Page 142 of Freeing Hook

But they remain. I take in a breath and consider Peter’s words. The bargain only affects my actions, my choices. Not my feelings. I’m a slave to Peter’s will in body, but not in my mind.

“Okay,” I whisper, hating how my limbs betray me. How I fall into his arms. “I choose you. It’s you, Peter. It’ll always be you.”

That fool. When he pulls away, there’s nothing but joy in his eyes. Like he’s so relieved at not having to suffer the pain of me leaving him—the same pain I felt the first time I was separated from him in the captain’s ship—that the fact that it wasn’t my decision to choose him is inconsequential.

“I’m going to take care of you from now on, Wendy Darling,” he says, bouncing on his feet. “I’m never going to hurt you again.”

“I know,” I say, and I actually smile, eyes and all. Because that’s what choosing Peter means, choosing to go along with his dreadful games of pretend. His insane commitment to happiness at the cost of all else. Choosing Peter means being happy.

Or, rather, acting like I am.

My smile must be convincing enough; he must think the wording of his bargain has changed my feelings, because his face lights up, relief washing over his features.

When he links his fingers through mine, I can’t breathe. It’s not like the first time he held my hand, my heart hammering with excited tremors. No. I know what’s coming next. My stomach turns over in my gut, and I can hardly breathe. When he leans in, I sigh against his kiss.

“Peter,” I say as he leads me across the beach, toward the Den, where he’ll take me to his rooms and have me at last.Where, to him, I’ll seem as though I’m adoring every graze of his hands against my flesh.

I wasn’t me—wasn’t that what Peter had said once the pain had been taken away?

Now I’m not myself anymore either. Peter and I—we’re just two imposters playing at love. Play-actors on the stage, except my strings are in Peter’s hands, his in the Sister’s.

There’s a scream bubbling up within me, but there’s nowhere for it to go, so it just burrows within me, building the pressure behind my eyes and hollowing out my organs as it slams them up against the wall of my interior.

I want to go home, but my feet dance across the sand like that’s exactly where I’m going. Without me telling them to, my hands find themselves clinging to Peter’s arm, my cheek pressed against his shoulder as we walk.

When he looks down at me, it’s with the most devastatingly genuine smile. It’s the kind of smile that would have floored me once. I suppose it does now, just in the slamming me to the floor and holding me by the throat sort of way.

Halfway to the Den, I’ve resigned myself to my fate. At least I’ll get to see John and Michael. At least I’ll get to be with them, keep them safe.

And they’ll think that I’m happy.

It will take John years to believe it. But no one can act like I’m acting, put on a show like my body is putting on, for that long. Not without magic helping them along. And John won’t suspect magic.

Manipulation. A foolish girl following her own foolish whims, perhaps.

But he’ll find that believable.

And he won’t worry about me anymore.

And we’ll all be together.

And it will be okay.

It. Will. Be. Okay.

I’ve almost convinced myself by the time we make it halfway to the Den. Fairly impressive, though Astor wouldn’t think so. He’d tell me I’ve given in too quickly, granted Peter the power to lead me around like a pet on a leash.

But Astor would only be manipulating me if he said such things, so I choose to ignore his voice inside my head. He lost his right to my mind, anyway.

“Peter,” someone calls through the brush. Footsteps pound toward us, breathing labored. “Peter, you have to—”

Victor comes into view, his black hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, red coursing through the whites. I haven’t seen him like this since the day we found the man we assumed to be his brother’s killer. Even then, he wasn’t this distraught.

He swallows his words as soon as he sees me. “Wendy.” There’s no welcome home in his voice. No excitement to see me, despite the fact we’re friends. He tries to compose himself, stand up straighter, calmer. “I’m glad to see you home safe.”

It doesn’t matter how calm he tries to force his voice, he can’t hold the evidence that something is terribly wrong.

Because Victor’s holding Michael’s hand.

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