Chapter 22 Stillness Before the Bite
Chapter Twenty-Two
Stillness Before the Bite
Ilie sprawled in the grass, palms pressed flat to the warm earth.
Soft sunlight spills over my face as though Neverland is trying to lull me into complacency.
Bees drift lazily from bloom to bloom. Somewhere nearby, Finn and Tinker Bell chatter as they work in the garden together, their voices light, almost cheerful.
It should be enough to calm me.
It isn’t.
My heart refuses to slow. My thoughts keep circling back to last night, to the sharp edge of Peter’s anger, to the fear that had lodged itself beneath my ribs and refused to leave.
He doesn’t trust me.
The thought repeats itself relentlessly. Echoing. Something is wrong. Something is deeply, terribly wrong.
My whole body feels coiled tight, as though I’m waiting for something inevitable to happen—like the ground beneath me might suddenly give way.
I lift my head and watch Finn and Tink kneeling over a bed of herbs. Finn trims the stems carefully, tongue poking out in concentration, while Tink flits around him, correcting his technique with exaggerated annoyance. She nudges him with her shoulder. He nudges her back. They laugh.
My bitterness over Peter’s secrecy makes this peace and brightness feel like nothing more than an illusion.
My gaze drifts past them to the forest lining the meadow, where the sunlight falters, and the trees grow thick and twisted. Where shadows linger too long. Where red eyes watch.
Neverland is not gentle.
And I know, deep down, that it all leads back to Peter Pan. How could it not?
My head sinks back into the grass. I close my eyes and breathe in the sweet, herbal scent of the garden, forcing my lungs to slow, forcing my body to pretend it’s safe.
Peter and I barely spoke after we returned to the treehouse last night.
We ate dinner with everyone else like nothing was wrong, listened to Thorne and Finn’s chatter, and endured Tink’s barbed comments.
Later, we went to bed in silence. He held me, but his arms were stiff, unfamiliar.
I didn’t melt into him like I normally do.
I’d told him I wanted to go home. Did I mean it?
No.
But in that moment, it had felt necessary.
It felt like the only card I had left to play.
His power over me is so complete—absolute, really—that threatening to leave was the only way I knew how to reclaim even a sliver of control.
Or the illusion of it. Because the truth we’re both very aware of is that I can’t leave unless he allows it.
So what power do I actually have?
And worse, I’d seen the way my words cut him. The pain in his eyes. I hated that. Hated that I hurt him. Even though I was trying to hurt him.
A soft nudge presses against my foot. I blink and open my eyes to find Finn standing over me, his body blocking the sun, concern etched across his face.
“Are you okay?” he asks gently.
Tink floats up beside him, arms crossed. “Of course she is,” she says. “She’s just lazy.”
I roll my eyes. “Sorry. I know I said I’d help.” I push myself up onto my elbows. “I’m just tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
Tink bristles. “Are you bragging now?”
This damn faerie.
I ignore her and shoot Finn an apologetic smile as I get to my feet and join them, pulling weeds from the soil.
I let my body fall into the rhythm of it, hands working on instinct, mind deliberately kept far from Peter.
Finn and Tink bicker softly beside me, teasing each other like an old married couple.
For a while, I almost forget the knot in my chest.
Almost.
The sun begins to dip toward afternoon when a sudden chill crawls up my spine. A shadow falls over me, stealing the warmth. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s there.
“You’re filthy,” Peter murmurs behind me, amusement threading his voice.
I sigh and turn to face him—and immediately curse my own reaction. He’s infuriatingly beautiful, all sharp angles and lazy confidence, copper hair catching the light.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough gardening for one day?” he asks smoothly. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
The way he says cleaned up sends a shiver straight through me. I know exactly what he means.
I glower at him. He’s acting as though yesterday never happened. As though I didn’t threaten him. As though he didn’t scare me. I weigh my options in the span of a heartbeat. Do I refuse him? Stay angry? Ignore him?
And then what?
Where would that actually get me?
