuous Peace
Chapter Nine
A Strenuous Peace
Iwake to sunlight spilling across the bed, warm against my skin. For a long, hazy moment, I lie still, boneless, the heaviness of sleep still dragging at me. The sheets are warm, smelling faintly of pine, of him. It would be so easy to sink back down, to let the warmth swallow me whole.
But when I shift, a dull ache pulses between my thighs. A memory of heat and hands, his voice whispering in my ear… I wince, eyes fluttering open.
Peter is watching me. He’s propped on one elbow beside me, head resting in his hand, green eyes tracing slow paths over my skin.
The sunlight catches on the edges of him—the cut of his shoulders, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He looks utterly at ease and yet not at all: tension hums beneath the stillness, coiled in the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his neck.
He looks almost… worried.
Without thinking, I reach up and brush my fingers along his jaw, trying to smooth the tension away. “What’s wrong?” I murmur, voice still hoarse with sleep.
His gaze lifts to mine. Something shifts behind his eyes—the concern, brief and human, fading into something darker I’m only beginning to understand. His mouth tilts into a slow, crooked smirk.
“Nothing, darling,” he drawls. “I was just thinking… I must’ve fucked you quite thoroughly last night for you to sleep like the dead.”
Heat flares through me. I groan, turning my face into the pillow to hide the flush creeping up my throat. That wicked mouth of his will be the death of me.
Peter chuckles, a low and satisfied sound. Then his voice softens. “I have to leave you today.” He stretches, muscles flexing, and adds almost lazily, “Trouble with the faeries.”
“What kind of trouble?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His brows draw together, his expression distant, calculating, as if he’s measuring how much truth I deserve.
At last, he sighs. “The shadow beasts.”
I stiffen. “Shadow beasts?”
He sits up, the mattress dipping beneath him, and turns just enough that sunlight outlines his profile.
“They’re new. Twisted things born of darkness.
They feed on chaos and bloodshed.” His voice drops lower.
“They don’t venture close to the treehouse.
My presence keeps them in check. So don’t wander far while I’m gone. ”
Something in his tone makes my skin prickle. It’s too careful. Too rehearsed.
He glances back at me, gaze sharp. “I mean it, Wendy. They’re not a threat you can outrun. If they find you alone…” He shakes his head once, jaw tightening. “I can’t—” He cuts himself off, forcing the next words out. “I can’t have you in danger.”
I nod quickly, the tension in his voice enough to make my stomach twist. “Why does your presence keep them away?” I ask softly. “And how did they come to be here at all?”
He goes still. Then, in a blur, his hand snaps out, catching my jaw before I can flinch. My breath catches. His grip is firm, not cruel, but commanding enough to steal every thought.
“I’m the king of Neverland,” he murmurs, leaning close until his breath warms my cheek. “Of course, they don’t want to cross me.”
His thumb drags idly along my cheekbone in a way that feels almost mocking in its tenderness. “And as for how they came to be here…” He shrugs. “Some questions aren’t worth the answer.”
“Why are you keeping secrets from me?” I ask.
His grin returns, sharper now, all teeth and shadow. The warmth drains from his eyes. “I have my reasons.”
I open my mouth to argue, to demand more, but he’s faster.
His lips crash into mine before I can speak, swallowing the protest whole.
He kisses me like it’s a punishment. Like a force meant to silence.
His tongue invades my mouth, stroking over mine, commanding it.
One of his hands knots in my hair, the other slides down to my hip, pulling me close.
I try to resist—just for a moment, for the principle of it—but it’s already too late.
Heat floods through me. I melt into him, into the kiss, into the chaos of want and betrayal and the sick ache of loving him anyway.
His mouth moves like he is waging war against me, relentless, overwhelming my every defense.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, biting just enough to make me gasp, and he swallows the sound with a low groan.
When he finally pulls away, I’m breathless, lips swollen, mind reeling. It takes me a moment to register what just happened.
He kissed me to shut me up.
And it worked.
Peter rises from the bed, and I can’t stop my eyes from following the movement—the way his muscles shift and stretch as he dresses. He pulls on dark trousers, then a forest-green shirt that clings to his frame. His copper hair is tousled from sleep. From me.
“Before I leave,” he says, glancing back with a crooked smile, “I’m assuming you’re hungry?”
Right on cue, my stomach growls loud enough to answer for me. I nod, a little too eagerly.
He chuckles, and my heart stutters at the light, amused sound that disarms me in a way I hate myself for liking.
“What do you say to a hot bath as well?”
My eyes widen. I nod again, this time vigorously. “Yes. Please.”
His grin deepens. “As much as I enjoy my scent all over you, I can imagine you’re sore.” His gaze darkens. “And it gives me an excuse to make you mine again when I return.”
A beat.
“Not that I need a reason.”
A shiver runs through me at the ease with which he turns from playful to dangerous. He keeps me perpetually off balance. Undoubtedly, right where he wants me.
We eat together in a companionable, wary silence.
Smoked fish and crusty bread. He tells me Thorne baked the loaf, and I make a mental note to thank him.
The bread is still faintly warm, flecked with herbs and sea salt, its softness a perfect contrast to the sharp tang of the fish.
Sitting across from Peter in the glow of morning, this life feels almost… natural.
Almost.
After we eat, Peter takes my hand and leads me outside, down a winding path to the right of the treehouse, through the forest.
The air is heavy with the scent of foliage and flowering vines.
Ferns brush against my legs as we move, their fronds jeweled with dew.
Soft moss carpets the dirt beneath our feet, while twisted roots curl across the path like the fingers of sleeping giants.
Overhead, the canopy breaks in patches, letting gold-spun ribbons of sunlight slip through.
They brush Peter’s shoulders, fragile and fleeting, as though the forest might swallow them at any moment.
