Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Distorted Memories
Thorne leads Peter and me along a winding forest path just after sunrise. Soft light filters through the trees, catching on dew clinging to the leaves. It is easy to forget the darkness that lingers in these woods when the sun breaks through in ribbons and dust motes.
There is a strange lightness in me today.
Last night, after we had gone to bed, Peter held me in his arms until sleep took us both.
His touch had been uncharacteristically tender, careful in a way that felt almost soothing.
A small part of me had been disappointed when he had not tried for anything more.
The soft touch of his hands last night, colliding with the memory of his brutality, left me oddly dizzy.
I feel a sense of whiplash between the two Peters: the cruel, consuming one and the one who will cradle me like I’m made of glass. Was it insane of me to want them both?
The trees part, and we step out onto a secluded beach hemmed on both sides by towering cliffs.
The sand is pale and fine, sunlight scattering across it so that it almost seems to glow.
Shells lie along the shore like scattered coins.
Ahead, a weathered wooden dock reaches into the water, worn smooth by wind and foot.
What must be The Huntress waits there, a medium-sized vessel with sleek lines and pale sails, painted dark green with silver trim.
Her figurehead is a snarling woman carved from wood.
Thorne jerks his chin toward her with a prideful grin.
He leads us aboard, instantly coming alive, wholly in his element.
His rugged charm really shines here—barefoot, shirt half open, the sun already warming his skin.
His brown eyes gleam with the light of the sea as he moves across the deck, explaining how the ropes run, how the sails catch wind, how he can read the water’s moods.
Thorne’s grin comes easily, his voice rough around the edges but always threaded with warmth. He looks utterly himself out here.
Peter helps him ready the vessel. Working together in quick, efficient silence, they cast off ropes, hoist the sails, and adjust the tiller. Within minutes, The Huntress glides free of the cove and slips into open water.
We sail the eastern coast. Cliffs streaked with silver vines slide past, caves yawning like dark mouths in the stone.
The air tastes of salt and brine. I draw a long breath, as my hair lifts and whips around my face.
The sea is wide and bright, and for a moment, I understand why Thorne lives on the water.
Neverland feels boundless, endless in a way the forest never could be.
Thorne, standing at the wheel, shouts something over the wind I don’t quite catch, but his laughter rings out clearly.
I glance toward the horizon, where the edge of the sea fades into blue sky.
Part of me aches at the thought of leaving, another part thrills at the notion of being carried away by the tide.
I sidle up next to Thorne and, with the salt stinging my lips, ask, “What would happen if we just kept sailing? Could we… leave?”
He gives a quick, rueful grin. “Eventually, we would come around to the other side of the island. Neverland is an endless loop. There is no escape unless—” he nods toward Peter, who is coiling rope near the mast, “—he lets you out.”
His words land between us. Weighty. Uncomfortably final. Thorne’s grin falters, and for an instant, his foxlike face looks older—the easy seafarer replaced by someone who’s known life’s harsher consequences.
I frown, the horizon suddenly finite. I clear my throat. “Do you ever run into the pirates?”
Thorne stiffens, his knuckles going white on the wheel, and his eyes narrowing on the sea ahead. He does not answer at once. Peter, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, slides in close to me, a hand finding the back of my neck and tugging at loose hair with careless intimacy.
“The pirates and I have an understanding,” Peter says, his tone almost lazy. “They leave us alone now.”
“Oh?” I glance over my shoulder, trying to read his face.
A dark smile curls his mouth. “I told them if they didn’t, I’d slaughter them all.”
A shiver crawls up my spine, not just from the savagery of his words, but from how casually he says them. There’s no fury in his tone, no boast. He said it like it was a simple fact.
My mind flashes to memories stitched together like a mosaic: Captain Hook’s laugh the night he took me. His sneer, his low voice rasping Peter Pan through the smoke of cannon fire. The splash of red against the deck. The sound of that crocodile ticking through the dark.
Peter had killed him.
He’d been only a child, then, and he’d killed a man.
We round a cliffside, and the island turns into something darker.
Pirate’s Cove spreads before us, a jagged stretch of black stone and shattered masts, where the sea churns white and violent against the rocks.
The air grows colder as we sail closer. Splintered ships lie half-sunken in the shallows, their tattered ribs jutting out of the sea.
From the shadows of the cliffs, a ship emerges.
It’s enormous—twice the size of Thorne’s ship—with twin masts draped in black sails that blot out the sun.
A Jolly Roger snaps high above, its skull stark against the dark canvas.
The vessel cuts across our path with frightening speed, its shadow swallowing the deck.
“Ahoy there!” a voice booms from the crow’s nest.
I shield my eyes and look up. A man waves to us from the rigging.
A low chuckle rumbles beside me, drawing my gaze. Peter’s lips curve into a bloodthirsty smile, making my stomach sink.
“Let’s see what they want,” he says.
Thorne grits his teeth but does as Peter says, aligning The Huntress alongside the larger vessel.
The gangplank crashes down between the ships with a heavy thud, the sound echoing over the waves.
Without hesitation, Thorne climbs first, every muscle tense, disappearing over the rail.
Peter lingers for a breath longer, looking at me in a way that sets me on edge.
“Stay here,” he says.
It isn’t a suggestion.
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already stalking up the gangplank, shoulders tight with purpose. My pulse spikes. I grit my teeth and follow anyway, the boards creaking under my boots. Stepping aboard the pirates’ ship, my eyes immediately land on a familiar figure.
