18. Wendy

"Sick," Tink repeats, eyeing all three of us, making no move to untie me. "Honestly, I've never seen you guys like this."

"You do remember we're not really brothers, right?" Wes says.

"Even so."

Wes scowls. "What, you think you're normal? Why, because you wear ripped T-shirts and jeans, trying to pass for human?"

"No, not human. But I am normal."

"You're half-Fae, Tink. You're as far from normal as you could possibly be."

"Says the changeling."

"Hey." I glare at all three of them. "Enough talking. Will someone finally free me?"

I can't feel my hands. I'm lying there on my back, my dress rucked up all the way to my waist, exposed, the evidence of Wes' release leaking out of me, but somehow, I don't care.

Correction, I don't care enough to be embarrassed.

Truth be told, I'm sort of… pleased. And I try not to think too hard about what that says about me, though it's obvious.

I'm not a good girl. Never was. This unexpected trip to this island from hell showed me just who I am.

A slut. A slut for these cruel, strange, gorgeous guys, a slut for punishment and sex.

And here I am, dressed in pure white like a bride, tied to the headboard of the bed, waiting to see if they feel like releasing my bonds.

Wes is the one who comes to untie the rope and unwind it from around my wrists. His golden eyes are thoughtful. "You okay?"

"Now he asks," I mutter, but I nod, rubbing at my reddened wrists. "What happened? How did you escape? Did the Reds lose you?"

"Hook intervened," he says, his gaze sliding from my face to my wrists and then to my still exposed nether regions.

Hastily, I close my legs and pull down the hem of my dress. A foolish gesture, probably. An instinctive one. He's not only seen it all already, he's tasted it and then filled it up, but… "Since when is Hook your ally?"

"Since yesterday, it seems." Wes looks away, his golden eyes troubled. "Probably just for yesterday."

"So then his alliance is already over," Tink says, sounding bored. Yet when I glance at him, his eyes are very bright and the pink in his hair has darkened to purple. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Something about slavery," Wes says.

"Not all forms of slavery look the same," Colt says.

"Meaning?" Tink frowns.

"No idea," Colt says. "That's what Hook said, is all."

"Oh." Tink's green gaze moves to me as I swing my legs off the bed and sit there, trying to catch my breath. Thoughts pass behind the mirror of his eyes like shadows. "He did, huh?"

"Where is Peter?" I ask.

"Funny you should ask that," Tink says.

"Is it?"

Tink watches me from under his lashes. "He was asking for you. Which is why I came to check."

"I thought you came to offer breakfast." I hold his gaze.

"That, too. If you're still interested…" He waves a hand negligently in the air and turns to go. "Come. I hope you like eggs. You've had sausage already."

* * *

"Where isPeter's favorite place to eat?" Colt says.

I stare at him. "Where?"

"Wendy's, of course." His face is deadpan and I just keep staring.

Nobody laughs.

"Sit," Tink says. "Don't be shy."

"I thought you said you didn't cook," I say, sitting down at a long dining table. It looks like the kitchen didn't come back during the night. I don't remember this dining room at all.

"I said didn't want to cook," Tink says loftily. "There's a huge difference."

"Generally, he doesn't want to do anything," Wes says.

Tink doesn't deny it. He dishes out over-easy eggs into chipped colorful dishes.

"Did you cook outside?" I ask.

"In the fireplace," he says. "Flashed right back to my childhood."

"Why would you cook in fireplaces when you were little?" I ask him, curious.

"Because Neverland, or Faerie, as you mortals call it, is a pre-technological place. Or should I say a-technological? Machines don't work here. Magic jams them."

"But a stove isn't always electric," I insist. "It can work with gas, or even with coal, and—"

"Why do I bother? Eat up," is all Tink says and walks out of the house, his shoulders stiff.

"What did I say now?" I mutter, poking at my eggs. "You'd think I insulted him. He's so prickly."

"The Fae are like that," Colt offers.

I lift a brow at him. "Like what? Assholes?"

Wes snickers.

"Proud," Colt says.

"What does pride have to do with it?"

