Page 70 of Freeing Hook

For John and Michael’s sake, I pray so.

For a while, as we ride, I’m able to keep my mind busy with the eternal loop of pondering Lady Carlisle’s next move. But in the corners lurk what happened in the library annex tonight. What Peter—rather, his shadow self—almost did to me.

I hadn’t wanted to approach the subject with Astor, not when he refuses to look at things from any but one, very accusatory angle. But I know Peter. And the shadow in the parlor—that wasn’t him. At least, not who he would be if he hadn’t been altered by the Sister, if he hadn’t been warped outside of his control.

Except for the confusion when he realized what he’d done—that Peter I had recognized, even if it was for the briefest moment. It hadn’t been sadness, hadn’t been pain, really. But a numb resignation. That wall that Peter hits when any normal person would feel hurt. A callus too tough to cut through.

Still, I can’t forget the fear that lanced through my heart when I realized he wasn’t going to stop. That I had no power other than to beg, and that my pleas meant nothing. I can’t forget the feel of velvet at my fingertips and hands touching skin I had wished to remain covered. Shame still tingles on the patches of skin that, while now hidden, feel as bare as they did when Peter tore my gown.

I can’t. I can’t go back to being the weak girl in the parlor. I can’t be touched like that again.

I can feel myself begin to shake, and because I fear Astor will bring up the events of the night again, I breathe deeply, trying to calm myself.

For the first time, I’m confronted with doubt. A question I hadn’t considered.

I’ve wanted nothing more than to free Peter of his curse. Made it my utmost goal, my purpose.

I’ve been so fixated on healing Peter, I haven’t considered what I will do if I fail. It’s never been a question of whether I will return to Peter, just when—before the six months are up because I’ve helped Astor finish the task, or at the end of it.

But tonight I got a harrowing glimpse into what my future might hold if I don’t manage to free Peter from his curse.

And because I can’t abide the thought of losing the part of Peter I love—the kind man who dances with me in the stars, who always catches me when I fall, who’s shown my sad spirit heights I’d never hoped to graze on my own, my spirit too short to reach; because I can’t imagine a life apart from my Mate, I refuse. I refuse to answer the question, though it beats at my mind.

I have to break Peter’s curse. I can’t. I can’t…

“You’ve had a…difficult night,” Astor says. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

“I doubt very much I’ll get any sleep on a horse,” I say.

“Let me guess. The debutante can’t sleep without a pillow and a set of silk sheets?” says the captain, though there’s no venom in his tone.

“The silk is unnecessary, but the pillow is paramount,” I say, grateful he’s attributing my trembling to exhaustion, when we both know that’s only half of it.

Astor clicks his tongue and kicks at the horse’s side. It comes to a stop. In a fluid motion I’m not expecting, nor that I fully understand the physics behind, Astor takes me by the waist and flings me around and behind him, switching our spots in the saddle. I hardly have time for an alarmed exhale.

“There,” he says. “Now you have a pillow.”

I stare awkwardly at his back, arms fidgeting at my sides. Impatiently, Astor lets out a groan and takes hold of my hands, wrapping them around his waist. When I don’t budge, Astor says, softly, “You’ll feel better if you sleep.”

“You don’t know what awaits me in my dreams,” I whisper quietly.

“How about this? If I detect any sign that you’re having a nightmare, I’ll wake you up.”

My lips twitch into a soft smile. “They always say you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Then it’s a good thing that I don’t know who ‘they’ are or why they think I care what they say.”

I let a careless chuckle leave my throat. “You promise?”

Astor opens his mouth, then quickly shuts it. Over his shoulder he offers me a smirk. “Nice try. You know I don’t make promises.”

“Worth a shot,” I say, the teasing between us making it easier for me to nestle my cheek into his back, at the muscle just between his shoulder blades. His back is firm. Warm. Not at all like a pillow. But it’s somewhere steady to rest my head.

I close my eyes and let myself feel the gentle ebb of his ribcage as he exhales, his breaths shallow. A moment later, warm skin closes over the back of my hand at his waist. A spark sizzles from where he rests the pad of his thumb at my knuckles, coursing up my arm and burning my cheeks. He must feel my whole body tense, because quietly he explains, “So I can keep you steady once you fall asleep.”

His thumb grazes over the back of my hand so subtly, I wonder if I’m imagining it. If I’m imagining how he avoids scraping it against my ring accidentally.

I fall asleep like that, Astor’s heart pounding gently against my ear.

---