Lost in the Never Woods(21)

“Stop—stop calling me Wendy!” Her eyes darted around the room again. The only way out was through the door, and on the other side of it was the woods. Who knew how deep he had taken her or how far she was from home.

Peter cocked an eyebrow at her. “You … don’t want me calling you your name?” he said slowly.

“No.” He shouldn’t even know her name to begin with!

Peter frowned and scratched the back of his neck. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said, his hand dropping to his side in defeat.

“Did you kidnap Benjamin Lane and Ashley Ford?” Wendy demanded.

“Kidnap?” He gave her a bewildered look, blue eyes going wide. “What—”

Frustration growled in the back of her throat. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

He leaned closer to her and pointed to himself. “I’m Peter,” he said slowly, as if he were trying to explain something very simple to a small child. She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or making fun of her.

Either way, Wendy glared. “No. I mean, who are you?”

Peter scratched the back of his head again. There were pine needles stuck in his messy auburn hair. “You’re acting really weird. Is this some kind of game I’m not getting?”

A manic laugh shotgunned out of her. “I’m weird?” Wendy demanded. “You kidnapped me and are holding me hostage in a hunting shack in the middle of the woods!”

“Kidnapped? I didn’t kidnap you, you fainted—”

“I got knocked out because you—”

“Fainted,” he corrected. Wendy spluttered—was he serious?—but he continued on. “You fainted, I brought you here so you weren’t just lying out on the grass all night”—he paused in counting on his fingers to slant her a look—“you’re welcome, by the way. And you’re only being held ‘hostage’ by that mess of springs you got yourself caught in,” Peter added, pointing at her leg.

Wendy teetered on her good foot. She didn’t have a leg to stand on, metaphorically—or literally—speaking. This all sounded semi-rational, but Wendy still didn’t trust him. She squinted at him.

The fact that he stood there, looking both triumphant and amused, didn’t help her mood.

It was maddening because she did recognize him, but for reasons that didn’t make any logical sense. It was all things she had imagined about Peter Pan. The small chip in the corner of his front tooth. The confidence in his voice. That damn charming smile. And those eyes that felt like she was looking at stars.

Wendy forced herself to focus, to think practically. She needed to get somewhere safe because being with him felt dangerous. It was the sort of danger you felt before jumping off a cliff into water: a low rush in the pit of her stomach that made her fingers tingle.

“Why didn’t you just take me into my house instead of dragging me out here?” Wendy ventured.

She could see him chew on the inside of his cheek. The muscles in his jaw flexed and relaxed, accentuating the curve of his freckle-peppered cheekbones. “I didn’t want to run into your parents,” he said, scuffing the floor with his bare heel. “I mean, it’d look pretty weird if I just showed up at your house with you unconscious.”

Wendy tried to judge whether or not he was lying. She still didn’t know how he knew her name.

“You look pale,” Peter cut in, giving her a worried look. He moved to take a step closer, but seemed to think better of it and stopped.

Maybe he was some sort of stalker, but that didn’t feel right, either. She was terrified of him, but Peter also looked very wary of her. It was hard to keep up this idea that he was a threat when he kept dipping his chin and peering at her carefully. He squinted slightly.

Was he trying to study her face, too?

Wendy licked her lips. She wanted to ask him how he knew her, to get a real answer, but she couldn’t work up the courage.

“So…” Peter rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Do you want me to help you out of there?” he asked. His mouth twitched with a suppressed grin.

Wendy’s jeans were ruined. The metal springs had pushed them up her leg and the denim was torn. The cuts weren’t deep, but they stung like hell. A thin red line of blood trailed down her ankle and into her shoe. She glanced back up at Peter. She didn’t trust him, not by a long shot. But standing there, barefoot and apprehensive, he didn’t seem like much of a threat. And the sooner she got out of here—and out of the woods—the better.

“Yes,” she finally agreed, but not without shame.

Peter took a cautious step forward. “Do you promise not to punch me again?”

Wendy shot him a seething glare. “No.”

Peter’s lips broke into a smile. Dimples cut deep into his cheeks. Peter shrugged. “Fair enough.”

He knelt down next to the cot. Lingering fear made Wendy lean away from him, pressing herself against the wall. The metal tugged at her leg. “You need to stop fighting against it or you won’t be able to get out,” Peter said, looking up at her.

His nearness was overwhelming. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to shove him away again or reach out and touch him, just to see if he was real.

Wendy let out a half-irritated, half-pained growl. “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth.