Chapter 16 The Wild Hunt
Chapter Sixteen
The Wild Hunt
I’m walking through a forest with soft light filtering through the canopy above. Morning blooms perfume the air, their sweetness laced with the damp musk of moss and earth. The peace here is a lie. My body hums with warning.
Every muscle is tight, braced.
Something is wrong.
Something is watching.
I glance around, scanning the trees, but nothing stands out. So I keep walking, humming under my breath to drown out the quickening pulse in my throat.
The light suddenly goes out.
A shadow falls over me—huge, hulking.
Wrong.
I freeze.
The forest is no longer sweet. The air tastes of smoke. Of ash and iron. Of scorched earth. But there’s another scent too, and it’s terribly familiar.
Behind me, the figure exhales. Its breath is ragged. Bloodlust pours off it, thick and suffocating.
It wants to hurt me.
I want to run. I want to scream. But my legs won’t move.
I’m frozen.
Prey, waiting to be devoured.
“Wendy, wake up.”
I jolt, gasping. Peter’s green eyes hover above mine, brows drawn in concern.
“I think you were having a nightmare,” he murmurs. “You were shaking.”
I blink hard, trying to steady my pulse as fragments of the dream twist behind my eyes. I haven’t dreamt since coming to Neverland. Not like this. I thought they were behind me—now that I am back with the source of them.
I reach for him, seeking comfort. His familiar scent soothes my nerves and rattles them all at once. He doesn’t hesitate, pulling me into his arms.
“That bad, huh?” he whispers into my hair. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “I don’t remember,” I lie. Because how could I tell him the truth?
How could I voice outloud that in my dream, he wanted to kill me.
He holds me a moment longer, and I let myself sink into his tenderness, because I never know how long it will last. I try not to think about what my neck must look like—bruised and mottled skin.
I try not to think about how I’d never felt pleasure so blinding like I had last night as I fought for every breath
He pulls back, easing me onto the pillows. A smile breaks across his face, so dazzling it makes my pulse trip.
“I want to take you hunting today,” he says.
My eyes widen. “Hunting?”
He nods. “You’ve seen Finn’s garden. Thorne’s boat.”
He pouts, and it’s such an odd expression on him I can’t help but smile. “It’s only fair you come with me, too. It’s an adventure like when we were young.”
“I don’t have to kill anything, do I?”
He rolls his eyes. “You really think I’d make you kill an animal, Wendy?”
I narrow my gaze. “Maybe.”
His face contorts in mock outrage. “Unbelievable.”
His scandalized look breaks my composure. I can’t hold back my laugh.
“You little—” His hands shoot out, tickling my sides. I shriek, squirming under the assault.
“Peter—stop!” I gasp, breathless and laughing.
He finally relents, grinning. “Up you go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover—and the sun’s already climbing.”
* * *
I follow close behind Peter as we move deeper into the forest, far beyond the familiar paths. The trees grow taller here, their trunks thick as pillars, their branches tangled so tightly above us they form a living roof. Little sunlight breaks through the canopy—but the forest is far from dark.
Bioluminescent flora light our path. Mushrooms in hues of indigo and violet cluster at the bases of trees, their caps pulsing softly like the distant stars. Delicate vines drape from the limbs above, threaded with star-shaped blossoms that glow faint gold.
They remind me of the runes I saw glowing across Peter’s skin. I part my lips to ask—but stop myself. I don’t want to ruin his good mood.
Peter walks ahead with a bow in one hand, a quiver slung over his shoulder. He moves with the confidence of someone who undoubtedly belongs here. As we walk, he points things out to me.
“That one—” he gestures to a cluster of wide, translucent mushrooms glowing a ghostly blue “—will knock you out cold. Hours. Maybe days, depending on the dose.”
I lean closer, studying the strange, otherworldly fungi. Their slick caps glisten as if wet, their glow faintly pulsing… like they’re breathing.
He nudges a small cluster of flowers with his foot—delicate pale-pink petals cupping a golden center, their stems thin and wiry. “You used these once,” he says. “For our medicine.”
I crouch to examine them, faint recognition flickering at the edge of memory.
