Page 7 of Caging Darling

Victor and Peterare arguing again.

I hear the irritated pitches of their voices from down the winding tunnel leading from Peter’s room to the living room portion of the Den.

“You have to wean her off of it.” That would be Victor. Even if I didn’t recognize the voice, I’d recognize the sentiment. He’s expressed it often enough. It would irritate me—that he’s trying to take my last bit of relief away from me—if I thought there was any chance of Peter heeding him.

But Peter can’t stand to see me in pain. Unlike some people.

Peter would never shove me to the ground just to see if I’d get back up. He’d never push me, just so I’d hurt enough to fight back.

He’d never leave me. He’ll never let me leave, either. But it’s not as if I have anywhere to go.

“She’s not strong enough,” says Peter. His claim is worn out, even if it is true.

“She’s not strong enough, or you’re worried about how strong she’d be without it?” asks Victor.

The silence between them is blistering. Though I haven’t reached the living area yet, I don’t have to see them to imagine their stances. Victor’s arms are fisted at his sides, the veins in his eyes popping scarlet. Peter’s firm arms are crossed across his chest.

“You saw her that night,” says Peter.

“I didn’t just see her that night,” says Victor. “I’ve lived that night. With my own brother.”

“Which is why I’m confused as to why you, of all people, can’t understand the need to relieve her pain.”

“It’s been nine months,” says Victor. “It’s not relief at this point. It’s repression. Avoidance. She’s not healthy. She barely touches her food. Peter, the skin around her collarbones is sagging.”

“How would you know that?” Jealousy twinges my counterfeit Mate’s tone. It’s a dangerous emotion on him.

“Because she goes around in clothes that don’t fit her. Like she thinks she can hide from us how much weight she’s lost.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a tad too invested in what’s mine,” says Peter.

Victor scoffs. “Well, someone has to be, don’t they?”

Footsteps grow louder as Victor storms out of the room and down the hall. When he turns the corner and sees me, his nose flares. At first I think it’s in frustration, but then his face softens. “It’s your day at the pool, Winds.”

Embarrassment pierces my gut. Victor recently instated a bathing schedule for the Lost Boys and me. He said it was for my benefit, to give me privacy so that there’d be no risk of the boys walking up on me.

But I know better.

It’s for my benefit, all right. But it’s because Victor thinks that if he doesn’t remind me it’s my day to bathe, I won’t.

That’s what the nose flare was for, I gather.

“Right.” I find myself crossing my arms over my chest like I can somehow hold the odor back.

Victor looks as if he’s about to leave, but then he bites his lip and turns back to me. The shadows underneath his eyes are deeper than ever. When I first arrived in Neverland, it seemed as if time hardly passed here. Now I know better. Time passes; the Lost Boys simply don’t age. Even so, Victor looks older than when I first met him. Maybe it’s just how the unhinged temper of the Victor I first met has settled into something more determined, more focused.

“Is Michael up yet?” He asks it so casually. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe he actually needed the answer and wasn’t just trying to make conversation with me for my benefit.

“You know Michael,” I say.

Victor laughs, though there’s no energy to it. “He’s got that internal clock, doesn’t he?”

I nod.

Victor swallows and runs his hand through his black hair. “I’ll probably take him for a walk in a bit. You could come, if you wanted.”

Nois the word that immediately comes to my lips. But there’s something strange about the word. It halts before it leaves my mouth. The thousands of excuses—I’m too tired, I didn’t get much sleep last night, I don’t even have the energy to kill myself, how could I possibly have the energy to go for a walk—don’t come out.

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