by Dee Garcia
And I’ll have no choice but to be honest, which will undoubtedly set him off and propel our demise in motion.
Why? Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t he just love me as wholly as I do him? He’s professed it many a times, has shown me in various ways he does, in fact, love me.
Yet, it doesn’t compare.
And perhaps that’s not fair of me. I shouldn’t feel the need to compare the depth of our affection. After all, love is not proud or self-seeking. Nor does it keep record of wrongdoings.
But I. Can’t. Help. It.
I’ve given Peter everything, and what has he given me other than memories I may want to forget some day?
God, I hope it never comes to that.
Let’s pray it doesn’t—because I’m not sure I’d survive it.
Peter
I sigh, frustrated, because I’ve told him more than once, “It’s not that easy. She loves me!”
“She’s not supposed to!” His echo rattles the damp, ebony walls.
I should back down, but I hold my ground, exasperated as he is.
I’m tired of repeating myself, tired of these random check-in’s as if I were some sort of child. “I never intended for her to! She was a kid. Curious. A kind little thing. I couldn’t just turn her away. Do you know how nice it was to talk to someone, to feel wanted? For someone to be my friend?”
“To be your friend?” He laughs cynically. “Friends are overrated. Loyalty is a forgotten cause these days. And look where needing a friend got you; caught in a pickle I’m growing tired of asking you to correct!”
Again, I should keep my mouth shut and back down, but I can’t. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” I growl. “I didn’t do this—”
“At this point, I don’t care if you did or didn’t do it with purpose. All I want is for you to fix it, to clean up your mess!” he roars, effectively cutting me off. “I refuse to help you if you can’t abide by the rules!”
Silence.
I have to subdue the dry, bitter laugh simmering in my throat. Truthfully, I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t belong here, never have, never will. I’ll always be unwanted, an outcast, a threat—and I was foolish to think otherwise.
To give it all these years.
For what?
So yes, I guess it’s finally time I fix my mess, kill two birds with one stone while I’m at it. I’ll give them all what they want, and find my way back to the life I was ripped away from, regardless of the consequences.
I just hope I don’t break Tinksley in the process.
She was never supposed to get hurt.
♫ Instead - Ryan Amador ♫
It’s been several days since N’Isabelle’s celebration, almost a week to be exact, and I haven’t seen Tinksley or Pan since.
Then again, I haven’t left my home, either.
Not for any particular reason, I just haven’t felt like stepping out.
Okay, so that’s complete bullshit. I haven’t felt like running into Tinksley. The way she left me on that balcony? It’s stuck with me. Regardless of how I feel about Pan, I shouldn’t have voiced such things to the girl.
They completely go against the plan, and to be quite honest, it wasn’t fair to her, especially after the bastard left her.
I couldn’t help myself, though. The words came out before I could so much as process what I was saying. Didn’t realize it until she gave me that look, that distraught, disturbed look in her beautiful eyes.
That’s what got me, what still has me. It’s all I can think about. Her evening was already ruined, and I destroyed it in entirety.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, scrubbing a hand down my face.
“Everything okay, boss?” Sam queries from the other side of the parlor.
Dragging my gaze up to his, I offer a subtle nod and push onto my feet. “All’s fine. Just need some fresh air, I think. I’m going to run into town. Do you need anything?”
“I do, actually. It’s Nina’s birthday. Would you be able to pick up some flowers and a small cake?”
This again?
“Samuel,” I eye him sternly, but he’s already lifting a hand, irritated I’m going there.
“I know what you’re going to say and I swear to you it’s not what you think. I just want to wish the girl a happy birthday,” he counters.
“With a bouquet of flowers and a cake? Don’t you think Brielle and the rest of her coven will have that covered?”
“Well, yes, but… What else am I supposed to get the girl?”
“A single flower and a hand-written birthday wish will do, kid.”
His face falls slightly, reiterating what I already know. Samuel may enjoy wetting his dick in both cunts—what man wouldn’t, they’re gorgeous females—but over time, he’s fallen for Nina, and unfortunately for him, a relationship between the two isn’t feasible.
Nina is with Brielle, in a romantic fashion. They have been for quite some time from what I remember, and while they might enjoy adding Sam to the mix every so often, he’s expendable. A means to an end.
“Fine,” he finally concedes, lips thinned. “Would you, at least, be able to pick up the flower and a few sheets of parchment, I ran—”
“There’s parchment in my desk and fresh roses in the garden. Have Violet trim some for you,” I interject, and with that, I take my exit, materializing though each space to the outside world.
It’s a gorgeous spring morning, I have to say—bright blue skies, cloudless, warm rays of the sun casting down on everything in my path. Not too warm yet, either, a slight breeze carrying through the air. Usually, I sprint through the palms, whirring past anything and anyone treading my grounds, but today, I decide to take my time.
Breathe it all in.
Fresh grass crunching beneath my boots, my mind wanders back to the woman I’ve been avoiding. What she’s been up to, if she’s met up with the boy and reconciled after his act of stupidity.
