Page 38 of Caging Darling

Peter shakes his head. “Only because I was in so much pain, so foolish, that I forced you to. But it’s not you, not really. You know how I know that?”

I swallow, shaking my head. His gaze becomes fixated on my Mark as he strokes it. It should be a terrifying thought, that someone as possessive as Peter suspects me of not loving him back. But his touch is so tender, I get the sense he would never hurt me, no matter how much I hurt him.

“Because when I rescued you from Astor and we got back to Neverland, you wanted to leave. I couldn’t have done that. Not without ripping a hole in my soul.”

I think of how it felt when Astor took me away from Neverland, the gash in my chest at leaving Peter.

“You would have healed,” I say, more kindly than I expect. It’s not that I don’t expect it from the bargain, but I truly mean the sympathy I infuse there.

Peter shakes his head. “It’s not just that. You fell in love with him. While you were away.”

“I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to think about him.”

Peter frowns. “But you do.”

My heart stills in my chest, fear lancing through me this time. I might not fear Peter knowing my feelings for him waver, but jealousy is a dangerous friend of Peter’s, whispering violence into his ear.

But Peter doesn’t shake me. Doesn’t grip me so hard it hurts. Instead, he strokes my hair out of my forehead, runs his hands back across my skull until he comes to the ribbon where I’ve tied it half-back, then he tugs on it gently, letting the rest of my hair fall.

“Do you know how I feel about other women?” Peter whispers. “It’s not that I haven’t considered it. Wanting someone who wants me back. But anytime I consider it, you know what it feels like? There was a red-headed woman who approached me while we were at the club. She ran her hand down my arm while you were in the washroom. Do you know how it felt to be touched by another woman?”

I shake my head, heart pounding against my chest.

“Like being clawed with talons of venom. Like I could squirm out of my skin. It feels like your teeth being set on edge by water that’s too cold. If it’s not you, Wendy Darling, I’m repulsed.”

I blink, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. “Peter, that can’t be?—”

He places his finger on my lips, stilling me underneath his touch. “I will hate myself every day for the rest of my existence for what I did to you in chaining you to me. Let it be some consolation that I’m imprisoned with you, in a cage of my own making. Know that every moment you don’t love me, every time I see you glancing toward those accursed stars, waiting for him to come for you, every time I’m holding you in my arms and you whisper his name in the middle of the night, let it be a comfort that I am rotting from the inside out, too. Know that on every mission I’ve been on, I’ve scoured the seers for information onhow to break the bargain I held you to. My knees have bruised on the ground in front of the Sister, begging for her to find a way to end it, to let you free of the hold I have over you. Because I am dying. You, my love, are killing me.” He lets out the sharpest of exhales. “And you know what’s ironic?”

I swallow in answer.

“There’s a part of me that doesn’t mind you killing me, so long as it’s your hands against my throat. So long as there’s a part of you that enjoys touching me.”

Something trickles through me. A heat that’s less warm, and more like a wick smoldering. And I’m not sure where the fire started, who kindled it. If it was a campfire put out, but carelessly, a gush of wind picking at the dying embers, bringing them back to life.

There’s a moment of between. When it’s clear the ember will either swell or wither away. A moment that’s just me and Peter in this cramped room, our only communication labored breaths.

“Peter?” I ask.

He closes his eyes at the sound of his name on my lips. “Yes.” Not a question. An answer for anything I might ask of him. The blank check I gave him in our bargain, extended back to me.

“Do you want to be wanted?” I whisper.

He places his head against my forehead, and when his skin touches mine, he nods, eyes still closed.

I breathe. “Me too.”

I’m wokenthe next morning by a dull headache.

I lie in Peter’s arms, as I’ve done so many mornings before. He’d wanted me to keep my clothes off, but after it was over and he’d fallen asleep, I’d crawled out of bed and put them back on before slipping back into his arms.

I stare at the clock on the other side of the room. It’s ticking.

I’m struck with the sensation of having imagined this happening differently. For one, there was the version of me who wanted to wait until there was a ring on the man’s finger, to make sure he wouldn’t discard me just like all the other men in my life had.

But Peter’s not leaving. Not because he loves me, but because he’s obsessed with me, and it would hurt too much.

Peter’s not leaving, I repeat over and over in my head. Peter’s not leaving, and I deserve some pittance of pleasure in this prison in which I’m shackled.

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