14. Wendy

"You can sleep, Peter. I've seen it," I mutter and wipe at the tears still leaking from my eyes. "And Tink said you dream, too. So don't give me that ‘you humans' crap."

He doesn't reply.

Figures.

God, I need to stop crying.

What the hell, right? How can these boys take me from the highest high to rock bottom in the blink of an eye, making me feel so good, then humiliating me, over and over? They are the most confusing people I've ever met.

The issue is why I like them at all.

I don't, I decide. Lust is one thing, but liking them… No. Hell, no. My body is confused. They act… erratically. They go from kind and nice to violent and weird in seconds.

And… and it's exciting. Arousing. This game of fear and pleasure.

God. I put my hands over my face, take a few deep breaths. What's wrong with me?

Seriously, what's wrong with me?

Half-naked on this strange bed, my sweater and shirt shredded, my bra torn, my panties… gone somewhere, leaking cum between my legs.

Coming so hard from their manipulation of my body like never before, torn between terror and passion all the time.

A rollercoaster of sensations and emotions that's left me so drained I could just lie back down and go to sleep.

If only I didn't feel so guilty for enjoying it.

For liking it.

For craving it.

Is it my past? Does it have to do with my father and the games he played with me? Is it a scar inside of me that makes me this way? How bad of a timing is it that I had to fully uncover this long-suspected side of me on this cursed island, with these cursed boys?

I mean, I knew that nice and gentle wasn't doing it for me, but this?

This is sick.

And I loved every frigging minute of it.

Yes, looking back… even the fear. Especially the fear. It made everything sharp and bright, heightened every sensation, honed every slice of pleasure.

I'm sick. I'm strange.

This is so wrong.

So why does it feel right? Why do I crave it so much?

Dressed only in my short skirt and the shreds of my sweater, shirt and bra, I get off the bed, I go to the door and try it. It swings open.

I don't see anyone outside.

This is wrong and I need to get away.

Covering my boobs with my hands, I walk into the living room. I need clothes. I can't wander around like this. Where do they keep their clothes? I haven't seen a single closet in the entire house.

The shutters on the windows are wooden, painted blue, and through the slats, I see green foliage.

Which is odd. Wasn't the house underground?

It's quiet. Too quiet. Have they left me here alone? Is it possible, after all the talk about keeping an eye on me, stopping me from running but also protecting me?

Or is it safe now that they apparently convinced Hook—Jas—that I'm not the one they've been looking for?

But then why was Tink so upset? And Peter… why did he sound like he was regretting fucking me?

"This was a mistake."

Way to crush a girl's heart.

I shiver as I walk through the empty rooms. My heart is safe. Has to be. Lust and horniness are one thing, but this isn't love.

Don't think for one second that it could be anything more.

Where is the kitchen? It was right here. And the living room… I stop in front of the sofa. Which used to be brown. I am pretty sure of it.

Now it's blue, like the window shutters. In fact… Now that I'm thinking about it, I don't recall shutters when we arrived here.

Or windows.

Which makes perfect sense in an underground bunker.

What is going on?

"The island is changing,"Tink had said.

What sort of changes are we talking about here?

On the sofa, I find a wrinkled, stained white T-shirt, and pulling off my shredded clothes, leaving on only my short skirt, I pull the T-shirt on. I expect it to stink but in fact it smells of male musk and soap.

For the first time I examine my ruined garments and the red scratches on my skin, and whoa. What did this? What I mean is… it doesn't look like the work of human hands, more like… scissors. Or blades.

Or claws.

What the hell? Peter did this. His hands were bare.

Bare and… Bare hands. Without any ink. How is this possible?

His ink vanished as his shadow rose, a monster, sliding along the walls—and then it had sort of slammed into him. Or so it had seemed at the time.

Becoming a part of him again.

Not sure of what I saw, really. I had been a little preoccupied with the way he'd been touching me, his hand on my neck, cutting off my air supply, on my nipples, hurting them, then his cock inside of me, so big as he'd rammed it in…

And then the pleasure that went on and on, unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. Anything I'd ever imagined. My sexual fantasies were always far and in between and this… it beat them all.

My boobs covered up, feeling a little better, I walk over to the house door and open it. Look outside.

Right. Of course they didn't leave me alone. Kidnappers aren't that stupid, even if they act so damn weird sometimes.

The Twins are standing outside, mirror images of each other, arms folded over broad chests, matching scowls on their handsome faces. Colt has pulled his dark hair back in a man-bun once more, though a few loose strands soften the hard line of his jaw, whereas Wes's blond hair falls in his face.

Twins and yet… one seems to be the other's shadow, and I don't know if the shadow is prettier than the real thing.

It's impossible to choose.

"You," I snap.

Their gazes swing around to me, flat and unsurprised.

"The princess is up," Wes says.

"Princess? Really? Is this how you'd treat one?" I demand, putting my hands on my hips. "Fucking her with your guns?"