“Turns out they actually dull pain a little,” he adds, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Not much. But enough that your little flower poultices worked more than we realized.”
The memory tugs at my heart, those early days of scraped knees and bruised limbs. How I’d merely pretended to know what I was doing. The boys had believed in me nonetheless.
Further on, Peter crouches beside a low fern with jagged feathered leaves. “Don’t brush this one. It slices like a blade. And the sap burns.”
I step wide around it, eyeing it warily.
As we press on, the forest seems to shift around us. The trees creak and groan, their limbs arching overhead like rib bones. Leaves rustle in a wind I can’t feel, whispering to each other.
A new feeling takes root low in my neck—the hairs along my nape rise, and my skin prickles.
We’re being watched.
I glance behind us, eyes sweeping the forest, but nothing moves. And yet, I swear something lingers just beyond the edge of sight. I quicken my pace, drawing closer to Peter. I consider saying something, but bite it back.
If he’s not concerned, maybe I don’t need to be.
I hear the sound of water before I see it, a soft rush threading through the trees. A stream winds through the forest, narrow but swift, its surface rippling in the fractured light.
Peter halts just before it, turning to me with a crooked smile. His hand slips around my waist and, before I can react, he lifts me effortlessly into his arms and leaps. We sail over the stream in a single bound. For a heartbeat, I feel delightfully weightless.
His scent of pine and mint lingers between us. Still comforting despite everything.
Despite last night.
Despite that dream.
Then we land, his feet crunching softly on moss-covered earth. He sets me down gently, and just like that, the weight of reality settles back into me.
“Peter, where exactly are we going?” I ask.
He glances over his shoulder, one brow arched. “Worried?”
I narrow my eyes. “Should I be?”
He chuckles. “You’re always safe with me, Wendy.”
“Just not from you,” I mutter under my breath.
In the space of a breath, he’s on me. He presses me back against a tree, crowding into my space. I gasp, heart stuttering as his body pins mine. His nose grazes my hairline, trailing slowly to my temple, then down, ghosting along the curve of my cheek to my ear.
“But you don’t want to be safe from me,” he murmurs.
His breath skims the sensitive skin just beneath my ear, and I shiver. My body leans into him on instinct, before I can stop it. I bite the inside of my cheek to anchor myself.
“Maybe if you were honest with me,” I whisper, “I’d feel safer with you.”
My words shatter the spell. He pulls back, cool air rushing between us. His expression shutters, turns guarded.
“Maybe I’ll open up when I think you handle it,” he says, voice flat. “Now can we just enjoy today without—”
I grab his wrist before he can finish. My other hand slides up the strong line of his neck, fingers tangling in copper strands at his nape as I pull him to me.
It’s not just what he said—it’s what he didn’t. He didn’t say never. Didn’t say you don’t get to know.
He said not yet.
I let myself believe he might mean to let me in. Not today, but someday. And that flicker of hope sparks something reckless in me. Something desperate.
I draw his lips to mine and kiss him. Fiercely.
Without hesitation or restraint. There’s nothing gentle in it, just a sudden, messy flood of want and defiance and need.
My mouth crashes against his, lips parting, tongues tangling.
I pour every ounce of confusion, longing, and anger into that kiss.
The forest falls away, time holds its breath, and for one perfect moment, there’s only us.
His body cages mine, pinning me to the rough bark. He overwhelms me, and I bask in it. His scent, his heat, the sheer presence of him consuming me.
And then—he’s gone.
He steps back, leaving me cold and aching.
Our eyes lock. His dark green gaze is wild, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. A flicker of triumph stirs in my chest.
He’s just as undone as I am.
“We’ll be in these woods all day if you keep that up,” he growls.
I shrug, deliberately unrepentant, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Sorry.”
He narrows his eyes, but I catch the flicker of amusement before he turns and strides ahead.
I fall into step behind him, my pulse still thrumming. But slowly, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. That feeling of being watched fades, like mist burning off beneath the morning sun.
Peter launches into a story, his voice lighter now, animated, recounting one of his most dangerous hunts.
