Page 34 of Freeing Hook

She really is quite pretty.

Her cheekbones slice against her otherwise delicate features. Rather than detracting from her femininity, her cropped hairstyle only highlights her distinct features. Full, pink lips,casually sly in their angle. A delicate brow. Long, blond eyelashes. Wide blue eyes.

Pretty is a tad of an understatement, and that’s just her face.

I know from the burlap sack that’s barely long enough to reach past her buttocks that her lean tan legs are just as beautiful, but I don’t let my gaze dip to examine them more thoroughly than what I can see from the periphery of my vision.

That Tink chooses to wear clothing at all is a glaring contradiction to what I’ve read in history books, packed with illustrations of wild fae dancing naked through the woods, unashamed of their exposed flesh.

The burlap sack might simply be a practical measure to ward off injuries common in the forest, but in case it’s not, in case Tink wishes to cover herself from the view of onlookers and a burlap sack was the best she could find on this island, I’d rather not ogle. Especially considering I have her caged.

“Do you have any idea what might have happened to my sister?” I ask.

Tink gnashes her glinting teeth, and the vision of a nightstalker flashes in my mind.

“It’s possible she could have been attacked on the island,” I say. “But we haven’t found any remains.”

Tink again tilts her head at me. That’s about all she can do with the rushweed in her system. Curiosity brims in her eyes. I’m familiar with the look. People offer it often when they perceive that I’ve been too blunt, or when I’ve refrained from inserting the correct dose of emotion into my words.

That’s ridiculous, of course. You can’t tell someone’s feelings strictly by the way their voice sounds or their diction. Sure, it can be a fair measure, but most people can manipulate those variables to make others infer what they want them to.

Which reminds me that Tink could have been doing just that when she acted surprised to hear that Wendy was missing. Iexamine the faerie, recalling how much she hates my sister for catching Peter’s attention. Had I dismissed so quickly the idea that she’s to blame for Wendy’s disappearance?

I’ll have to be more wary of her fae glamour.

Even if Tink didn’t hurt Wendy herself, she’s obsessed enough with Peter that she wouldn’t betray him if she knew he was the one to blame.

“If you don’t tell me where Wendy is, you’ll come to regret it,” I say, nodding toward her shredded wings.

This time, fear flashes across Tink’s face, but again, she masks it quickly enough. She closes her eyes, making as if to fall asleep.

“You’re not even going to bother answering me?”

Eyes still closed, she grins—the wry sort.

“What? Are you so bored on this island that you enjoy riling others up? I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’m not one to be easily riled.” Well, except when it comes to those who hurt my family. But I refrain from mentioning as much. “You won’t like what happens if you don’t answer me.”

Tink’s smile dissipates, but her cheeks and forehead are smooth, betraying no fear of me. She thinks I’m a boy talking a big game. Threatening her with cruel words, but no follow-through.

I’m not a bad person. Not a sociopath either, though there was a time when I thought perhaps I was. After I overheard Wendy’s sessions with her alienist, I spent my early adolescent years reading through works of the world’s most renowned alienists on the subject. They claimed that the defining characteristic of a sociopath is that they lack empathy.

I might have believed that definition applied to me, if it hadn’t been for my family. In fact, I did believe it for a time. Had resigned myself to the morbid truth that I feel nothing for others.

But then Michael had gotten to be old enough that we noticed him struggling with what other children could do with ease. I would hear the comments others made about my brother. Comments that were probably meant to be well-meaning, or at least they’d convinced themselves they were well-meaning. People do that often—gossip and tear down others, then pat themselves on the back for being concerned.

He didn’t understand what they were saying about him, of course. But I did. And I felt on his behalf what he did not. Absorbed every mark against him as if it were branding my own soul. And then there was what I overheard one night in the parlor, happening to Wendy.

I’d felt that too. But feeling had led to fear. Perhaps if I hadn’t been capable of feeling, I would have stepped in and helped.

No, I’m no more of a sociopath than my sister is. I simply reserve that empathy for a select few.

I’m choosing not to extend that to Tink.

It takesme over an hour to make the fire. Neverland is humid, so even with the flint I snuck from a closet back at the Den, it takes a while for the handful of dry spindles I could find to catch. By the time I finally set my carefully arranged tent of sticks aflame, I’m second-guessing myself. Whether I can actually go through with this.

I plunge my dagger into the fire anyway. Watch the dull blade turn the color of a molten sun.

Despite having dosed her with rushweed and caged her, I’ve tied Tink’s hands together as well. Just in case. When I open the cage door, Tink can do nothing but offer me a challenging grin. The rest of her still can’t move.

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