"The Fae don't like mongrels," Colt says. "So they cast him out, into the human world. But as it turns out, humans like Fae mongrels even less."

"What do you mean?" A horrible suspicion is starting to form in my mind, sending cold shivers down my spine. "What did they do to him?"

"Exposed him. Just like they'd do with a changeling. Left him in the wilderness, to see if he'd survive."

"But that's barbarous," I breathe. "And it's not done anymore."

"No? Do you know how old Tink is?"

I open my mouth, shut it. Consider this. "Very old, I assume?"

"You assume right."

"What happened then?"

"He barely made it. A wolf took him in a pack. He grew up as one of the pack. But eventually, he came across a community living in the woods."

"Hippies?"

"No, I believe it was a monastic order. Monks," he clarifies, when I stare at him. "A monastery."

"I know what a monastic order is. Tink grew up with monks? In the woods? In the mortal world?"

"That sums it up," Colt says, looking satisfied with himself. "Well, after he was kicked out of Faerie, of course, and when he was already a teenager, I believe."

"And how did he end up back here? With all of you?"

"It's a long story," Wes says. "All our stories are long, given that we have lived long lives."

"And not boring ones," Colt supplies.

Right.

"And you…" I look at Wes who is grinning at me, a boyish grin, eyes bright, blond hair tousled and falling on his forehead. "You're that old, too?"

"Ah-huh."

"You are the changeling," I mutter. "Tink said so."

Wes' smile slips. "Perhaps."

"Meaning?"

He glances at Colt who shrugs. "One of us is. Has to be. But we both grew up in the mortal world."

"That doesn't make any sense," I say, trying to work it out. "A changeling is left by the fairies to replace a human child they take away."

"Well, someone's plans went awry," Wes says, his mouth twisting, "because when I was a baby… my parents found another baby on their doorstep. Identical to me."

"But you are…" I gesture between them. "Your colors…"

"Back then, we were both dark-haired and tawny-eyed," Wes says. "Two identical babies. Like twins. Only my mother had only had one baby. And when the maid brought the baby inside—"

"Maid?" I huff. "When were you born? And how rich is your family?"

"—and placed it beside the other baby, then undressed both and bathed them… she could no longer tell them apart."

"Wait." I shake my head. "Wouldn't the changeling have pointed ears, like a fairy?"

"The whole point is for the human parents to accept the changeling as their own child. If the baby had pointed ears, that would be missing the point, wouldn't it? Pun intended."

"Right…" I put my fork down, look at their handsome faces, their closed-off expressions. "So you grew up together. Brothers if not in blood."

Colt says, "For a while. After our mother went crazy, we were passed around foster families and halfway homes. I ran away and found my way to Neverland."

"Way before me," Wes continues the tale. "He came for me later."

"I shouldn't have waited that long," Colt says, his voice low. "But time runs differently here. Or maybe it's just our damn perception that slows down. I hadn't realized. I hadn't realized many things."

"Like how fucking bad things would be here," Wes says. "Worse than in the human world."

"But the human world fucked you up." Colt is glaring at his plate as if it has offended him personally.

"Fucked us both up. Neverland finished the job." Wes grins but it's as unlike the grin from before as day from night. That grin was carefree. This one is sharp and bitter. "So, eat up, precious, before breakfast gets cold. You need to appreciate the small pleasures."

"Even if you're going mad," I whisper.

"Are you?"

I stare at their earnest gazes and wonder just how badly life has screwed these beautiful men up. "I believe Peter doesn't think I'm going mad after all."

Not that I'm sure it's true, or even that I understood right, but their eyes widen, brows arching.

"You mean you're staying?" Wes asks, a breathlessness to his voice I don't know how to interpret.

"Not dying?" Colt asks, his voice going husky.

"Um." I glance from one to the other. "Maybe… not?"

They both open their mouths to say or ask more, cheeks flushing, eyes sparkling. They look… happy?

But just then Peter walks in the door, his broad shoulders filling the opening, hands stuffed in his pant pockets, black hair sticking out in every which direction, as if he spent all night pulling on it.