One that shouldn’t be here.
Captain Hook. Alive and well.
For a second, my mind blanks. He looks exactly as I remember him: tall, commanding, wrapped in black and deep crimson.
Every detail of him carries that same blend of elegance and malice.
His brown eyes burn like smoldering coals beneath his dark, unruly hair.
The gleam of his steel hook catches the sun, curving with deadly promise.
But this can’t be.
I rub at my eyes, convinced I’m hallucinating. He’s dead. I saw it. I remember Peter’s blade, the blood, the ticking crocodile, and its open jaws. How is he standing here?
My heart hammers as I glance between Peter’s rigid frame and Hook’s lethal smile, waiting for one of them to make sense of it. To explain the impossible to me.
Around him, his crew loiters—rugged pirates, scarred and tattooed, their grins edged with menace, hands resting on the hilts of their weapons.
One watches us too closely as he sharpens his knife in slow, rhythmic strokes.
Another knots a rope into a noose, smirking as his gold teeth catch the light.
The air smells of salt, sweat, and rusting iron.
Hook’s gaze catches on Thorne first. For a heartbeat, something almost human flickers there, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, buried beneath that harsh, razored smile.
His attention slides to Peter, and his face twists, all warmth burning away until only hatred remains.
Then his eyes finally find mine, and his mouth curves into an almost delighted grin that chills me straight through.
“Wendy Darling,” he practically purrs.
Peter goes rigid in front of me. “Don’t you fucking say her name.”
Hook lifts both hands, one flesh and one gleaming steel. “Now, now. Where are your manners, boy? I’m only greeting an old friend.”
Peter takes a step forward, blocking me completely. “Why did you hail us? Looking to end what’s left of your miserable existence?”
Hook’s smile widens, eyes alight with an almost gleeful madness. “And who do you think made it miserable in the first place?”
The air tightens. I can feel the rage building in Peter, tight and barely leashed. My hand finds his back in a silent plea for him not to explode here, but his muscles are coiled hard beneath my palm.
Thorne edged closer to us. His face is pale, clearly worried.
Hook’s gaze flicks to him again, and this time there’s something almost… rueful in it. “Still playing lapdog, are you, Thorne? I’d have thought you’d learned better by now.”
Thorne’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to it.
Peter bristles, stepping forward, his voice a snarl. “Enough.”
“Ah, the king of Neverland speaks. Tell me, boy—how fares your little kingdom? Still rotting from the inside out?”
Peter lunges, and I barely manage to grab his arm. “Peter, stop! He’s baiting you!”
But Hook only laughs again, the sound scraping over my nerves. “And you, my darling Wendy. I’m delighted you’re here, but how very foolish of you to return to this endless hell.”
The air lodges in my throat.
“Don’t. Talk. To. Her.” Peter’s voice is ice.
Thorne steps quickly between them, raising both hands. “Enough, both of you. The sun’s up, the tide’s fair. Let’s not ruin the day with bloodshed.”
For a moment, no one moves. Hook studies Thorne, eyes narrowing, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that almost looks like admiration.
“Always the voice of reason,” Hook says.
I tug on Peter’s arm again, desperate to get him off this cursed ship before he snaps. “Peter, please.”
He relents at last, his glare never leaving Hook. “Fine. Thorne. Let’s go.”
Thorne’s eyes flick once more to Hook—a silent exchange I can’t begin to decipher—and then he turns sharply on his heel and stalks down the gangplank.
Peter lingers a beat longer, his voice dropping to a deadly tone. “Don’t fuck with me, Hook. I’m not a child anymore.”
Hook’s bow is mocking, theatrical, his grin sharp enough to draw blood. “And yet,” he purrs, “not quite the man you think you are.”
Peter sweeps me into his arms without another word, his body thrumming with barely contained rage. He flies us down to the deck of The Huntress, just as she pulls away.
I look back over his shoulder. Hook stands at the rail, the sun glinting menacingly off his steel hook. Thorne stands at the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes on the horizon. And Peter—Peter holds me too tightly, his heart a wild, erratic drum against my chest.
“Peter,” I murmur, “how is Captain Hook alive?”
His chest stiffens against my cheek. I try to pull back so I can see his face, but his arms tighten just enough to make it clear he’d rather I didn’t. I push anyway. I’m not about to let him brush this off. I saw Hook die with my own eyes. At least, I thought I did.
Peter exhales, then releases me. His green eyes find mine, hardening. “He never died, Wendy,” he says, flat and final.
My pulse spikes. “Yes, he did. I saw it.”
He smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “You saw wrong.”
Cold disbelief floods through me. “Why are you lying to me?” I demand, jabbing my finger into his chest. “Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”
His jaw tightens. He looks away, a whisper of guilt crossing his face before it vanishes behind that infuriating mask. “You saw wrong,” he repeats, softer this time, but the finality in his voice feels like a door slamming shut.
My throat burns with anger. I blink back tears, feeling oddly humiliated by his deliberate denial of the truth, and catch Thorne in my periphery—pretending not to notice, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond us.
I turn away from Peter, staring out at the open horizon. The sea stretches endlessly in every direction like a cruel illusion. Hook’s words echo back through my mind: How very foolish of you to return to this endless hell.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Maybe I had made a grave mistake coming back here.