Chapter 33 An Unforgiving Star
Chapter Thirty-Three
An Unforgiving Star
We lie tangled in each other, limbs bare beneath the open sky.
The meadow stretches around us in a riot of color, blossoms blooming brighter than I’ve ever seen, their perfume thick in the air, making me dizzy.
Magic hums in the earth beneath my spine, thrumming through the air above, wrapping us in its pulse.
The sun pours down, golden and warm against my skin. The world feels still. Perfect.
I can never leave Peter Pan now.
My soul is tied to Neverland, bound to its heart as surely as his. Perhaps I could visit the mortal world, walk among my family and friends again—but I could never belong there. Not anymore.
The thought should hurt. But it doesn’t.
What tears me open isn’t the idea of leaving home behind—it’s the thought of leaving him.
That would have gutted me. That would have torn my soul in two.
Our love is not pure. It never was, really.
It is dark, twisted, and poisoned at the root.
And still, I cannot bring myself to care. He ruined me the day I met him.
Peter shifts beside me, his face nuzzling the curve of my jaw. A soft sound escapes him, almost like a sigh. For now, sweet Peter is back—the boy who wished for love, who dreamt a world into being.
I know the monster will return, craving my body, my cries, and I’ll welcome him with open arms because he is mine, too.
“Shall we head back?” he murmurs against my temple, voice low, almost drowsy. “Reassure Tink and Finn that we’re alive?”
I hum in soft agreement, though the last thing I want is to move. This moment is so peaceful, I’m afraid to shatter it.
“Where do you think Thorne and Hook went?” I ask after a moment.
“I think Thorne’s finally changed loyalties.”
My eyes widen. “You don’t seem upset by that.”
He shrugs, gaze drifting skyward. “Maybe I would’ve been. Before. But not anymore. I have you.”
My smile turns bittersweet. He looks at the sky so he doesn’t have to look at me. If pretending it doesn’t wound him gives him peace, I let him keep the illusion.
“And the pirates you slaughtered?”
“They’ll come back,” he says flatly. “With no memory of dying.”
His words give me pause. A chill slips through me. “Does Hook remember when he dies?”
“No,” Peter says. “None of them born of Neverland do.”
“Even Tinker Bell?” My voice falters. “Are they even real?”
He turns his head to look at me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
“They’re real here,” he says softly. “But they weren’t… brought. Not like you, or Finn, or Thorne. They were born of a child’s fantasy. That kind of magic doesn’t come from the mortal world.” His voice lowers, touched with weariness. “They can’t die. Not really. Not unless Neverland dies…”
He trails off, but his meaning lingers in the silence. And Neverland only dies if he dies.
A cold realization settles in my stomach.
To live. To feel. To love. But to do it on an endless loop, with no real end and no real loss. It explains something about Peter I hadn’t fully grasped before—his detachment, his carelessness with death.
How deeply can someone care when the cost is rarely final?
Then the thought strikes.
“What about me?” I whisper.
Peter frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Can I die?”
He watches me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Anyone brought here can die,” he says. “You. Me. Finn. Thorne.”
“And if I did…” My throat tightens. “Would you die? Would Neverland?”
He considers that.
“Maybe,” he says at last. “Considering the three of us are tied now.” A bitter smile touches his lips. “So you better not die on me, Wendy Darling.”
Then, with a flicker of that wild boyishness, he grins. Quick. Almost light. It makes my heart ache, because I see the truth beneath it.
He says it like a joke, but it’s not.
If I died—truly died—Peter wouldn’t let himself or Neverland survive the loss. He would make sure everything died with me.
* * *
We fly back toward the treehouse, but as it rises through the canopy, an ominous weight settles over me. My stomach twists with an innate awareness that something is wrong.
I glance at Peter. He’s already watching me, the same unease flickering in his gaze. Maybe it’s my newfound tether to Neverland, but I can feel the danger thick in the air, pressing in around us.