Their scowls turn to frowns, as if they're giving my question some actual thought, as if they find it intriguing and unexpected.

"Why not?" Colt eventually asks and sounds actually curious.

"Why not?" I echo, blinking at him. "Oh, my God. Are you seriously asking me this?"

"Didn't you enjoy it?" Wes asks.

"I…" I snap my mouth shut, losing my train of thought, because I want to lie and say no, protest that it was wrong and that they had no right, but something won't let me.

I nod instead, sheepish.

Colt grins at me, but Wes is frowning.

"We have a problem," he says. "The kitchen is gone. And with it, our food provisions. We'll have to go hunting again, but first, we have to wait for Peter and Tink to come back."

"It's okay. I'm not that hungry," I say, my brain stalling on the ‘the kitchen is gone' bit.

"You should be." Colt nods toward the house, and I assume the bedroom. "After all that sex."

"Is that what you think we did?" Heat suffuses my face. I wanted to rail at them for leaving me tied up with their guns inside of me but now I'm here, in front of them, I can't remember why.

Yes, it had made me cry. Yeah, it had humiliated me when Tink and then Peter found me like that.

But it had been so good…

"Something doesn't add up, though," Colt says. "If Peter fucked you… even if you had the necessary magic before, it must be gone now. So why is the island changing? If you were the one—and that's still up for debate—it's all over."

"Shouldbe all over," Wes says.

"And we should get our turn," Colt says, his gaze darkening as it runs over me.

"Excuse me?" I breathe.

"To fuck you," he clarifies, as if that needed clarification. "With our dicks."

Okay, maybe the clarification was needed. "I didn't say you could," I say coolly.

"Don't lie to yourself," Wes says, now grinning, too. "You want it."

My eyes narrow. "Is that so?"

"You can't deny it."

It makes me mad, because why not? Why can't I lie to myself, or to them?

"What's with this place?" I demand. "Is lying not allowed?"

"It's Neverland," Colt says with a small shrug. "The Fae can't lie. Neither can visitors."

"But Peter did lie, didn't he? Said I wasn't the one, then said I am the one…"

"Peter is… special." Wes gives a shrug, too. "It's why he's the King."

"And why he can travel between worlds," I mutter.

Wes nods. "Yeah."

"Who is he really? How can he do that?"

Colt and Wes share a quick look. "He'd have to tell you that. If he decides it's important. Unless of course you go mad first."

"I won't."

Their gazes return to me, kind of blank, as if to say, wait and see.

Well, shit.

* * *

Peter and Tinkcome back home sometime later, as evening falls, carrying fresh kill—a few hares and birds that look like pheasants with bright green and orange plumage.

Then the Twins go to build a fire pit outside, now that we are sans kitchen, and they've taken a few chairs out, too.

I walk to the house door and stand there, watching them. They seem so… normal, all four of them, cozy and domestic. As if they hadn't wreaked havoc on my body and emotions scant hours ago.

And all of them obviously unfazed by the fact the house has changed. The house has risen out of the ground, and the steps leading down to the door are no more. The roof has brown tiles. The front door is painted blue, like the window shutters. So… fairytale-like, a cottage out of a children's story, and yet somehow familiar.

I shiver.

"You're wearing my T-shirt," Tink says, green eyes flicking my way. Something in them shifts, a spark jumps.

"It was the only thing I could find," I mutter. "Peter tore my clothes apart."

"He did, didn't he?" Tink tilts his head to the side, his gaze turning to Peter who is standing by the fire. Copper hair slides over his eyes.

"You're not any better," I say. "You found me with those guns stuck in me, and just left me there."

And for some reason, I expected more from Tink. Compared to Peter, or even the Twins, he'd seemed the nicer one, but now I'm not so sure. Worse still, he warned me. He told me he's not a good guy, that none of them are, so why am I having so much trouble believing it, even in the face of evidence?

"Peter sent me out, if you recall," Tink goes on.

"And what's he got on you that you can't fight back and stand your ground?"

Tink stares at me, then gives a bark of laughter. "I take it he hasn't explained about the shadows."

I lift a brow. "The shadows?"

"Our shadows."

"No. But…" I swallow hard. "But I thought I saw his shadow in the bedroom. I saw it moving on the walls. Independently from him."

"Right. Yeah. You saw that. So, Peter, will you tell her, or should I?"

Peter is scowling down at his hands. They're hanging between his knees. "What does it matter now?"

"Oh, I don't know," Tink says. "Maybe it doesn't. Maybe she has the right to know, since we brought her here against her will."

"You're turning soft," Peter says.

"And you're destroying everything we've been fighting for all these years."

Peter's jaw works. He doesn't deny it.

"Holy shit," Colt says, his gaze hard on Peter. "You really did fuck her. I thought Tink was exaggerating."

"I never exaggerate," Tink says.

Wes snorts. "Right…"

"Fuck this," Peter says, gets on his feet and stalks off.

I stare at his tall shape heading for the woods, not sure what set him off.

"Stay close," Tink calls after him. "Don't wander off and make me come after you."

