Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(49)

He moved deliberately, long slow strokes that made her arch against him. His rhythm carried her, drove her along like a swimmer caught in a current. If she didn’t move, she would drown. Faster and faster, until a shower of stars exploded through her body, filling every inch of her with warmth and light. She cried out, bit her lip to stifle the name she’d almost called. Kept her eyes closed.

She felt him collapse onto the bed next to her. He hadn’t said a word, and he didn’t touch her. When at last she could pretend no longer, she turned on her side to look at him. His face was pale, his eyes huge, and she felt a sudden wave of sympathy that pierced through the darkness cloaking her. Perhaps he was more of a boy than a man after all.

“Are you all right?” she asked, reaching out her hand to touch him. It was as if she’d broken a spell. In the blink of an eye, he was at the window and then gone, the tiniest flicker of a light at his heels.



* * *





She’d slept then, her body sated but still worn by grief and pain. In the morning, it had seemed no more than a feverish dream, the type she’d had almost nightly since the wreck. Only for the first time, she hadn’t dreamed of Robert. Not really.

The next night, she bathed with lavender oil and plaited her hair. She sat by the window, watching the stars wink against the darkness, and told herself she’d imagined it all. Even so, when she shivered, it wasn’t entirely because of the cool night breeze. At last she made her way to bed, sliding under the crisp white sheets and closing her eyes.

“Does it hurt?” A voice said in her ear. She opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. He was there, to the right of the bedpost, so still he could almost be a shadow.

“What?”

“What we did. Does it hurt?”

“No.” She didn’t elaborate, just watched him, not moving as he came closer. He knelt on the bed, staring at her. He’d shut the window, and a small golden light fluttered against the glass. She closed her eyes again, tilted her face. Waited.

The kiss, when it came, was like a butterfly landing against her lips, so light she could have imagined it. He kissed her again, moving down her jaw, to her neck. A flock of butterflies, moving in the breeze. She leaned toward him and—

“Ow!” Her eyes flew open.

He was studying her, head cocked, an expression of almost clinical interest on his face.

“Did that hurt?”

“Yes,” she said, struggling to stay calm, putting a hand to her neck to make sure she wasn’t bleeding. The fugue state she’d been moving through for what felt like months receded, leaving her completely and shockingly wide-awake. “Yes. It did hurt when you bit me. Very much.”

“Oh.” He reached out and she flinched, but he simply traced the mark on her neck with his finger. “Did you like it?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Not at all.” And then, as the thought occurred to her: “Did you?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. He kissed her again, but this time she kept her eyes open.



* * *





The third and final time Peter visited, Holly almost shut the window. She was bruised from the night before, which was how she knew it was not a dream. That and the startling clarity she had, as if she were awake for the first time in ages. He’d made it impossible for her to be anywhere but present. Each time she tried to slip off in her head to Robert, she’d found herself yanked back by a pinch, a too-hard squeeze, a kiss that took all her oxygen, and not in the good way. Nothing lasted more than a second, and nothing left a lasting scar. It was as if he was testing, pushing her limits, trying to see how far he could go.

It was disturbing, and at the same time oddly thrilling: To have a secret, something that was hers alone, that pulled her from the edge of the abyss she’d been teetering on and kept her centered here. To have something to think about besides the past, the painful present, the terrifying future. All the same, she’d made up her mind that if he visited this evening, there would be ground rules.

But he came through the window so suddenly there was no time to speak. He’d barely latched it closed before he was grabbing her and swinging her onto the bed, bending her over it. She tried to say something, to call his name, to tell him stop, but he pushed her face firmly into the pillow and held her there. He was so much stronger than she’d thought. Her bad leg wouldn’t bear her weight, was collapsing beneath her. She couldn’t push off enough to claw at him without falling deeper into the bed. He was biting her neck, as if to hold her in place while he finished. She couldn’t breathe. The blackness behind her eyelids was darker than the room, and tiny crackles of light shot across her vision.

And then the pressure was gone. She turned her head, took in a gasping breath. And another. A third. Pushed herself up.

He’d thrown himself next to her on the bed and was watching.

“We’ve been doing it wrong,” he said conversationally, as if nothing had happened. “I watched the animals today at the zoo. It’s not supposed to be face-to-face.”

“Get out,” Holly whispered. Even though she hadn’t screamed, her throat felt bruised. She tried to stand, but couldn’t get her leg to hold her. She moved as far away from him on the bed as she could. “Get out now.”

“We’re married now, aren’t we? That’s what all the married ones do. That’s what it takes. I’ve seen them, looking in the windows. Most of them did it wrong too.”