Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Beneath the Bloom, Lies the Thorn
Itake my time walking back to the treehouse, my fingers brushing over the trees and foliage as I let my thoughts wander. What I keep circling back to is Peter sending the Lost Boys home—only to bring a few of them back again. Why?
Finn and even Peter himself had both hinted that he had changed after I left. But how could he have gone from the bright, mischievous boy I knew to the dark, almost monstrous man I see now?
What happened to Peter Pan?
The thought lingers like a shadow for the rest of the afternoon.
It follows me as I nibble on cheese, fruit, and bread in the kitchen, as I wander through the treehouse peering into every nook and cranny, and finally, as I curl up in my favorite window seat with The Secret Garden while the afternoon fades into evening.
I’m lost in my head, rereading the same page again and again, when a soft knock at the door startles me.
Finn peeks in, an apologetic smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wanted to see if you’d like to help with dinner.”
I blink, surprised. I suppose he feels bad about Tink’s behavior earlier. “Sure,” I say, standing. “Lead the way.” But I’m not eager to seem like a guest who only takes.
As we descend the winding staircase, I ask, “Do you all eat together every night?”
Finn nods. “Peter insists. Says it’s what families do.”
I arch a brow. “Does Peter cook too?”
He laughs. “Sometimes—but between us, he’s not great. Thorne steps in when I’m busy, but most nights, it’s me. I like cooking.”
“Well, you can add me to the rotation,” I offer.
His face brightens instantly, eyes gleaming with that open warmth of his. Something in my chest softens. Finn is sweet—charming in that uncomplicated way some boys never grow out of.
“Thanks, Wendy,” he says, grinning.
We fall into an easy rhythm cooking in the kitchen. Finn hands me a bundle of herbs to coat the potatoes with before roasting while he works on a moonfruit-glazed fish. The creature’s scales gleam like molten opal, twice the size of any fish I’ve seen in London.
“Is that... safe to eat?” I ask skeptically.
Finn laughs. “Completely. Thorne caught it. Tink won’t touch it, though. She sticks to her raw vegetables, nuts, and fruit.”
I hesitate, then say, as casually as I can, “So, Finn... how long have you been in love with Tinker Bell?”
The knife slips from his fingers, clattering against the table. His cheeks flush crimson. “You noticed?”
“It’s hard not to.”
His eyes widen. “That bad?”
I smile gently and nod.
He exhales a long, defeated sigh, his shoulders sagging. “I guess I’ve always loved her. Since the first day Peter brought me here. She was the first thing I saw when I landed—glowing like a firefly with attitude.”
His voice strains, that easy brightness dimming. “But she’s only ever had eyes for Peter.”
I pause, clutching the knife in my hand.
Of course she does.
Everyone seems to orbit Peter Pan in one way or another. We are all pulled by his gravity, drawn in by his charm, his danger, his impossible light. Finn with his unspoken adoration. Tinker Bell with her poisonous love. Me with something far worse.
I think of Peter’s hands on me, his mouth, his rage, his tenderness. How he can break me and soothe me in the same breath. How he bends the world around him without even trying.
Peter Pan’s darkness doesn’t just touch those around him. It consumes. And I know if I stay here, it will consume me too.
It’s then that the object of our conversation flutters through the doorway. She’s wearing a diaphanous green slip of a dress—thin enough to be indecent, the fabric clinging to her slight curves. Her platinum hair gleams like spun frost, her silver eyes sharp as blades.
Tinker Bell takes one look at the two of us standing behind the kitchen island—me laughing, Finn flushed and smiling—and if looks could kill, I’d already be buried six feet under.
Her wings beat faster, shimmering with agitation. Her mouth opens, but whatever venom she’s about to unleash is cut short by the front door swinging open. Peter and Thorne stride in.
We’re saved.
My eyes find Peter instantly, drawn to him like a tide to its moon.
He looks rugged, windblown, like he’s stepped straight out of a storm.
Copper waves tousled, sweat-damp at the edges, a smear of dirt across his cheek.
His shirt clings to his chest in all the right ways, half unbuttoned to reveal glimpses of lean muscle beneath.
His knuckles, though, are scraped and bleeding.
He looks like starlight and violence made flesh.
His eyes—bright and wild—find mine, and when that sinful smile curves his mouth, my heart stutters painfully in my chest.
I tear my gaze away, forcing myself to focus on anything else—on setting the table, on the others, on simply breathing.