“Okay,” I say instead, pulling off my gloves and dropping them onto the rocks.
I turn and find Finn and Tink watching us—Finn with open concern, Tink with thinly veiled disdain.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I call to Finn. “I’ll help with dinner.”
He nods, offering me a tentative smile. Tink rolls her eyes.
Peter takes my hand in his, fingers warm and possessive, and leads me away from the garden, toward the springs.
Toward the reckoning I can feel closing in.
Hand in hand, he leads me down the forest path. It’s darker than usual—the canopy closing in, branches reaching for me like grasping fingers, snagging in my hair, tugging at my dress. I stumble over a root. Peter doesn’t slow. He just keeps pulling me forward like he didn’t notice.
Or worse—like he did, and just doesn’t care.
I open my mouth to speak, then close it again. I don’t know what I would say. I don’t know how to return to normal, as if normal was ever something we truly had.
His calm scrapes against my nerves, though. It feels wrong after everything. After last night. So I stay silent. I watch my feet. I focus on placing one step in front of the other while his grip stays firm around my hand, tugging me deeper into the dark.
The closer we get to the hot spring, the tension between us tightens into something unmistakable. It’s as if a live wire runs from his palm into mine, straight through my veins, settling low in my core.
I want him.
I’m angry. I’m confused. I’m hollowed out with a kind of loneliness I can’t name. I should be holding on to that. I should be guarding myself. Instead, I want the very thing that caused it all.
It’s sick, isn’t it? Like I’m an addict, and he’s my drug of choice—one hit, and I forget everything. There’s no logic here, no reasoning my way out of it. No amount of anger can douse my desire.
Wanting Peter Pan isn’t something I chose.
It just is.
The sudden brightness of the hot spring clearing nearly blinds me after the forest’s gloom.
I blink rapidly, rubbing at my eyes. The steam curls up from the water in lazy, inviting spirals.
The air is warm, heavy with minerals—and despite the beauty of the place, the tranquility feels false with Peter standing beside me.
He takes my hand again, posture easy, unbothered, and drags me toward the pool. He stops abruptly at the lip of the spring and turns to face me, a small, knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He leans down, lips brushing my ear as he murmurs, “Just relax.”
Damn him.
I try to pull away, but he’s quick—both of my wrists are caught in his hands before I can move. His mouth leaves my ear and trails along my jaw, and a sharp breath escapes me before I can stop it. My resolve wavers.
As if sensing his victory, he lets go of my wrists. His hands slide to my linen sundress, tugging the sleeves down my arms. The fabric slips free and pools at my feet, whispering over my skin. Cool air rushes in where warmth had been, and I shiver.
His mouth follows the line of my throat. My breathing turns shallow, uneven. I force my thoughts back to last night—to the fear, the argument, the way he looked at me.
“Peter,” I say, but the word lacks the strength I meant it to have.
He ignores me. His fingers find the clasp of my bra and unhook it with an effortless snap. It falls away, forgotten. His palms close around my breasts, and I bite down hard on my lip to keep from moaning.
I can’t give in like this. I can’t be that weak.
His thumb drags over my nipple, slow—once, twice—and my body arches despite myself. A whimper threatens, and I swallow it back, nails digging into my palms.
“Peter,” I try again, forcing steel into my voice. “About our fight—”
His grip tightens. He pinches my nipple hard enough to rip a gasp from me.
His mouth drops to my collarbone, teeth grazing before his lips soothe the sting.
A dizzying heat coils low in my belly. He drops to his knees before me, mouth grazing the swell of my breasts, lips parting to nibble at one aching peak.
My body wants to surrender. My mind screams for me to hold on. He’s trying to silence me. He doesn’t want to talk—I know that. But I need to say this.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
He stills, eyes lifting to find mine, confusion shining in the green depths.
“Peter, I’m sorry for telling you to take me home. I-I didn’t mean it.”
He goes rigid, and I don’t miss the flicker of pain that passes through his gaze before he shutters it away again. His grip at my waist softens. He nods once, accepting the apology. Then, slowly, that familiar smile curves his mouth.
