Still, I shouldn’t be preening for Azalea. If Neverland taught me anything, it’s that love can’t be trusted as far as I can see.
“Where did you learn to climb like that?” she asks, her brows raised.
I pause when I would have taken a step back through the forest. Meeting her eyes briefly, I can’t hold her gaze for long before I’m looking back through the trees, away from her penetrating eyes. “My sister,” I admit.
We walk back to her cottage in absolute silence, no more questions shared between us. The roaring in my ears grows just a little louder, and the guilt? It grows bigger, too.
I stare at the reflection in the running river, the magic of Neverland flowing around me. What is this sorcery? What’s happening?
I touch a finger to my face. It’s been so long since I’ve seen myself human, my memory of my appearance is a little hazy, but the moment I felt something start to change, I transformed, curious. And I’d been right to do so. I’d always had a square jaw, was always lean, but now I’m showing more muscles than I’d had before, my body filling out like a man’s. When had this happened? How am I growing up in a world meant to stay young forever?
The magic of my curse flowed through me, changing me, and I know with absolute certainty what’s happening.
Neverland is dying, and with it, I’m aging.
Is Wendy aging, too? Are we all?
I grinned. The world will die around us, but we will escape. I touch the crystal tear hanging at my ear. Neverland will die, but Wendy will be my key. Now, I just need to sense the door.
Chapter Five
The weeks flow by like water, but Oz never changes, not around us. Though the worlds continue to shift around the edges and forces Oz to shake, it doesn’t ever seem to reach where Azalea’s cottage resides. It’s almost peaceful, if you ignore the night sounds. It’s almost easy to pretend everything is normal, that I’m not a villain waiting for my punishment, that someone likes me even knowing what they do about me.
We slip into a routine, one that feels natural. Azalea never asks me to leave after the first night, eventually giving me a room upstairs rather than a place in her chair. It helps, to lay on a bed. I’m finally able to sleep an entire night, though most of that has been thanks to the sleeping draught Azalea hands me each night.
I don’t have the urge to leave, not yet. I find Azalea’s presence comforting. She never pries into my past, never asks questions, even knowing what I’ve done. It’s as if she assumes I’ll speak in my own time, and I appreciate the trust. I haven’t had someone trust me in so long, it feels almost strange. But then again, maybe it isn’t so much trust as her knowing I can’t harm her. Though Azalea gives off the air of innocence with the way she acts, I’ve felt her power a few times. It’s strong, tinted green just as my own power is.
I haven’t felt the need to shift since we’d arrived either, a miracle in itself, but I know, eventually, I’ll need to. If I wait too long, my skin will start to itch, drying out like scales, until I have no choice but to transform into the great lumbering beast Neverland hated.
I don’t want Azalea to hate me, though. That thought grows more each day. I want her to keep trusting me, to keep looking at me as a man rather than a monster, even if it isn’t fair to her. Every so often, I wonder if she’s just bidding her time until she cooks me over a fire.
We’re both sitting around the fire, a common thing for the evening before the beasts start their ruckus outside. Azalea is knitting, of all things. The item she’s working on looks strange even to my eyes, though I’m no knitter. Mostly, I just stare into the fire, drowning in memories and regret, wondering if Tiger Lily has made it to safety, wondering if Aniya has become a beast yet or if she ever will. I feel decidedly alone, even sitting next to Azalea, though she silences some of that loneliness. I’m used to the feeling, constantly feeling alone even surrounded by the Lost, but for some reason, it grows suffocating in Oz, until I find myself turning to Azalea and speaking.
“How do you handle it?” I ask, watching as Azalea circles her two hooks and pulls it tight. Is she making a sock? I have no idea.
“Handle what?” She hums and glances up on me briefly before returning her eyes to her work to make sure she doesn’t skip a step.
“Being alone.”
Working hands pause as she looks up at me then. Gently, she sets her project in her lap and sighs. I must have caught her off guard.