The new arrivals take their places around the dining table while Finn and I finish laying out the dishes—the moonfruit-glazed fish, roasted potatoes crisped at the edges, and a bright salad of wild greens and jeweled berries.
When we finally sit, the room settles into an easy quiet. The only sounds are the faint crackle of the fire and the gentle clink of cutlery against plates.
I find myself hesitating over the fish. The scent rising from it is a mouthwatering sweet citrus, but I can’t shake my unease. Everything else here looks so ordinary, yet nothing in Neverland ever truly is.
“I swear on my life you’ll like it, Wendy,” Thorne says beside me, grinning around a bite of his own. “Opaline fish are delicious.”
I raise a brow at him, then finally cut off a small piece. The flesh flakes apart beneath my fork, pearly white streaked with faint, iridescent blue. When I bring it to my lips, the flavor blooms across my tongue—delicate, buttery, with a faint citrusy sweetness that lingers.
Swallowing, I smile faintly. “You’re right,” I say, my voice light. “It’s really good.”
Thorne winks. “Told you. Worth the battle wounds.”
“So you have your own boat? To fish?”
Thorne grins, clearly pleased. “Damn right I do. The Huntress. Fast, stubborn, and beautiful—just like her captain.”
Peter snorts.
I ignore him, interest piqued. “Do you sail it often? Around the island?”
“Every chance I get,” Thorne says. “The waters here are wild, but if you know how to read the tides, they’ll show you things you’ve never seen before.”
“I’d love to come with you sometime,” I say. “See Neverland from the sea.”
Thorne raises a brow. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Definitely.”
Before he can respond, Peter clears his throat. Loudly. The sound slices through the air, sharp enough to make my pulse jump. All conversation halts. Peter’s gaze fixes on Thorne, his smile too pleasant to be real.
“That’s an excellent idea, darling,” he drawls, his voice dripping sweetness and threat in equal measure. “We’ll both join you tomorrow, Thorne.”
A pang of disappointment twists through me.
I’d hoped for a moment alone with Thorne to ask about the runes and see what his take was on the dark current running beneath Peter.
But the traitorous part of me sparks with excitement.
The thought of sailing beside Peter, wind in our hair, the sea stretched endless before us. ..
Thorne, oblivious, grins wide. “It’s a plan then! But what about the shadow beasts?”
Peter waves a hand, too casually. “They’ve been contained,” he says, his tone smooth as silk.
I furrow my brows, thoughts spinning wild.
They’ve been contained. What does that even mean?
The words echo, unsettling in their vagueness.
I want to ask, press him for more, but I already know he won’t explain.
So I take a too-large bite instead, just to keep from speaking.
The flavor that had dazzled me moments ago turns flat on my tongue, bitter as ash.
For a moment, silence reigns—taut and heavy with all that hasn’t been said—until Tinker Bell leans across the table, her voice honey-soft as her fingers trail down Peter’s arm.
My entire body goes rigid. Jealousy surges through me, further poisoning my mood. For one wild second, I want to rip her hand away from him and make her regret ever touching him.
“Peter,” she purrs, the sound almost musical, “you’re pretty scratched up.” She bites her lower lip and leans forward on her elbows, the neckline of her dress dipping low enough to make the movement deliberate. “Do you need me to patch you up after dinner?”
Beside her, Finn stares miserably at his plate, his fork idle. The soft slump of his shoulders makes my chest twist.
I’m still reeling from her audacity when my gaze drops to Peter’s forearm. She rolled his sleeve up to the elbow, revealing the angry red claw marks that slice across the skin. The jealousy drains out of me in an instant, replaced by a gut-wrenching horror.
He’s hurt. Badly.
When I look up, his eyes are already fixed on mine, a gaze that pins me in place. He reaches across the table, threading his fingers through mine. His touch is gentle, almost tender. Then he lifts our joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss against my knuckles, light as a whisper.
The room tilts. My cheeks burn. I can’t look away. I can’t move.
“No need, Tink,” he says finally, his voice velvet. “My little darling will patch me up.” His gaze never leaves mine. “Won’t you?”
I can only nod, my pulse hammering so hard I swear he can hear it.
His smile widens into a satisfied grin, making my heart lurch in my chest.
Tinker Bell shoves back from the table, her chair scraping across the wood. “I’m going to bed,” she snaps, wings beating furiously as she flits toward the stairwell. The air still hums faintly with her irritation after she’s gone.
Finn glances at me, his eyes full of sorrow. I can’t help but pity him—for his soft love and kindness, and how easily she crushes both.