There’s an emptiness to his voice as he says it.
“You really think she’ll forgive you?” I ask. “For failing her?”
“She’s lonely,” says Nolan. “She has been for centuries.”
“Yes,” says Peter. “Loneliness can drive us to plenty of decisions that we regret.” He glances at me, and I look away quickly.
“She won’t be able to resist my coming back for her,” says Peter. “I always made it clear how much I despised her, how her advances were unwanted, repulsive even. She did what she wished with me, anyway. But it hurt her. I could feel it in the air around her, the pain at every insult.”
“She wants to be wanted,” I say. “It’s a dangerous place to be.”
How well I know.
There’s a part of me that fears that now that she has our son, now that he cries himself to sleep in her arms and feels the nurture of her comfort rather than mine, she will no longer feel that aching quite so deeply.
Nolan must read my thoughts in my expression, because he says softly, “She desires to be craved. Not loved. She will not be able to resist Peter.”
I nod. And a moment later, we find ourselves underneath the lights of the looming globes of the reaping tree.
CHAPTER 55
The tree allows all three of us inside, though each one of us has enough parts of us missing for several more guests.
Once we’re deposited inside the Den by the roots of the reaping tree, Peter lights a lantern. In its glow, I notice that none of the furniture has been moved since the day Peter and I left Neverland—the day he discovered the Nomad’s bargain on the back of my neck. Dust has collected on the couches and the seats. The fireplace is full of ash and petrified wood. There’s a mustiness to the room, an odor I can’t quite shake.
Peter takes his finger to his lips, a motion for both of us to stay quiet, though Nolan tenses at it. I am sure he’s annoyed at being told what to do. This must be killing him, that the rescue mission for our son relies so heavily on Peter. I reach out and squeeze my husband’s hand, offering him what little smile I can muster up. My rib cage feels as if it’s going to explode.
My heart experiences the opposite sensation—a clenching, as if trying not to beat until we have our son back. We have one chance. One chance to rescue our son. One chance not to fail him again. It takes every ounce of effort in me to keep my limbs from trembling to the point of paralysis, but I cannot let it. I mustcontinue on. This will all be over soon, one way or another, and I cling to the peace of that thought.
We file down the hallway, Nolan and I careful to keep our steps quiet. Peter is not so discreet. Besides, the Sister likely already knows that he’s coming, has already seen him in her tapestry. Anxiety wells up within me. When coming up with the plan, we tried as best as we could to keep Peter out of the part where we’re to actually rescue our son. I can only hope that it worked, and that Peter won’t betray us.
We trail down the hallway that leads to Peter’s room.
I close my eyes as we pass it, no desire to look inside. If I do, the memories might come pouring out of it like a dam burst, its furious waters unleashed. I do not want to think of Peter’s hands on my body. Of how he’s touched me more times than my husband has.
When we reach the end of the hall, the roots that make up the wall dissipate at Peter’s touch, revealing the opening to the same tunnel where I first learned that Peter was my Mate—well, one of them. Peter steps through first, while Nolan and I wait just inside the lip of the tunnel. We would rather the Sister already be distracted by Peter before we try to sneak in, lest she hear our footsteps. But as soon as Nolan and I step into the cavern, the roots close behind us, trapping us inside.
No way of escape, but there’s little we can do about it now.
So, for a moment, while Peter’s footsteps disappear around the corner of the tunnel, Nolan simply wraps his arms around me and holds me close.
I tremble silently in his arms, but I do not let myself sob. I fear the noise that will escape my lips if I do. The tears run down the front of his warm shirt nonetheless, across his chest. He strokes the nape of my neck, the places where my hair curls into ringlets just in front of my ear.
My husband cups my cheek and presses a silent kiss to my forehead, a promise that needs no words.
I wonder, even if I do have the chance to hold my son again, even if I get to watch him grow up, if, after Nolan releases me from his arms, this will be the last time he holds me. I have no doubt in my mind that he would sacrifice his life for our son. I have no doubt in my mind that I would let him, or that the reverse would be true.
It is a strange sensation. It is not that I love my son more than I love Nolan, but we possess a mutual acknowledgment—a promise between us, to our child, to protect him. A different sort of love. It’s as if my love for Nolan requires me to be willing to sacrifice him for our son.
And the other way around.
It’s so different than how I thought it would be when I made the bargain with the Sister. But I cannot dwell on that now, because at the end of the tunnel, echoing through it and curving around its corner, I hear a voice.
“Well, well, well. I’m surprised to see you here,” says the Middle Sister, her voice tantalizingly sultry. “Have you decided you’re no longer holding a grudge against me for forcing you to release your little pet?”
“Oh, that grudge I’m holding,” says Peter. “You can be assured of that.”
“What business brings you here?” says the Sister. “Or are you hoping for employ? You know it is not my preference to take the injured.”
