Page 11 of Caging Darling

“I say,” I say, biting my lip and turning my most charming smile on Peter, “that I adore you.” I press my lips to his. “And that, unfortunately, I still have a headache.”

CHAPTER 4

“That’s it?” I stare at the smattering of faerie dust on Peter’s fingertip. It’s half of what he normally gives me. I don’t have the self-control to wait for a response before I grab his finger and press it to my mouth. A flicker of pleasure buzzes through me, but it flickers all the same. A flame that knows it’s on its last bit of wick and is conserving itself, toiling to last just a few seconds longer.

I stare up at Peter, who’s watching me quietly, noting the manner in which my eyes change as the dust trembles through me. We’re in his room, which is tidy for once. Shirtless in the dim lighting, he looks like the heroes of old. Strip him of color, and he could be one of the marble statues in my parents’ manor. There’s a small mark in the shape of a hand underneath his right ribcage. When I’d asked about it, he’d said it was a birthmark, but I know better. I know a bargain when I see one, though it’s small enough I can’t say for sure whether it’s new or if I simply hadn’t noticed it until I moved into his room.

Usually Peter would pull me into his lap or hold me as we lay under the covers, but with the slim dose he offered me just now, there’s no danger of me floating away.

I’m parched, and have only gotten enough water to wet my tongue. Now that the initial hit has dulled, I’m thirstier than ever.

“That wasn’t enough. My head.” I rub at my temple for emphasis, noting the stabbing ache there.

“You can have more tomorrow,” he says, gently. Softly. Like he cares for me. Like he’s not withholding the only thing keeping me from walking barefoot into the sea until it swallows me whole.

“Peter. Peter, please,” I say, fully aware that my voice is coming out in a grating whine. I sound like a child who wants to stay up past her bedtime. I step in, folding myself into his chest. His breathing quickens at my nearness. “Please, it hurts.”

“Wendy Darling, I know. I know it hurts, but you’ll get more tomorrow.”

Tears stream down my cheeks, and they’re not feigned. Panic ripples through me. It feels as if the air I’m breathing is contaminated, insufficient. Missing whatever element it contains that keeps me alive. When the tears hit Peter’s chest, he tenses. A warm hand finds my jaw, strokes my Mating Mark as he tilts my chin to look at him.

“It will be better soon, Wendy Darling. You have to trust me.” He slips his hand back to the base of my skull, right above my neck. Panic seizes me, his fingers much too close to my precious secret.

“Why are you hurting me?” I cry, tearing myself away from him. Peter’s blue eyes glow with sorrow as he wrinkles his brow.

He truly can’t stand it—seeing me in pain. I grasp at the hair on my scalp, tugging at it like I can somehow rip out the aching in my skull. “You did this to me. You wanted to hurt me, didn’t you? That’s why you gave me the faerie dust to begin with. You gave it to me so you could take it away. Because you hate me; you always have.”

Peter takes a step forward, reaches out his hand. “Wendy Darling.”

“I should have known. Should have seen it,” I mutter, pacing. “You haunted me when I was a child. Got a rise out of frightening me. Terrified me for years. You’ve only ever wanted to torture me. Why do you like torturing me? What did I ever do to you?”

I hate you, I want to say, but can’t. That’s not choosing Peter, I suppose.

He’s standing, arm still outstretched, heaving. He looks as if I’ve slapped him across the face. But then his hand goes to his side, to the pouch of faerie dust. Hope surges in my chest, sparkling wine bubbling over. I can taste the honeysuckle flavor on my tongue.

But then Peter’s expression shifts, turns hard. It’s a look I’m familiar with. A jealousy that strikes deeper than any urge Peter has to make me happy.

“Peter?”

He stares at me, at my mouth. “You never look at me that way.”

Panic supplants the hope in my chest, plants a lump in my throat. “Of course I do. I love you. You’re my Mate.”

Peter’s face goes blank. “You can have more tomorrow.”

I run my hand against his bedside table. Feel the swell of the wood against my fingertips. As I do, I examine every object in the room other than my Mate: the cot he moved in here for Michael after John died, Michael’s toy chest, stuffed with toys Peter’s stolen on his excursions to the point that the lid remains eternally askew.

Peter’s room used to be a mess, a treasure trove of sorts, of trophies he’s brought back from his excursions. But many of them were breakable, delicate teacups that Michael might have stepped on and cut his feet, baubles he might have accidentally swallowed.

Those are all gone now, the room cleaned to make it habitable for my brother.

The stinging sensation in my blood remains, but when Peter draws near and places his hands on my shoulders, it shifts. My anger toward him is just as potent, but there’s a tension to it I can’t break. An edge to my irritation that tastes so similar to lust, I don’t know how to distinguish them.

Peter turns my cheek to face him. I’m met with a hunger in his eyes that can only match mine. An insatiable greed for one another.

Someone knocks on the door, and the tension snaps.

“Yes?” Peter’s voice is gravelly, irritated, and he doesn’t take his eyes off of me.

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