“Now will you stop your twittering, little Wendy bird, and let me take care of you?”
I hesitate for only a second before nodding. I’m weak.
Peter rises to his full height, then begins to undress before me. I watch in rapt silence as his muscles flex and shift beneath golden skin, the fabric of his shirt sliding up over his head, followed by his pants. His erection stands proudly between us, and I blush like a virgin, eyes darting away.
He grins at my shyness before scooping me up into his arms. I gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for balance. He steps into the hot spring, steam curling around us, and sets me down on a large, smooth rock at the edge of the pool. Only my feet and calves dip into the warmth.
Then he sinks to his knees before me, his molten gaze locked on mine as he gently parts my thighs, opening me to him.
“Wha—” I start, confused.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I told you, let me take care of you, darling.”
I swallow hard as understanding settles over me.
His hands glide up the outsides of my trembling thighs with a possessiveness that steals my breath.
“Let me make you feel good,” he murmurs, thumbs hooking into the lace of my panties. He peels the damp fabric down with agonizing slowness, his knuckles grazing my skin, and flicks it into the grass without a second thought.
Kneeling in the water, he simply stares, dark green eyes devouring every exposed curve and slick fold.
“God, you have a pretty little cunt, Wendy,” he says, the filthy praise sending a jolt of heat straight through me.
One finger, slick with mineral-rich spring water, slides between my legs, pressing lightly at my entrance, testing my give. Then he pushes in with maddening slowness, a single digit sinking deep. A low groan escapes him as he feels how wet I already am.
“See how wet you are for me?” he whispers, curling his finger to stroke me from the inside. He drags the wetness through my folds, the sound obscene in the hush between us.
Then he bows his head, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss high on my inner thigh, his copper hair brushing against my skin.
His mouth trails lower with agonizing leisure, each kiss a brand, until his warm breath washes over the most sensitive part of me.
Then his tongue finds me, flat and demanding, as he lashes my clit in one long stroke that sends me arching off the rock.
“Peter!” I cry, the sound raw, torn from somewhere deep.
He hums against me, the vibration wicked, torturous, as he slides a second finger inside me, stretching me, fucking me with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
He looks up at me then, eyes locked on mine like he’s staring straight into my soul. “Who do you belong to, Wendy?” he asks, voice guttural, tongue circling my clit with relentless precision.
I whimper a broken, desperate sound, my hands fisting in his hair, not to pull him away but to hold him there.
“Say it.”
His fingers twist inside me, scissoring slightly, and I choke on a sob.
“You,” I gasp, the world collapsing to the points of his touch. “I belong to you, Peter.”
“Again.”
He sucks my clit hard into his mouth, fingers plunging deeper, and my hips jerk uncontrollably.
“I belong to you!” I scream, the confession unraveling the last taut thread of my control.
He hums against me in approval, driving me to the edge with one final, wicked curl of his fingers and the pull of his lips on my clit.
I shatter completely, head thrown back, eyes catching the endless stretch of blue sky above as I cry out my pleasure into the warm, steam-laced mist around us—convulsions wracking through my body, wave after wave.
My body so easily forgets what my mind remembers. Forgets the confusion. The sorrow. The fear. It hungrily seeks his touch, this pleasure, clouding everything else in its wake.
I’m just an addict. And Peter Pan is my drug.
When I come down from the high of my climax, I expect him to take me without hesitation—to bend me over the rock and fuck me until I’m crying his name.
But he doesn’t.
He simply lifts me from the stone and into his lap, his erection hard and unmistakable, pressed against my back. And still, he only washes me. His hands glide over my body, massaging my arms, my shoulders. Each movement is slow and affectionate.
It feels… almost loving.
But the tension between us lingers, unresolved. That sense of impending doom—it doesn’t fade with the warmth of the afternoon sun. It doesn’t dissolve under Peter’s soothing hands. Not even the steam curling around us can fully obscure the dark forest that waits beyond this fragile pocket of peace.