Page 97 of Freeing Hook

If this were one of the adventure novels in my parents’ library, if I were the hero and she the heroine, I’d tell her all the things I love about her body. Maybe that is what Tink wants from me, but I’m not exactly one of the macho men in those romance books either, so I figure I have to work with what I’ve got.

“Sometimes I think about what it would sound like listening to you read poetry. The gentle cadence of it, the lilt of your tone. I think about your mouth forming the words. But even then, sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t be dreaming about that. Maybe I should think about you as you are now. So then I let my mind wander to learning this beautiful language,” I say, pointing to the notebook I brought her last week. She’s already filled it with a graceful script that it kills me not to be able to read. “I dream about you teaching me this language. Then I could finally have the key to what’s inside your mind.” My hands are shaking, but I take a chance and reach for her, run my fingers through her cropped hair, at the nape of her neck. At my touch, she goes utterly still, except for her eyelashes fluttering. Emboldened, I add, “I mostly wonder…I wonder about where you came from and what your favorite sound is, which food you miss the most from your home. What your phrase is, the one that everyone else associates with you even though you hardly notice how often you use it. Last night, I couldn’t sleep because I was imagining being able to ask you the most frightening bedtime story you could remember from your childhood. Whether you like your eggs fried or scrambled. Stupid, meaningless things like that. I think about introducing you to Michael and how I won’t have to explain to you how just because he communicates differently doesn’t make it any less valid. I…ummm…”

Tink is much too close now. Well, too close depends on one’s reasoning. Too close for me to maintain my thought process? Yes. Objectively too close? For all possible purposes?

I wouldn’t say that.

It hits me then with the way her pretty blue eyes flick up to mine that she expects me to kiss her. That’s what all the signs would point to, at least. But I am a man, and my sex has been known to misinterpret such signs for our own benefit, allowing the truth to be warped by our own desires.

My mind rifles through all the possible scenarios of why Tink might have gotten this close to me. So close I can see the tiny flecks of black in her blue irises, little onyx crystals I think I could make a pastime out of counting. I could have a smudge of dirt on my cheek, one she’s just about to wipe away. Perhaps she’s noticed the way my glasses have slipped down my nose.

Even if Tink does want me to kiss her, it would be foolish to do so. Wrong, even. Wendy is missing, and I shouldn’t be dallying with a woman, neglecting my responsibility.

My mind goes back to how I felt the night Michael scratched my arms up as I tried to keep him from clawing at himself, then found Wendy kissing Peter in his room. I’d been livid. And now, with Wendy kidnapped by Captain Astor…

“Excuse me,” I say, guilt making my voice constrict as I scramble away from Tink.

Hurt—obvious enough even I can detect it—flashes across her expression. It stings at my conscience, knowing I’ve made her feel that way. Rejected.

It’s an injustice that a woman like her should ever feel that.

“It’s not…” I go to explain.

But Tink is already gone.

CHAPTER 37

WENDY

The Gathers—we learned from the wraith what the Nomad calls his fleet—isn’t so much a town as a community of ships strung together with rope bridges. Its backdrop is a barren cliffside made up of sleek onyx rock. There’s a dock floating on the outskirts of the community, though what it’s anchored with I can’t see. When Astor and I arrive, servants jump onto the dock from an adjacent boat.

“You can’t be here, strangers,” says a man whose weathered wrinkles seem at odds with the firmness of his physique.

“Ah, but we have the passcode,” says Astor, voice betraying no hint of deception.

A woman dressed in sailing attire follows the man out onto the deck. “Highly doubt that. The Nomad hasn’t granted any newcomers passage in months.”

“Darling,” Astor says, leaning in from behind, close enough that his warm breath fogs at my ear.

“Wanderer,” I mumble. When the two sailors squint at me, Astor prods me in the spine. “The passcode’s ‘wanderer,’” I say, this time infusing my voice with enough force to overcome the lapping of the water against the dock.

The man shrugs, then gets to work tossing Astor a rope so he can reel us in and secure us to the dock. The woman, on the other hand, seems less eager to assist us, suspicion deepening the crow’s feet framing her eyes.

The male sailorleads us across the Gathers, the three of us ambling across an assortment of rowboats, ferries, and ships, all of which are tied together with braided rope ladders. Black waters lap against the sides, causing the train of boats to bob up and down at the whims of the calculating sea. The dance of the lantern lights on board might be soothing to watch if it weren’t so eerie.

Finally, we reach the center of the network—a grand ship that looks as if it’s meant to sail oceans, not in caravans. There are no ladders connecting this one to the others, just ropes slanting between decks. Scalable, but not with ease, given the movement of the water below.

“You two first,” says the servant.

When I hesitate, Astor leans over and whispers, “You’d better go, Darling,” then adds, “Unless you’d prefer to grab onto my back.”

I flush and quickly turn away so Astor won’t see. Still, I’d seen how torturing that man to death had rocked him earlier. I shouldn’t—but there’s a part of me that feels a responsibility to take his mind off of it, relieve his pain a bit. Especially since it was my idea. “You know, I’ve never heard a man sound so torn between desire and disgust.”

Unable to help myself, I glance back to gauge his reaction. The corners of his mouth twitch in a manner I find unreasonably satisfactory. “Thank you,” he says.

“For what?” I snort.

“For putting that sensation into words for me.”

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