“I don’t think there’s any handling it as much as I don’t have a choice,” she answers, watching me closely. “I either wallow in loneliness, or I busy myself with other things. In Oz, there are only bad people. Once upon a time, a girl came and thought she could save it, but Dorothy wasn’t prepared for the evil here.” The sparkle in her eyes dulls as she dredged up old memories inside her, shaking her head in an attempt to dislodge them. “You think you’re a monster, Bane, but you haven’t seen anything yet. Oz will give even monsters nightmares.”
For some reason, that’s almost reassuring. I don’t tell her I already have enough nightmares to fill my nights. I simply nod but Azalea doesn’t return to her knitting. She continues to look at me, her eyes taking in every detail. There’s a constant tension between us, one that’s growing increasingly difficult to ignore. Azalea is beautiful. With her dark green hair and smooth skin, she’s a picture of beauty. Constantly, I’ve caught obvious interest in her gaze, but I’m not right for her. I’m not right for anyone. I’m still confused about my heart. The longer I stay in Oz, the more I wonder how I could have thought Wendy would ever love me. Her look of disgust when I’d kissed her haunts me, and try as I might, I can’t keep the image of her when we first met there. The smile she’d shared then, I used to cherish it. Now, all I see is the disgust and the fear. I’d put that there. How could she ever love such a monster?
“You said you had a sister. Is she alive?” Azalea asks, drawing me from my musings.
“I think she is, but I don’t know where she ended up. I’m not even sure which world she escaped to.”
She purses her lips. “Do you want to find her?”
“I don’t know if I could ever face her,” I whisper, the image of her eyes flashing through my mind. “In the end, she’d reached out to me, but Neverland had other plans.”
Azalea sets her project fully aside and relaxes back in her chair. “You’d be surprised what those who care for us are willing to forgive. And the longer I’m around you, I’m starting to think you’re more noble than a villain. And I should know.” She lifts her hands as if to gesture to the world outside.
“Don’t,” I growl. “I killed an entire world. I killed innocent people. I tried to force the woman I thought I loved to love me back.” I spit the words out one after the other, angry for reasons I can’t place. Maybe I’m angry with myself. I’m a monster and Azalea says Oz is for the monsters. Well, then, I’m right at home. I don’t deserve the look in her eyes, the understanding there. I don’t deserve much of anything at all and yet here she is, being nice, looking at me as if I’m not the villain I am.
“And yet, you’re trying awfully hard to convince yourself of your monstrous nature,” she murmurs, watching me carefully.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
“Like what?” She stands and moves closer to my chair, making my muscles tense. “Like a man?” Eyes trail across my body, over the exposed plains of my chest. “Like less of a monster? Tell me, Bane. What is it I should look at you like?”
“Just don’t,” I rasp, staring up into her eyes, not daring to move. If I reach out for her, I know that will be just as dangerous as staying here is, and guilt still eats at me, a constant weight on my shoulders.
She studies me for long seconds more, tracing my face, my cheekbones, my lips, until I feel like an insect pinned to a wall. I curl my hands into the material of the chair, keeping them locked beneath my thighs so I don’t grab her and crush her lips against mine. She deserves better than that and I’ve had my fair share of atte
mpting to force Wendy to love me. I’m not prepared to repeat my actions here if the obsession returns, if it barrels into me.
“Do you have any family?” I ask, and she moves away, breaking the tension with her body where I’d used my words.
As if my words are the catalyst, pain flashes through her eyes, spreading. “I did. Once. She died.” And then she grabs her project and curls it against her chest. “I’m going to sleep. Put out the candles before you do the same.”
She disappears up the staircase quickly, the tension so heavy in the small cottage, but neither one of us seems ready to address it. I watch until she disappears completely before settling into the chair and running a hand through my hair. What am I doing? I should leave.
I glance toward the door in contemplation. There are too many emotions starting to swirl around me and I fear I’ll drown beneath the wave of them. I’m not meant for this sort of life, this easy domesticity. I should leave.