Are my indiscretions still plaguing her?
Have they altered her view of Pan?
Or has she forgotten about it, pushing it back to the recesses of her mind?
If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to, but again—Tinksley and I are very different. She’s far kinder than I am, surely more forgiving, too.
“‘Ello, Captain. Good morning to ‘ya,” says Ferdinan, the island’s Blacksmith. His eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile as he waves a hand my way.
“Morning to you as well.” I tip my head and continue on the cobblestone path of the town square.
He’s one of the brave few who pipes up when they see me. Most of the townspeople simply stare; some curiously, most of them warily.
Can’t say I blame them. I don’t exactly have a stellar rep.
They are polite, though. Reply when spoken to and exude nothing but respect.
I receive another handful of greetings as I trek along the hustle and bustle, passing shops of all kinds and the grand fountain in the very center. A woman and her two children sit on the bench before it, snacking on fresh pastries with a pile of books beside them. I’ve not seen them before, meaning they’ve likely ventured from another island.
Shifting my attention toward the opening of the port, a waft of the ocean fills my nostrils. I breathe it in deeply, relishing the warm, salty scent. Some days I miss being out there on the open waters, finding rare treasures and exploring new lands, but there’s nothing like home.
“Tinksley, honey—good morning. Will you give this to your mother?”
The mere mention of her name has me spinning around in seconds flat toward the sound.
Ambling out of the book shop, she makes her way across the road toward the bakery, where Mrs. Wellington, the head baker, holds open the door for her with a basket on her hip.
My heart rate spikes from steady to a wild gallop. She looks beautiful, as she always does. Hair thrown up in a messy bun, pale tendrils framing her face. The vibrant, lime green dress clinging to her figure
shows off more of her legs than anything else, drenching the inside of my mouth.
I’m literally salivating, following her every single move—from the soft smile that flits across her bare, freckle-smattered face, to the way she tucks a loose strand behind her ear.
When both women disappear inside the bakery, I find myself shuffling toward the large window, peeking inside it’s simple, cleanly decorated confines. Mrs. Wellington slips behind the counter and passes Tinksley a small box which she tucks into her satchel.
Her next move shoots me to the brink of insanity, a place where restraint is nearly nonexistent.
My hands clench into fists, jaw locking tightly as she bends over before the display case, scanning whatever sweets the older woman whipped up earlier this morning.
Cookies, cupcakes, pastries, pies, there’s an assortment to choose from, and watching Tinksley take her pick is a more erotic affair than it should be. Her dress has ridden up enough that the swell her pert little ass strains against the soft fabric.
Teasing me with visions of her in that exact position within the privacy of my chamber.
Icing dripping down her ass, inviting me to lap it up.
Shit.
I need to stop thinking such things. All I’m doing is torturing myself, reminding myself that, no matter how badly I may want her, she’s still his.
And I’m not saying that cynically.
I know I could have her if the circumstances were different. But Peter is her everything and in her eyes, I’m sure I don’t measure up. I’m the complete opposite of that repulsive man-child.
Like oil and water.
As if you’re above taking. I almost laugh at the fleeting thought because it’s true.
I’m not above taking, shamelessly so. Have stolen many a treasure over the years. Trust me when I say I know what valuable looks like.
And that’s exactly what Tinksley is: the most valuable treasure of them all.
Sure, taking her would be quite the thrill, but I don’t want to have to take her. She’s not some shiny piece for my collection.
I want her to want me in the same maddening fashion I do her.
The same maddening fashion that’s currently consuming me as she swipes a finger through the piped frosting of a vanilla cupcake and locks her lips around it.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
This is absolute torture. Enough that, I have to retreat from the window and press my back to the ivory bricks of the bakery’s exterior, my mind in shambles.
How is it that this woman can ruin me when—
The shop bells ring and, sheer moments later, Tinksley emerges with another box in hand, refocusing my attention on her. “Yes, yes, don’t worry. I’ll tell her as soon as I make it home,” she says to the baker.
Goodbyes are exchanged and then she’s off, heading south, offering smiles and waves as the townspeople acknowledge her.
She seems so...happy, and I’m instantly curious.
Why? Where is she going? Given the direction, she could very well be headed home, but my gut doesn’t agree, urging me to follow her.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
And yet I do.
Evanesce my way behind her so as not to be seen, or heard for that matter.
We tread right through Silver Sanctuary and the Moonstone Woodlands, distant drums and howls echoing in the distance. Idly, I wonder what exactly the Natives are celebrating, but the thought passes as quickly as it came when the sign for Lost Lake comes into view.
Tinksley slows her pace then, ducking beneath low hanging branches as she follows the path down to the water. I follow suit, making sure to keep a safe ways behind and my footwork light. The last thing I need is for a twig to snap, alerting her of my presence. I don’t want her to see me.
