Page 87 of The Last Lost Girl

My shoulders sink. I’m too tired for this.

Hook’s tone softens. “We both need rest, Ava.” He flaps the blanket invitingly.

I sigh. Fine. Careful to step over a rolled map tumbling across the floor and trying to avoid feathers that would stick to my damp feet, I make my way to his bed. I climb in facing him, but leave a chasm of space between his body and mine.

I’m not a prude. And Hook is beyond beautiful. But I’m sick. Even if I wasn’t, this flirtation with Hudson is dangerous. Getting tangled with him would make it all too easy to lose my focus on Belle. If I let him distract me – assuming he’s not just teasing me with his little innuendos – I might lose my sister.

Lose myself.

“Here.” He pushes the pillow toward me, folds his arm under his head, his hook peeking over his opposite shoulder, and closes his eyes.

I tuck the pillow beneath me and nuzzle into its softness, noting that it smells like him.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says after a few moments, when the weight of whatever those vines had done begins to settle over us. His voice is raw. Unguarded and completely at odds with the confident tone he usually applies so liberally.

“Do you think the fever will come back?” I ask. I’m not sure it actually broke; more like it was forced out. I hope the reprieve isn’t temporary.

“I’m willing to bathe with you again if it does.” The corners of his lips lift.

Hudson’s chest is bare.

While I have the blanket pulled up to my neck, he’s pushed his halfway down to his waist.

I’m not an artist and I know nothing about sculpture, but I would wager that Michelangelo would have used him as a subject of reference.

We’re wearing matching shorts – or rather underwear, I suppose. They’re probably called something ancient like breeches or pantaloons.

I realize I’m smiling when his brows twitch curiously, like he’s wondering what I’m thinking. Or maybe he’s just trying to figure me out.

He’s not the only one. I don’t understand what I’m feeling or why I’m feeling it, but my fingers stretch toward him, wanting to bridge the distance between us.

“Ava?”

I startle. Retract my fingers. Then blurt the first thing that pops into my head. “Will I remember you when I wake up?”

“If you don’t, I’ll remind you.”

“I’m worried about Belle,” I admit.

I wonder where she went. What she needed wings for. She’ll be back. I know she will.

I can trust my sister…

I can trust my sister, but I can’t trust the shadow.

It’s proven time and time again that it’s not loyal to Belle. What if the mass isn’t loyal to their owners either, but rather to the wretched boy who used them as a macabre fountain of youth?

What if Pan can influence the shadows Belle wears now that she’s in Neverland? Like he can the shadows of Evermist, and beyond…

What if he’s already manipulating her, and the errand she insisted on running was for him?

What if whatever he struck me with allows him to make me his puppet, too?

The place on my back is still cold.

Swallowing thickly, I close my eyes and pretend to fall asleep. I listen until Hudson’s breathing evens, then take one more peek at him, committing as much of the last days to memory as possible before settling into sleep.

Tomorrow, I’ll ask him for some paper and use his quill and ink to make a gigantic, bulleted list of what I need to know in case I forget it all. The next time we’re in town, I’ll look for a journal of my own. I have a feeling I’m forgetting far too much.

---