Page 130 of Losing Wendy

“Why?”

“Because I’m not the kind of Mate you’ve always dreamt of, Wendy Darling.”

My throat hurts. “You lied,” I say. “All the times you said you didn’t want me.”

Peter turns to me, and he attempts to regain his playful demeanor, but fumbles it as he replies, “What is a lie, Wendy Darling, but a story we tell ourselves? And are stories lies if they make the world a more bearable place?”

“Is that what you do to the Lost Boys, too?” I say, realizing how carefully I need to tread around this topic. Peter still doesn’t know I heard enough to convince me he’s the murderer. “Is that how you have to earn their love and loyalty? By lying to them about what a monster you are? Because you know what they’d do as soon as they learned the truth?”

Peter actually snorts. “Tell me, Wendy Darling, what is the truth?”

I open my mouth, but I fall short for words.

So instead, I wipe the grime on my pants and go to walk away.

A hand grabs my wrist, but it’s gentle—the type of grasp I could wriggle out of if I tried.

“What? Readying to call in your bargain?” I ask, my tone all acid.

“Would you like me to?” Peter asks, that wicked grin revealing a set of dimples. Even now, the sight of him takes the breath out of me, and I hate myself for it.

I’m not especially brave, nor am I exceedingly clever, but there’s something I’ve always excelled at. Leaving a conversation making others feel as if I’ve been convinced. Even better, as if I agreed with them the entire time.

So I let the wicked smile of Peter’s slip onto my face, mirroring it in my expression.

“No need,” I say, dipping my voice low and seductive. “Because as much as I’m yours, you’re mine. And I intend to keep you, my shadowed little thing.”

Peter’s face flashes feral, and he grabs my hand, leading me outof the tunnels and into his rooms. My heart slams against my chest as he closes the door behind him, then picks me up and lays me on his bed.

If I allowed it, I think I could let him kiss away the pain.

I’ll at least let him believe he has.

CHAPTER 47

When Peter first laid me on his bed, I’d been resolved to do whatever it took to keep him distracted from killing the next boy on the Sister’s list. But then his hands trailing my body had sent me back to my parents’ parlor, to the feel of velvet underneath my fingernails as I dug them into the chair upholstery, trying to focus on any sensation other than what the men did to me. I’d been on the edge of panic, seeing shadows in the corners of my vision.

So I’d slipped my hand into the pocket of my trousers, then pressed my powder-dusted fingertips to Peter’s mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I’d whispered as his eyes went wide, his body still with the rapid effects of the rushweed. Even now, for the life of me, I can’t fathom why I apologized, except that the betrayal in his blue eyes had rent my Mated soul in two.

Part of me wonders if I should have killed him then. But as of now, he’s sprawled across his bed, body immobilized for the time being.

I give myself three breaths when I get back to my room.

Three breaths to trace the Mating Mark on my face. To feel itsdips and rivulets in my skin. I used to think of them as freckles, but now their shape reminds me of tears.

Three breaths to hold onto that dream I’ve had since I was just a child.

When my lungs rattle on the fourth breath, I tuck my hands by my sides.

And let the dream shatter.

“John.” I shake my brother awake. He rolls over, saliva glistening on his cheek as he rubs his eyes.

He looks so young like this.

Not young enough.

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