Just ensuring the plot is still rolling along as it should—for the council’s sake.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
They’ll absolutely have questions after what happened at the gala, especially when some of them witnessed me going after her when Pan took his leave. Which means I’ll need answers to provide, and if I can express with certainty that we’re still on track, perhaps they might not press—or even mention—my manic rush to get to her.
“Oh, Peterrr,” Tinksley sings, skittering up the large trees upholding his home. “Peter, come down. I brought your favorite.”
Instead of following her any further, I take refuge behind the greatest trunk just before the clearing, and wait to see where this goes. Nothing but silence greets us both, though, prompting Tinksley to crane her head back, hand pressed to her forehead.
“Peter? You there?” she tries again.
Said silence stretches and stretches until, suddenly, Peter drops down from above, landing mere inches from her petit form...
♫ Little Do You Know - Alex & Sierra ♫
“Hey, T,” Peter says, expression blank.
It’s so blank I can’t decipher it.
And don’t even get me started on his demeanor.
“I brought your favorite,” I tell him cheerfully, holding up the plain white box from the bakery. The scent of vanilla all but oozes out from within. They smell delicious and I’m hoping they’ll turn this awkwardness around for the better.
A small, almost forced smile flicks across his face as he runs a hand through his caramel mane. “Thanks, but...I’m not hungry.”
“Well, technically, it’s not food.”
“I know. Stomach’s a tad messed up, though, so I’ll pass. All that sugar is only bound to make it worse.”
My face falls, and I don’t even try to hide it. We haven’t seen each other in days, since the night of the ball, and here he is rejecting my offering.
An offering meant to say, “I forgive you for ditching me.”
Why do you bother?
There goes my subconscious again, and again, it’s not wrong. Why do I bother? His behavior has only gotten progressively worse over the last several weeks. Weirder, if you will. With each day that passes, he pulls more and more away, and I don’t know what to do about it.
How to fix it.
Why do you bother?
The question echoes in my mind a second time, arising this urge to voice it aloud. To ask him directly. To ask him what I’ve done, or perhaps haven’t done. To ask him if he even loves me, if he ever truly loved me.
I almost do, all the words begging to be spilled bubbling on the tip of my tongue.
But I don’t.
“Oh, okay,” I say instead, allowing the full extent of my disappointment to shine through.
Peter sighs, more deeply than necessary, almost pitifully, and wraps me in his arms. Face pressed to his firm chest, I fight back the tears welling in my eyes, the box of cupcakes slipping from my grip to our feet.
I won’t cry in front of him. I refuse to.
“I’ll have one later, I promise. Just need my stomach to settle first. Thank you for bringing them,” he mumbles into my hair, squeezing me tighter.
“No problem.”
“I’m serious, T.” He eases back, reaching up to cup my face. Those chocolatey irises I love so much sear into me, holding my stare. “Thank you, I can’t wait to devour them.”
I’m just about to respond, a simple “you’re welcome,” when he swoops in and sets his lips on mine.
Warm, familiar, home, all the emotions I usually feel, but the spark that always accompanies them, the one that sets me on fire for him, is nowhere to be found.
No. Where.
It’s startling, to say the least. Unsettling. Must be palpable because from one moment to the next, he’s deepening the kiss, sliding his hands down the curves of my body to reel me in closer.
That does it. The spark ignites. Not at its usual caliber, but it’s there, billowing and licking through my limbs. To my heart. The space between my thighs.
“I’ve missed you,” I voice against his lips, unable to hold back the admission any longer.
&nbs
p; “And I you,” he agrees.
“Then why have you stayed away?”
Peter shakes his head, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s unwilling to answer or because he doesn’t have an answer. Either way, his silence doesn’t help dampen the anxiety that’s been eating me alive since we arrived at this hellishly confusing fork in the road.
“Tell me, Peter. Please.” I hate begging, but I have to know.
We’re slipping further and further away, there’s no doubt about it, and I can’t bear the thought of losing him altogether.
Even if I know in my heart that both my subconscious and Hook are right.
I want things he seems incapable of giving me, envision a future that he doesn’t appear to want, and if I settle, I’ll only be hurting myself in the long run.
But I love him. More than anything...
“It’s nothing, Tinks. I’m just tired”—kiss—“Have been sleeping like pure and utter crap.”
“Why?” Kiss.
“The nightmares are back.”
No.
His confession practically turns me to stone. I still and snap my eyes open, searching his face. “The same ones?”
Peter nods slowly, his expression darkening. “Worse. They flash faster, the sounds are far more distorted. I… I can’t make sense of it.”
“Oh my God.” I throw my arms around this neck. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Didn’t want to burden you, especially when I haven’t been coping well this go around. I’m an exhausted mess.”
“But you’re my mess,” I whisper, squeezing him tighter. “I love you no matter what, will always help you...as long as you let me.”
“I’m not sure I can be helped. If I can’t decipher them, how will anyone else?”
It hasn’t escaped me that he didn’t acknowledge or return the sentiment, but I push it aside and focus on the last bit. That’s what has me most worried. “Maybe we can go to Persia, have her dig through your mind and—”