Page 80 of The Last Lost Girl

We list to the opposite side, and I retch again.

I’ve either been drugged and kidnapped, or this is a fever dream.

The giant man pats my back until I manage to violently shrug him off. “Don’t touch me!” I pant.

His brow knits with worry. “Ava, you—”

“Who. Are. You?” I slowly repeat. “Where am I?”

Distinct footfalls approach from outside the room and a set of double-doors swing open. In walks a pair of tall black boots that rise to a pair of shapely, masculine thighs, that lead to a taut waist and …. He has a hook. For a hand.

A literal hook.

Fever dream, then.

My stars… the newcomer is ridiculously hot. Long, dark hair slightly grazes his shoulders. And I’ve never seen eyes that shade of deep, forest green before.

The structure rocks.

I vomit.

Rinse and repeat until nothing else comes up.

The giant man beside me stands and the guy with the hook takes his seat and his place holding the heavy, smelly bucket.

You don’t smell things in dreams. I reach out and touch the blanket, then the wooden wall.

This is real.

Something in me breaks and I start to sob. “What is happening? Who are you?”

“Lifeguard…”

He looks at me so intensely, I cry even harder. Because it feels like he’s reached within me and is turning me inside out. Then there is a flash of red in my mind. I remember pulling on a red shirt with white letters that spelled Lifeguard.

The hot guy tilts his head. “Ava, your sister is Belle. You have a work bestie named Devin. Belle dragged you to Neverland, where you landed hard on the shore. I saved you from Wraith, and then…”

It comes back in a rush.

“Grim,” I croak. The cage around my heart feels like it’s being crushed. Why didn’t I recognize him? How did I forget so quickly? I forgot Belle and even myself. “Hudson.”

He gives me a sad smile. “Yes.”

Smee was the man tending to my skin. The skin on my right leg and arm is wrapped with raised red welts not unlike the stripes a jellyfish tentacle would leave, but a plant did this to me. Beneath the superficial sting is a deeper, throbbing pain.

“How’s your stomach?”

The ship tilts starboard and I don’t feel queasy anymore. “I’m not going to vomit, if that’s what you’re asking.”

For now.

I try to take the bucket from him. “I can just—”

“I’ve got it.” He leaves the room for a couple of moments. While he’s gone, the ship rocks to its port side. I ease my unaffected leg from the blankets and twist until both feet are on the floor, then frantically search my memories to make sure they’re still there, even though there’s no way to know for certain.

Hudson returns with a new bucket, one that’s clean and dry and smells of saltwater instead of bile. He places the bucket beside the bed – his bed – and crosses the room, then brings back a clean cloth wet with cool water. I use it to wipe my face and thank him as he sits in the chair again.

“Sleep can be disorienting, but I believe the reason you forgot so much was that you were poisoned by the plant you touched in the Neverwood. You’ve slept most of the day and half the night. The vines that sprang have venomous barbs. Their stings cause nausea, among other things.”

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