Peter lifts his hand and gives him the finger without turning around.

"Peter!" I start after him, and Colt says something in a warning tone, something about a ritual, but I don't stop, my rushed steps turning into a jog. "Wait."

Peter is faster than I expected and as I run among the scraggly trees, I start to panic. Where is he? I can't see him anywhere. I stop, panting, turning in a circle.

"Peter?" I call out. "Where are you?"

Silence is my only answer. A bird tweets on a tree and flies away in a flap of wings, scaring the bejesus out of me.

Okay, Dee, think. It has just belatedly occurred to me that maybe he's simply ignoring me, refusing to answer. That he doesn't want to talk to me.

Well, tough. Normally I'd give him his privacy, his space, his time, whatever he needs, but this isn't a normal situation. Peter isn't my friend, or even a nice guy. He's my kidnapper, the situation is sort of insane, and I need answers.

So, quiet as a mouse, I stalk through the trees, looking for him. Damn, but dead leaves do crunch when you step on them, no matter how careful you are. Keeping to a faint trail winding through the sparse woods, I manage to keep the noise at a minimum.

Maybe he's supernaturally fast, like a vampire or something, and he's already at the other end of the island, whatever that is—or… he's nearby.

I feel sort of ridiculous as I glance behind tree trunks in case he's there. He has shoulders like a quarterback. No tree trunk will hide him.

And yet, as I stalk deeper into the woods, I think I hear his voice threading through the trunks, even if he remains invisible.

Then I see him, at last.

He's standing in a small clearing. There's a fallen tree trunk behind him and a brook is gurgling nearby, hidden in the grass and rushes.

His head is bent, dark hair sculpted from onyx, his face hidden, broad shoulders slightly hunched. Something flashes in his hand, caught in the moonlight.

A blade.

What is he doing, what—?

He lifts the knife and runs the blade over his inked forearm. Cutting into his skin, into the designs covering it. The black ink masks the thin scars, I realize, as blood wells, looking black in the washed-out shades of the early evening, and drips to the ground.

I'm too dumb-struck to speak or make a sound as he lets his blood run. Too stunned to even wonder how the ink has returned to his skin when I could swear it wasn't there earlier.

The crimson dripping fills my vision.

The word ‘ritual' is now starting to make sense, but why?

Why do this?

"I remember, Mom," he whispers, or at least that's what I think he's whispering. He lifts the blade, then points it at the ground, letting the blood drip off its tip. "Some things can't be forgotten."

I take a step back, suddenly all too aware of intruding on a personal moment—and a twig cracks under my heel.

He whips around, quick as lightning, and is on me in two strides, lifting the bloodied knife to my throat. "You!"

"Sorry, sorry!" I lift my hands, swallow. "Didn't mean to intrude. I only wanted… only wanted to talk."

He's glaring at me and for a long moment, I don't know if he really sees me, if he knows who I am.

Then he lets out a breath, lowers the blade. "Wendy."

"Oh, now you remember my name."

"Sometimes I do," he says, "and sometimes I don't."

"Because of your shadow?"

"What would you know about shadows?" His blue eyes are fixed on me, unwavering.

"That yours is monstrous."

"True," he says.

"And seems… detached from you."

"Not fully, sadly," he admits. "Though maybe it's the other way around."

"What is?"

"Not having a full shadow is… a problem."

I almost laugh. "The way I see it, you're all problematic here."

"Yeah, well…" He shrugs, frowns down at the blade in his hand. "You know now my shadow problem. But I'm not the only one. The Twins only have one shadow to share between them. And as for Tink… well, he has no shadow at all."

"What are these shadows?" I wonder. "And how is that possible? Any of that?"

"How is anything possible? It's reality."

"Is it?"

He sheathes the knife at his belt, lifts a hand to my pendant. "Why are you wearing this thing?"

"It's a thimble," I murmur, looking down at it, annoyed at the change of topic. "For sewing."

"You sew?"

"My mom used to. When I was little. It reminds me of those times, I guess. What's your pendant for?"

"Mine…" He blinks, lets his hand fall away. "Mine is a clue to who I am."

"And who are you?"

He shakes his head and looks away. "Listen…"

But he trails off, expression starting to go distant.

That's not good.

"Tell me about your shadow," I say, desperate not to let his mind drift off again. "How can it be detached from you? How can all this be true and what does it mean?"

"Fae reality is different from what you're used to. Neverland is just another word for the Otherworld. For Faerie. And the shadow is the soul, so if that is starting to make more fucking sense for you now and we're done with questions…"

"But—"

"And why the hell am I answering your questions? First, I fuck you, then I talk to you…" He's shaking his head as if his actions are incomprehensible and I feel slightly hurt that he should find it so strange that he wants me or would take the time to talk to me.

"You'd rather I left you alone to cut yourself some more?" I ask scathingly.

"I'd rather you went back to the house," he says, "and stayed there."

Well, that's a dismissal if I ever heard one.