When we land, I hesitate, scanning the treehouse. I expect to hear footsteps, the beat of wings, Finn rushing to meet us, or Tinker Bell snapping some impatient greeting. But there’s nothing. No light from the windows or movement behind the glass. Just deep shadows.
Peter motions for me to stay behind him, his movements turning silent and precise, every sense on high alert. The forest is unnaturally still. No birdsong. No rustle of leaves. Only the sound of my own breathing and the slow creak of wood in the wind.
He eases the door open—and freezes.
I peer around his shoulder and nearly choke on a gasp.
Tinker Bell and Finn are lashed to chairs, wrists bound to the arms, ropes cinched tight around their torsos. Their mouths are gagged, their eyes wide and wild with panic.
Anger radiates off Peter in waves. I can feel it burning beneath his skin. He steps inside, and I follow, heart racing, gaze sweeping the room. And then I see him.
Thorne.
He lies crumpled on the floor, blood matting his temple, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
A horrified sound tears from my throat before I can stop it.
“Thought you’d bested me, boy?” The familiar voice slithers from the shadows, cold and cutting.
Hook steps forward, a wicked dagger gleaming in his hand. A feral light burns in his eyes, wilder than I’ve ever seen.
“You thought you could slaughter my crew before my very eyes,” he snarls, lips curling, “and I’d just slink back into the dark?”
He drags the blade slowly across Finn’s throat.
A thin crimson line blossoms. Finn flinches but makes no sound behind the gag.
Tinker Bell thrashes in her chair, wings beating furiously against the ropes.
A muffled, desperate cry tears from her throat.
Peter goes still, fists clenching as his rage crackles like lightning in the air around us.
“Ah,” Hook says with a smirk. “Angry, are we? Feeling that rage you wear like a second skin these days?”
Peter takes a menacing step forward.
Hook presses the dagger harder against Finn’s throat. Blood wells up, vivid and glistening, and a low moan of pain slips from Finn’s gagged mouth.
“Take one more step,” Hook snarls, “and I’ll slit his throat.”
Peter halts, his whole body thrumming with restrained violence. My heart pounds at the sight of Finn’s blood. If he dies… he won’t come back. The thought beats through my skull like a drum.
He won’t come back. He won’t come back.
“When will you learn, Hook?” Peter spits. “I’ve slaughtered you a thousand times, and you just keep coming back to test my patience.”
Hook’s expression falters, just for a moment. Confusion flickers in his eyes, but then he straightens, shoulders squared, sneer sharpening.
“This time I won’t fail,” he says. “You don’t rule this place. You infect it. This time, I’ll end you—for good. And when I do, Neverland will finally be free.”
A dark laugh slips from Peter, low and dangerous. “Free?” he murmurs. “From me?”
The air tightens around us, magic prickling against my skin as the runes along his arms flare faintly, answering his anger. I slip my hand into Peter’s. The situation is spiraling fast, past the point of no return.
“This isn’t the way,” I whisper to him.
I step forward to stand beside him, my voice unsteady but clear. “Thorne tried to stop you, didn’t he?” I nod toward Thorne’s motionless body
Hook’s gaze flicks to him. For a heartbeat, pain flashes across his features, then it hardens into scorn.
“Of course he did. Once a Lost Boy, always a Lost Boy,” he spits. “He turned his back on me for his petty loyalties.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. He stood up to protect you,” I say forcefully. “He chose love over blind obedience.”
Hook’s sneer falters. His grip on the knife loosens—just barely. But the moment passes quickly. His smile returns, more vicious.
“Are your pretty words supposed to move me? Make me give up revenge?” He scoffs. “You’re too soft, Miss Darling. Always have been. Now—on your knees. Both of you.”
“Never,” Peter snaps.
Hook arches a brow, mockery glittering in his eyes. “Despite looking like a man, you’re still such a child, Peter,” he says—and then he drives the dagger through Finn’s hand into the chair.
Finn screams through the gag, the sound raw and strangled.
