Page 31 of Caging Darling

This has never happened before. I’ve fallen victim to the allure of our Mating Mark, the compulsion of the bargain. I’ve let them carry me along with them, allowed my limbs to go limp and my resistance to slip at their insistence.

But I’ve never believed them. I’ve never forgotten the truth of what was tugging at my emotions.

It’s the bargain. The Mating Mark. It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

Peter’s leaning over me now, his hands gentle on my waist. Even knowing what I know, there’s a part of me that wants to go back to three seconds ago, when I believed myself in love with the man I’m stuck with.

Not real. It’s not real.

Why do I want it to be real?

“Peter,” I gasp, taking his hand at my waist and slipping my fingers through it. “Can you do something for me?”

He’s so desperate for me now, I wonder how far I could push him. But where I expect him to say “Anything,” he says, “What do you need from me, Wendy Darling?”

I untangle myself from him, noting the disappointment in his eyes, then tuck my hair behind my ear. “It’s been so long since I’ve been out. So long since I’ve felt like myself.”

His gaze drifts to my eyes, like he’s noting my pupils for the absence of faerie dust. He didn’t give me any before we left Neverland. Said I wouldn’t need it on the outside.

“Would you take me out?” I ask, biting my lip.

Peter’s mouth quirks into a sly smile, then he slips his hand over my cheek. “Are you asking me out on a date, Wendy Darling?”

My heart, against my good intentions, flutters.

CHAPTER 11

Idon’t know why I’m surprised that Peter’s allowing me out on the town. It’s not nearly the change of heart letting me leave Neverland was.

Then again, Peter doesn’t like to watch me hurt.

And Neverland is strangling me.

I examine the hole-in-the-wall pub he found down the street from our inn. I’d heard the music from a block away, and despite the wickedness clinging to my heart like tar, the fate of little Daisy sticking to my bloodied hands, the music had lifted my heart.

It’s been so long since I’ve heard music. Music that wasn’t from Peter’s flute, lulling me to a dreamless, emotionless sleep. This music is calling to me, soothing yet lively. I didn’t know such a combination was possible. It makes me want to move.

I haven’t wanted to move in so very long.

I’d clung to Peter’s coat and begged him to take me. “Whatever you want, Wendy Darling,” he’d said as if that were close to the truth.

I’m too wrapped up in the music, in the feel of this place, to care all that much.

The band is lovely, their sparkling golden suits shimmering in the faerie lantern light. The woman singing, her voice throaty and seductive, is in a ruby-red ballgown, but her silky black hair and broad smile remind me of Charlie, so I avert my eyes.

Round tables draped in scarlet silk line the walls, men and women gossiping over the rims of faux-crystal glasses, their chatter maneuvering out from behind bared teeth precariously holding their cigars in place.

Then there’s the laughter, as foreign to me as another language. One I’ve heard spoken before, can recognize, but can’t understand.

I’m not sure what gets into me, but I spin toward Peter, who’s standing arms crossed against the wall, and offer my hand. “Dance with me?” It’s more of a plea than anything.

Peter smirks, but he pushes himself off the wall all the same. Takes my hand in his and leads me out onto the floor.

This music is nothing like what my parents would have chosen for entertainment. Not that the purpose of the music was ever entertainment. To them, music’s sole purpose was for elevating status, or perhaps climbing it if you happened to be in search of a spouse.

This music has nothing to do with prestige, and everything to do with movement. There are no pre-planned steps, no patterns to be memorized. In fact, by the way the musicians are glancing at one another with a delight that only comes tied to surprise, I’m fairly certain half of this music is improvised.

I love it.

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