But oh, how much I want to stay. . .
Chapter Six
A few days later, I’m hiding in the room Azalea allowed me to take over. Sweat and dirt coat my body and I was afraid I was leaving a trail through the house. The witch has me digging for grubs and roots all day, searching for ingredients for her potions I rarely see her work on. I’m starting to suspect she purposely works on her potions when I’m not around. But why?
I strip off my soiled clothing and grab the sponge from the small washbasin, running it along my arms first, scrubbing beneath my nails until the dirt lifts away. Standing at the washbasin nude, I meticulously scrub away the grime but that isn’t enough. I feel like I need to scrub harder, hard enough to wash away the blood staining my hands. I try. I try scrubbing until my skin is raw but nothing every works. The pain is mental. The regret is inside me. I just need to either learn to live with it or make up for those regrets. Neither option sound terribly possible with the hurdles I’ll have to overcome.
A knock sounds on the door behind me, and before I can call out that I’m not decent or tell her to wait, Azalea shoves the door open, a stack of clothing in her hands. I freeze, looking at her in surprise.
“I brought you some—” Her words choke off and she stumbles to a stop. When her eyes trail over my chest, down my abs, lower, my cock stirs with the attention. My muscles bunch, and I keep still for fear of what moving will cause.
I know what she sees. I’m heavily scarred, years of fighting in the Tribe leaving its mark, but her eyes seemed enraptured by the hardening length between my thighs. She’s barely wearing clothing, only a loose dress that flows around her ankles, but I know, beneath it, she’s hiding her curves. Still, she stares at me, lingering, and some part of me prevents my hands from moving to cover myself. Some part of me wants her to see the reaction she strokes in me.
“I thought you said you healed fast,” she murmurs, staring at the scars littering my body. Naked as I am, it’s easy to see the white scars cross-crossing over my tanned skin. They stand out easily, running in all directions, showcasing all the battles and trouble I found myself in before I became the Crocodile.
“Most of these are from before I healed so easily,” I admit.
Tension in my shoulders threatens my control and I feel the slight shift of scales across my chest. I push it away as quickly as I feel the shift. Azalea doesn’t need to see me in my Crocodile form. I’m not sure if it will scare her or if she will even care, but I don’t want to test the theory. As long as I can stay human in her eyes, she’ll keep looking at me like that.
I tense harder when Azalea takes a step forward, and another, moving closer. I don’t dare move, hardly dare to breathe, at all. She comes to a stop just before me, barely a foot between us. She drags her gaze up my body and meets my eyes, the sunset in hers glowing as if it really is the sky.
“I did always like the color green,” she whispers.
I snap. All the tension hanging between us stabs inside me like a dagger, urging me to move, but I’m not the only one. As I reach out to grip her waist, she drops the clothing in her arms and winds them around my neck. Mutually, our lips slam together, as if we can’t bear to wait any longer. And perhaps, this is exactly what we’ve been working our way toward. Perhaps, we’d only denied the inevitable.
I kiss her furiously, my tongue snaking out to tangle with hers. I’m tempted to walk her backward, to lift her and sit her on the edge of the small table in the room, but I focus on the kiss instead. I should wait. I shouldn’t be a monster. She shouldn’t be inviting a monster into her arms.
Azalea kisses me as violently as I do her, as if she’s starved and I’m the buffet set before, and it only makes me harden further. I hold myself in check, not daring to force her, in case she changes her mind. It’s one thing to like green. It’s another to invite it into your bed. Wendy’s look of disgust flashes through my mind and I pause.
When her hand reaches between us and strokes my length, I nearly come undone, a growl curling my lips. By sheer force of will, I manage to drag myself away from her, leaning back far enough to meet her eyes.
“You don’t deserve someone like me,” I grunt. “I shouldn’t be allowed to touch you with such blood-soaked hands.”
She strokes me again and my lips curl up in a snarl. Snapping out a hand to stop her, I clench her wrist tightly, but I don’t pull her fingers away, not yet.