A massive wild boar, nearly the size of a bear, with tusks sharp enough to pierce clean through a man’s chest. He’d tracked it through these very woods for three days, wounded it once, then lost it again.
The final standoff ended in blood, mud, and triumph.
As he speaks, he pushes aside branches before they can brush me, lifts me easily over a tangled snarl of roots. His hand lingers at my waist even after my feet touch the ground.
I find myself laughing, genuinely, at his ridiculous dramatics and over-the-top sound effects.
His eyes spark at the sound, and for a moment, it feels like slipping back into something old and familiar—like the way we used to be. For a little while, I forget what he is. What we are. I just enjoy being with him again.
We break through the treeline, and Peter halts.
Before us, the forest opens into a wide clearing, so bright it nearly stings my eyes.
Sunlight pours through a fractured canopy, gilding a meadow of wildflowers and moss-covered stone.
The air feels warmer, like we’ve stepped into a place the darker side of Neverland hasn’t touched.
Peter gestures toward the clearing. “The largest bucks you’ve ever seen come through here,” he says, stopping just shy of the light. Then he unshoulders his bow and holds it out to me.
I blink. “What—?”
“Don’t you remember how to use this?” His grin is pure mischief, the same crooked smile from years ago—when he’d handed me a child-sized bow and declared he’d teach me.
A smile tugs at my lips. “Yeah. You were very patient back then.”
“I can still be patient,” he says, stepping behind me.
He molds himself to my back, one hand resting lightly at my hip, the other guiding mine to notch the arrow to the string. His breath curls against my neck, warm and mint-sweet. The whole world narrows to the places where his body touches mine.
“Widen your stance,” he murmurs.
His hand slides between my thighs, nudging them apart. I gasp, the touch brief but far too suggestive. He lingers a beat too long before trailing upward, over the curve of my hip, the dip of my waist, then along the length of my arm to my elbow.
I try to focus. I really do. But with him so close, his warm breath curling in my ear, it’s impossible.
“What am I aiming at?”
“See that knot?” he whispers, tilting his head toward a thick tree across the clearing. “Center of the trunk. It’s shaped like an eye.”
I spot it—dark, gnarled, perfectly round. It does look like an eye. Watching. Waiting. My pulse skips. I draw the string back, the tension humming in my fingers and along my arms.
“Lift your arm a bit. Like this.” He gently squeezes my elbow, adjusting it higher.
I steady my breathing as best I can with him pressed flush against my back—and release. The arrow thuds into the outer ring of the knot.
Peter hums low in approval. “Not bad, little darling. But I think we can do better.”
His hand slips lower again, brushing along the inside of my thigh. “Your stance is still a little too tight.”
I laugh, turning to face him. “I wonder why.”
He grins. “I could loosen you up.”
The moment stretches. My chest rises in quick, shallow breaths. His gaze clings to mine. The forest stills around us as if waiting for my answer.
A soft rustle in the underbrush breaks the moment.
Both our heads snap up as a massive stag steps into the clearing, antlers wide as branches, eyes dark and gleaming. Sunlight catches its hide, turning it silver-gold. But beneath the awe, a chill creeps down my spine.
That feeling is back.
We’re not alone.
My gaze travels along the treeline. No movement. No breeze. Not even birdsong can be heard. Just a crushing stillness pressing in.
Beside me, Peter has already moved. He draws an arrow, fits it to the string in one fluid motion. The muscles in his arms flex as he tracks the stag, breath held. But just as he releases, the deer bolts. The arrow slices through the air, missing by inches.
Peter doesn’t curse. He doesn’t even move. He just stares at the space where the stag had stood. Every line of him is taut. His eyes sweep the shadows like he’s finally realized something is here watching us.
“Peter—?” I start. But I don’t finish.
He grabs me in a flash, one arm locking tight around my waist, and launches skyward. We burst through the trees, a rush of wind and splintering branches. I clutch him instinctively—arms around his neck, legs around his waist—as the ground vanishes beneath us.
I glance over his shoulder and see it.
Just beyond the clearing where we stood only seconds ago, a vast, shifting shadow moves stealthily along the forest floor. Too big to be a man or even a beast. And pulsing within it, a faint, unmistakable red glow.