Page 13 of Freeing Hook

I level him a glare. “I thought you said you didn’t make promises.”

“That one was clearly sardonic. Still, you should explain why you believe life has been harder on Peter than the rest of us.”

I sigh, averting my eyes from the captain’s glinting eyes. If I look at him too long, my neck warms, and I don’t want him mistaking my reaction for anything other than loathing. “I don’t know. It’s just… That’s the thing about soaring. I’m sure it seems great for a while. But when you’re the only one who can fly, it’s got to get lonely up there in the stars.”

“Seems like a proper reason to come down.”

“No. That’s another thing you have to understand about Peter.” Even now, locked to the captain’s bed in the dim belly of this wretched ship, I can almost taste Peter’s exhilaration, his contagious craving for adventure, the kind that was palpable as he twirled me among the stars. “He can’t stay down for long. It’s not in his nature.”

“But you’re down.”

My breath catches. “Pardon?”

“You. Are. Down.”

And Peter doesn’t want to be where I am goes unsaid, but it’s written in the way the captain leans forward, placing his elbow on his knee to examine my reaction. It’s in the way he sweeps my lower lids with his gaze, searching for the tears that are clawing their way out.

Peter left me. Traded six months of my life away to the man who slaughtered my parents. He’d left me helpless on the ground as he soared away. As the tears grow too weighty for me to hold back, Astor’s eyes trace their path down my cheeks, but they snag on the faint golden speckles of my Mating Mark, then bounce to the emerald betrothal ring on my finger.

Captain Astor and I realize at the same moment that we’re both twirling our rings.

“I think I’m done with questions now,” I say, breathless.

The stool squeaks as the captain jolts to his feet, returning it to its place by the wall. “Perhaps next time you’ll have an answer for me,” he says.

“An answer for what?”

“For my question. Do you soar?”

Before he leaves, he tucks a metal key into my hand and closes my fingers around it.

CHAPTER 5

JOHN

Getting Michael up to the storehouse is about as arduous as last time. The only reason we were able to make it to the top of the cliffs the night Wendy told me to pack our bags and get out of Neverland was because I’d been working for weeks on a roundabout path to the top. The loss of my little finger has made climbing problematic.

In the night, I’d been sneaking out after Wendy went wherever she was going—I assume to Peter’s rooms, though I choose not to dwell on that—and working on forging a path up the cliffs from the long way around, on the north side.

It had been an anxiety-inducing task, mostly because it meant leaving Michael alone in our room. But Michael is an expert sleeper, and he’d always been fast asleep when I returned.

Of course, after Joel’s death, I’d started waking Michael in the middle of the night to come with me. It wasn’t as if I could leave him alone in the Den when I was suspicious of the Lost Boys. The disruption to his sleep pattern had been difficult for Michael.

My stomach still twists in knots when he melts down, especially if he manages to scratch himself and draw blood. I know there’s a possibility he’d do this anyway, but there’salways the thought lingering in the back of my mind that it’s my fault. That if I weren’t waking him up in the middle of the night and disrupting his sleep schedule, his body wouldn’t be so dysregulated.

But I remind myself that it’s better Michael be dysregulated than dead. And if I want him safe, I need to get him off Neverland.

Of course, I plan to find out what happened to Wendy first. But it would be preferable if I had a pouch of faerie dust on hand already when I find her. Or in case Peter finds out I’ve been snooping.

At the end of the day, if I need to leave Neverland before I find Wendy in order to save Michael, I will. Not because I love him any more than I do my sister. There’s simply an unspoken understanding between Wendy and me that Michael’s needs come before our own.

Still, were I a better protector, I might have been able to save both of them.

Can still save both of them, I remind myself.

Assuming Wendy’s not dead, the voice in the back of my mind whispers, quite dry and with little empathy. There’s a logical path that leads to that conclusion, but I’m choosing not to follow it at the moment. Instead, I work my way through the brush and make the steady climb up to the cliffs, Michael’s hand in mine.

If I was alone, it would be easier to ascend, but with Michael everything is more complicated. Part of the problem is that guiding him uses up my good hand, as I don’t want him wandering off toward the edge. The other issue is whether Michael decides coming with me is something he wants to do.

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