“I told you Oz is for the villains, Bane,” she whispers, her eyes sparkling. “What makes you think I’m not one?”
I’ve never asked her why she lives alone, why she seems to hide here. No matter if Oz is for the villains, I’m certain Azalea doesn’t want to be one. It’s hard to judge someone by how they choose to survive, even if they must do terrible things. Even if Azalea is a villain, she chooses to hide away in the forest rather than cause chaos. She chooses a different path.
With my hands clenching tightly at her waist, Wendy’s face flashes behind my eyes again. I’ve been enamored with her for so long, determined to win her heart, it feels strange to be standing here thinking of fucking Azalea against the wall. Shouldn’t I feel more guilty about it? Wendy will never love me. I know that. Not when she has Hook. Not after all I’ve done. But still, some part of me cares for her. I did love her, even if it was twisted into something terrible. Some part of me isn’t prepared to let her memory go just yet.
“I might be in love with someone else,” I admit quietly, meeting Azalea’s eyes to make sure she hears me.
The witch only shrugs. “I’m not asking for your heart, Crocodile.” She tilts her head. “If I’m being truly honest, I’m mainly interested in your cock.”
I tense and she moves her hand beneath mine again, her other dragging my lips back down to hers. With a savage growl, I dive into the feelings and jerk her closer, lifting her just long enough to slam her back against the wall. My hesitation disappears. This isn’t about love. This isn’t about guilt. It’s about pleasure and nothing else. Perhaps, if I keep lying to myself, it’ll make it easier.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, but I’ll be damned if I don’t slip into it smoothly. I can feel her curves beneath her loose dress and the urge to reveal them weighs heavily on me. I focus only on the witch pressing her lips against my chest, dragging her teeth there.
I may not be capable of giving my heart away but this, sex, I can do.
Chapter Seven
She’s beautiful, her body covered with lean muscle, her hair cascading down her back in a wild green waterfall. Azalea isn’t meant for creatures like me, but then again, she doesn’t seem to care.
Just sex, I tell myself, repeatedly, but something about those words feel like a lie. Still, I repeat them like a mantra while I press her against the wall, while we kiss in a savage tangle. I grind my hips against the apex of her thighs, my hands bracing against the wall around her. Azalea moans against my lips, driving me forward. A desperation I’m not prepared for slams into me so hard, it nearly buckles my knees. My claws slip out and I slice her clo
thing away, just barely avoiding slicing her skin when she jerks. Her legs are around my waist a second later, her fingers spearing into my hair and dragging it loose from the tie, clenching tight.
“So pretty,” she murmurs as she trails her lips along my jawline, tracing the sharpness there.
I busy myself with cupping her ass, with holding her to me and kneading the flesh. Turning toward the bed pushed against the wall, I carry her over, careful not to knock into the chair or any other bits and pieces that stand in the way. I feel savage, as if I’m one second away from falling into a frenzy. I shake with the strength it takes to take slow measured steps, barely in control, but Azalea doesn’t seem to want control.
“Stop,” she growls as I drop her on the bed, prepared to climb over her.
I freeze, worried I’ve hurt her, but when I go to pull away, her fingers clench tighter in my hair. “What do you want from me?” The growled question comes out husky, almost nonsense.
“Stop acting like I’m a precious flower,” she replies, dragging me closer. I take advantage and trace her skin with my lips, her breasts temptation as they beg to be touched. “I’m not breakable. If I wasn’t prepared for the Crocodile, I wouldn’t be here.”
I pause and look up her body, furrowing my brows. “I could hurt you.”
“I’m a witch, remember.” Her eyes narrow when I don’t immediately trace her skin again. “I’m sturdier than I look. Besides, what is it with men thinking they’re so amazing they can hurt a woman? You’re just a man, Bane. Now, fuck me like one.”
Monstrous as a Croc (Daughters of Neverland Book 4) Page 3