“Stop!” I shout, my voice breaking. I collapse to my knees, hands trembling as tears spill hot and fast down my face.
Tinker Bell thrashes so violently that she knocks her chair over. Her muffled screams tear through the room. I’ve never heard her like this. The room feels like it might split open from the force of it.
I glance toward Thorne—but he’s gone. My heart stutters. I look away quickly, careful not to draw Hook’s attention, every nerve in my body on edge.
Peter remains standing, his whole body trembling. The treehouse begins to shake, the very bones of it groaning. Dust sifts down from the rafters, the floorboards vibrating beneath my knees like the island is bracing for an explosion.
I reach for his hand and tug hard. “Kneel, Peter,” I hiss.
His gaze flicks to me, every line of his face drawn with conflict. War rages behind his eyes.
“Trust me.” I reach through our bond, calming him, coaxing him to listen to me.
He searches my face, breath shallow. And then I see it, the moment he decides to trust me. The trembling stops and the air stills. Peter drops to his knees beside me.
Hook lets out a triumphant bark of laughter. “There it is,” he sneers. “I’ve been waiting to see the King of Neverland kneel before me. Beg for his life—and his woman’s.”
Peter merely smiles viciously. “Careful, Hook,” he murmurs. “You never do see the knife coming from behind.”
“Enough,” Hook snaps, unsheathing his sword.
But before he can even take a step, a blade bursts through his chest from behind. Its tip gleams red as blood soaks his shirt, blooming in violent color. Hook stares down at it, stunned. A wet gurgle escapes his lips as blood spills from his mouth.
Silence falls, like a heavy curtain around us. My hands fly to my mouth in horror. Behind him stands Thorne, his sword buried to the hilt, chest heaving.
“Of course… why would you ever choose me?” Hook rasps, legs buckling beneath him.
Thorne pulls the blade free and catches him as he falls, lowering him gently to the ground. Tears stream down his face as he cradles Hook’s head in his lap.
“I am choosing you, fool,” he says, a grief-stricken laugh splintering through his voice. “You won’t remember loving me when you wake. But I’ll make you fall for me again. And again. And again.” His voice doesn’t waver, as if he’s already resigned himself to a lifetime of beginning anew.
Hook’s breathing slows, a choked sound escaping him. “Then I’ll see you when I wake, my Thorne Sparrow.”
His chest rises once more—then stills. His body crumbles to ash in Thorne’s arms, dissolving into nothing. It slips through his fingers as if it could still be held, if only he closed his hands fast enough.
I feel Peter go still behind me. Through our bond, I taste it—fear. Not of death, but of forgetting. Of being forgotten.
The cruelty of it all settles over me. To love someone who forgets you each time he dies. A love forced to claw its way back into existence, again and again.
A choked sound escapes me. I scramble forward, gathering Throne into my arms as he slumps forward, shattered. He doesn’t resist, collapsing into me. I hold him tightly to my chest, my hand in his hair, my body a barrier between him and the wreckage of what just happened.
You’re not alone. I don’t say it aloud, but I pour the words into my touch. None of us are, not anymore. Not even the ones doomed to forget.
Peter moves silently across the room, jaw tight, expression unreadable, as he unties Tinker Bell and Finn.
The ropes fall away, and Tink is on her feet in a blur, wings buzzing furiously.
She throws herself at Finn, her sobs raw and choked as her hands flutter over his throat, his bloodied hand, his face.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Finn tries to say, flushed and flustered, but his wince betrays him.
Her wings snap angrily, silver eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re fine,” she snaps, voice trembling. “You almost died.” She clutches him tighter, dragging him toward the kitchen. “I’ll fix you. Don’t argue.”
He doesn’t.
Peter stands apart from us all, utterly silent, his eyes shadowed. The rage has burned out of him, smoke after a wildfire, but in its place lingers something far heavier.
Shame.
His hands curl at his sides. His gaze, always so precise, drifts somewhere I cannot follow.
We are alive. All of us.
But it does not feel like victory.