The deeper we go, the wilder it becomes.
The air hums, not just with birdsong or rustling leaves, but with a strange, restless energy, as if the forest itself is whispering.
The shadows stretch longer, pooling thick and viscous between the trees.
Flowers the color of bruises bloom along the path, their petals trembling in the still air, and I swear I can feel something’s gaze on me.
Somewhere ahead, water murmurs, a soft, beckoning sound that should be soothing, but instead it only unsettles me more. With each step, I feel my body’s exhaustion more keenly. Every ache. Every tender throb. Every place he’s marked me. The promise of a bath feels like salvation at this point.
I was a virgin no longer.
Growing up, when desire had begun to bloom, and loneliness curled tight in my chest, I used to dream—foolishly—that my first would be Peter Pan. I’d hoped for it. Wished on stars for it. Even when I knew how ridiculous it was. I was growing up. And Peter? He never would.
But now…
I glance at him from behind my hair. He walks beside me, so tall and broad.
His body moves with the quiet ease of something predatory, built for flight and fight alike.
The light dapples his copper hair, and his hands, those wide, capable hands, hang idle at his sides, as if unaware of the ruin they’ve already caused.
He looks nothing like the boy from my past. And yet, here he is. Not the Peter I once knew—but Peter all the same.
I wished for him all those years, begged the stars to send him back. And they did. They just didn’t warn me what the wish would cost.
He comes to a sudden halt, and when I follow his gaze, my breath catches.
We stand at the edge of a secluded hot spring, steam rising in soft, silvery ribbons from a series of crystalline pools fed by a narrow waterfall.
The water glows faintly where the sunlight touches it, scattering shards of gold across the surface.
Smooth stones rim the edges, slick and glistening, warmed by the sun.
Flowering vines drape from the low branches overhead, their blooms heavy with a sweet, intoxicating, almost dizzying scent.
“Peter…” I say, unable to help the wonder threading through my voice. “This is amazing.”
He turns to me, a mischievous grin curving his mouth. For a moment, the familiarity of it tightens my chest. Then he steps closer, his arm curling around my waist until I can feel the smile against my ear.
“I only wish I could join you,” he murmurs.
His breath is warm against my neck, and though the words are teasing, there’s something in his tone that isn’t. Something that feels like a promise—or a warning.
His hands slip down my sides, fingers catching the hem of my dress. Slowly, he drags it up my body, knuckles grazing bare skin, teasing as he goes.
Heat rushes through me. “Peter—”
He ignores the warning in my tone, lifting the dress over my head, exposing me to the open air. My lace bralette is the next to go—tugged upward, baring my breasts to the cool forest air. His eyes darken as he drinks me in.
His hand trails down over my belly to the apex of my thighs, fingers pressing at my entrance, rubbing over the damp fabric of my panties. I moan softly at the contact.
“Already soaked,” he says, voice thick with satisfaction. He slides his fingers beneath the cotton and sinks one inside me. I gasp, hips jerking at the sudden invasion.
He crouches, sliding my panties down my legs.
I step out of them, shivering—not from cold, but from the sheer vulnerability of standing naked in the clearing.
The forest stirs around us; leaves rustle, a breath of wind curls against my skin.
The air smells of moss and wildflowers, rich and heady.
There’s something about being bare like this, exposed in the open, that feels dangerous.
Thrilling. As if the whole forest is watching, waiting.
“Peter—” I try again, my voice barely a whisper.
But his mouth is already on me. He latches onto my clit and sucks. My back arches, a moan escaping me as my hands fly to his hair. He pumps his fingers inside me once—twice—curling them just right, and I sob, legs trembling.
Then he removes his fingers and stands, leaving me flushed and aching, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes, breath coming fast and shallow, half out of my mind with lust.
He smirks—wide, cruel, and maddening.
“Look at you,” he says, voice a low purr. “So desperate for my touch.” He leans close, lips brushing my ear. “But alas, I must be off.” His fingers tangle in my hair, a teasing tug. “Think only of me while I’m gone. And no touching yourself.”
Then he bites my ear, sharp enough to make me gasp. He shoots me one last hungry look before he saunters down the path and disappears into the trees, leaving me naked, my chest heaving, my core aching.
This Peter Pan is insufferable. Absolutely insufferable.
I turn toward the nearest pool, steam wafting, inviting me in.
Tentatively, I dip a toe in, eliciting a sigh of pleasure—an entirely different kind.
I slip beneath the surface, sinking until the water laps at my shoulders.
The warmth seeps into every muscle, easing the knots in my body, softening the ache in my limbs.
Even the tension between my legs loosens.
For the first time since returning to Neverland—since being taken, since everything—I feel a measure of peace.
It’s strange to think how little time has passed. So much has happened that time itself feels distorted, the hours stretching and folding until I can no longer tell where one emotion ends and the next begins. Two days ago, I was still home. My body was still mine alone.
I reach for the bar of soap Peter left me, and lift it to my nose. Lavender and honey. It smells delicious. I begin to wash, savoring the luxurious slide of suds over my skin. When my fingers drift lower, brushing between my thighs, Peter’s smug warning comes back to me: No touching yourself.
I scoff aloud, feeling defiant. Who does he think he is, telling me that?
My hand lingers. I let my fingers glide through my folds, imagining it’s Peter’s hand instead—rough and sure, coaxing pleasure with practiced ease. My breath hitches, hips shifting beneath the water.
A sound interrupts the calm, the faint rustle of foliage, the crunch of leaves.
I freeze. My pulse jumps. Turning toward the path, I call, “Hello? I’m bathing here!”
A high, lilting voice answers, syrup-sweet. “Relax, Wendy. It’s only me.”
My blood runs cold.
I know that voice.