Page 129 of Losing Wendy

I bite my tongue to keep from gagging as I recall the vile words Peter spoke about me just now. The sick, pitiful girl inside whose entire purpose was to convince a man to care for her aches to believe that her Mate is good at heart. That he’s simply haunted by the wicked creature within.

But Peter’s usually pale eyes are black as soot, even over the whites.

Even if there is a version of Peter I’m safe with, it’s not this one. The version that’s half-fae, half-shadow. I’m not sure which of them has been killing the Lost Boys, but I have my guesses.

“Wendy,” he says, and this time it’s a command.

“I saw the Sister,” I say, hating how even now, knowing what I know, I still feel compelled to answer, an urge to please him. “I was so terrified, I ran as soon as my legs would move.”

The lie feels too convenient. Too rehearsed. Peter doesn’t appear convinced, and he doesn’t kneel to help with the root that’s now scaling up my ankle, pin-pricking thorns into my flesh.

I wince as a thorn lodges itself in, but Peter doesn’t so much as bat his eyelashes. Granted, I don’t know why he would. Not when it’s clear that whatever shadow creature dwells inside him still has at least some semblance of control.

“She won’t be happy if she discovers you saw her,” he says, glancing down at my leg.

“Won’t she know as soon as she looks at the tapestry of Neverland?”

Peter’s shadows curl inward. It’s amazing he’s able to tolerate being so constricted in this tunnel; the muscles of his back have to be aching. “She’s not omniscient. The tapestry displays a handful of crucial events, but if it included all the details, it would be never-ending.”

A terrifying smile overcomes his face, all glinting teeth. “Perhaps I should leave you here for her. For next time. She’s been increasingly displeased with my offerings as of late.” Peter cocks his head, then squats, spreading his legs apart as he props his elbows on his knees and examines me. His wings expand, like a feline stretching its limbs. “But that would be a waste of your pretty flesh, wouldn’t it? When I could keep you for myself?”

I cringe underneath my shackles, remembering Peter’s apology when he first brought me to Neverland.

I apologize for my lack of manners. It’s more difficult to control myself in that form.

I close my eyes, wishing to drown out the sight of this Peter, the version I only recognize from my nightmares. This isn’t him, I remind myself. This is the monster. This is whatever the Shadow Sister has cursed him to bear.

“Peter,” I say, hoping his name on my lips will draw him out to me. It’s a foolish, stupid hope, because the Peter kneeling before me lets out a dry, hungry cackle.

“You’re such a pretty little girl,” he says, running his fingers over the curve of my hip. I swat him away, digging my nails into the back of his hand, hard enough to produce blood, though he shows no reaction other than flicking his head toward my face.

“Tell me, Wendy Darling, why did you follow the shadows if you didn’t crave a little darkness?”

Fear crawls up my throat, and I consider screaming. But what good would that do? The only ones around to alert are the Lost Boys, who adore Peter to a fault and would do nothing to contradict him. John would come for me, I have no doubt, but the only thing that would accomplish would be getting him killed.

But then I remember. If I’m Peter’s Mate, then he’s just as much mine.

So I slip my fingers to the nape of his neck and pull him in.

He groans at the kiss, his lips devouring mine, a violence to the passion I’m unaccustomed to. Even now, I hate myself for the desire it ignites within me as my Mating Mark silences my good sense. Pain lances my back as Peter digs his talons into my skin, my blood screaming at me to fight back as it hits the cold, dank air. My heart beats wildly in my chest, tears stinging at my eyes, but then Peter’s grip on me loosens, his body melting into me.

He pulls back, blinking, and the inky glaze over his eyes washes away.

“How badly did I behave?” is his first question.

“Not exactly like a gentleman,” I breathe sharply.

“I wouldn’t anticipate so,” says Peter, all frivolity sucked out of his features, even if he is back to himself. He withdraws his hands from my back; the talons are gone, but there’s blood caking his fingernails. He stares at his hands in numb shock. “Wendy, I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” I blurt quickly, still wincing. I don’t know if my resolve can handle an apology from Peter at the moment. My throat goes dry as Peter rips the roots from my ankles. I contemplate running now that I’m free, but I’m not sure what that would accomplish given Peter’s fae speed and agility. “I saw you,” I say instead, then I push myself up, wrapping my arms around him and trailing my fingers over the divots in his right shoulder blade.

The Mark that makes me his.

Peter goes still, like he’s contemplating whether what I’ll say will allow him to let me go.

“You didn’t tell me you were my Mate,” I whisper, considering all the moments of weakness surrounding Peter that I in my naivete attributed to fae glamour.

“You didn’t ask.”

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