His white shirt is streaked with dirt and what looks like blood, the sleeves rolled up over inked, corded forearms.

And I'm staring.

Of course I am.

"Come," he says, coming and grabbing my wrist, breaking the spell. "I need to show you something."

"Hey." I struggle against him. "What's wrong with you? You can't haul me around like this all the time."

He blinks. His lashes are very long for a guy, and his blue eyes are ridiculously pretty. "No?"

"No. Ask me to come with you and I will."

"You will?"

He sounds so confused I almost laugh. "Yes."

He frowns down where his hand is wrapped around my wrist. "I like holding you," he says. "Come."

Like a child, I think, used to getting his own way.

But his hold is gentle this time as he pulls me to my feet and his gaze moves over my face to focus on my lips.

"You smell like them," he mutters, his pupils dilating and before I figure out if he's angry, sad or pleased, he hauls me out of the house.

* * *

We walkin silence for quite a while. I feel light-headed. I have barely slept or eaten since I got here, and the path he's taking me on seems endless.

Finally, I tug back. "Can we stop for a bit?"

I don't expect him to say yes but he stops. "You okay?"

The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. Tired."

"Did the Twins fuck you too hard?"

Familiar heat seeps into my face. "None of your business."

He lifts a hand and grips my chin, eyes narrowed. "It is my business. Whatever goes on here has to do with me."

"So they fucked me with your permission?"

"Yeah."

I blink at him. "Fuck you."

His sudden grin catches me off guard. "Later. Now rest." He releases my chin, turns away and pulls something from his pocket. A click, and then the scent of fresh tobacco. Smoke curls over his head.

I lean against a trunk, watching him smoke.

"Were you fucking with me?" he asks after a moment. "You'd come if I called for you?"

I shrug. "If you asked nicely."

"I don't do nice."

"I noticed."

He walks a few paces away from me, smoking, and I think of Charlie and my brothers, waiting for me in my world. Charlie at least must be worried by now. My brothers won't notice until it's time for my weekly check-in call.

"Smoking is bad for you," I say automatically, thinking of a time Charlie had smoked after breaking up with her boyfriend. She never told me the details. Too painful, she'd said.

"So is drinking," Peter says. "And jumping between worlds. It kills you in the end."

"Are you dying?"

He shrugs. "Probably."

I glare at the back of his head. "Now you're the one screwing with me."

"No." He says it so matter-of-factly, emotionless.

Accepting it.

And I shouldn't care if it's true. Maybe I should be even glad, but I'm not and for some reason, I feel my eyes grow hot.

I start, "Peter—"

"The island has changed."

"You've said that before. What does it mean? Changed like the house? Are all the kitchens on the island gone?"

He turns to face me, blows out smoke. One corner of his mouth twitches, as if he's not sure if to smile or not. As if he has forgotten how to smile at all.

"Is it a good or a bad change?" I ask. "Will you at least tell me that?"

He seems to be considering his answer. "The Reds acquired faces right before you arrived," he says. Not the answer I expected. "Did you notice them? Recognize them?"

"No. Should I?"

He puffs out more smoke. "Pay attention next time."

"Sure, I'll make certain to take a close look as I run for my life."

His mouth does that twitching thing again.

"But that's not what you meant when you said the island is changing, is it?" I mutter.

"No."

I nod. Square my shoulders. "I've rested enough." Stepping up to him, I take the cigarette from his long fingers and throw it down. Step on it. "Lead the way."

He stares at me, brows lifting. I don't know why I'm not afraid of him right now. With a small harrumph, he turns to go, reaching for my hand as he does so.

My hand, not my wrist, I can't help but notice, tangling our fingers together.

Even less scary, he's still intimidating. Tall, broad-shouldered, his arms muscular, his strides long. The ink on the back of his hand resembles a snake's fanged mouth, dripping poison.

This is the man who kidnapped you, I remind myself. Who tied you to the bed and fucked you there. Then gave permission to his friends to do the same.

Whether you liked it or not is not the point.

Isn't it, though?

No, I tell myself firmly, it isn't. You should be afraid, Wendy.

You should be very afraid.